No Time To Blink

by Dina Silver

  “Hi, it’s Ann Marie,” I’d said. The connection had been a little crackly. He had moved from Beirut to Rome, and Mom heard a rumor that he’d remarried. We didn’t know if he had any other children at the time, but I learned later that he did.

  “How are you?” he’d said after a pause.

  “I’m good.”

  I remember he’d asked what grade I was in and where we were living, but Mom forbade me to tell him or disclose our phone number, even though Serine knew how to find us. And then he asked me a question that I didn’t know how to process.

  “Do you miss me?”

  I’d had to think about it for a moment, which made me feel bad because I should’ve missed him, but how can you miss someone you don’t know? “I’m not sure,” I’d responded.

  “I miss you very much. I mean that, Ann Marie. More than you will ever know.” He took a breath. “Thank you for calling. I have to go now.”

  I’d had high hopes for that call. Even canceled an ice-skating lesson because I assumed I’d be on the phone for hours. “OK,” I’d said and looked at my mom, who had been reading a magazine at our kitchen table, doing a horrible job at pretending she wasn’t listening. We’d exchanged a look. “Well, I’ll talk to you another time. Bye.”

  Mom had placed the magazine on the table and held her arms out for an embrace, but I’d walked right past her and slammed my bedroom door. That was the last time I’d talked to him.

  I let out a sigh. “Why do you want him to know you’re sick?”

  She crosses her legs at her ankles and scratches Snoopy’s head. “I just want him to know. I’ve been going through these books, and I would want to know if Gabriel were dying.”

  My heart hurts. “Please stop saying that.”

  She reaches for my hand. “Please stop denying it.”

  That night when Mom and the boys are in bed, I yearn to be with her at happier times again and grab the journal I had read to Monica and pick up where I left off.

  December 25, 1970

  I was able to talk to Margaret this morning and made sure they were still doing the jelly-bean trail in my absence. I know how much Mother loves that tradition. We all do. No better way to find our Christmas stockings than at the end of a jelly-bean trail! I wish I could be there with them, chasing each other and kicking candy all over the floor for poor Jessie to clean up. I miss everyone terribly.

  I feel a little sad as I turn the page.

  I’m exhausted. The party was a lovely affair, and they had all of my favorite foods, which was a great treat. My feet were sore from dancing, and Gabriel rubbed them in the car on the ride home. He looked so handsome in a sport coat and tie, and I had to wear a frumpy long blouse because I can’t button my dress pants anymore. Time for some maternity clothes. Almost forgot! He bought me the most stunning emerald necklace. I nearly fell over backward when I opened it. It’s a piece I will treasure forever, and so many people complimented me on it this evening.

  Lastly, I just met the most awful woman on the planet named Yasmine.

  I shut the book and smile, craving jelly beans.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  CATHERINE

  Greenwich, 1972

  In the two days that followed Ann Marie’s abduction, I was never left alone, not for five minutes. After my initial breakdown, Mother and Jessie had someone scheduled to be by my side at all times and had my sisters sleeping on my bedroom floor at night. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I’d sneak out of bed and into Ann Marie’s room. I’d take her crib mattress and curl up on it, and Jessie would have to tear me out of there in the morning. Every day there were lawyers and family friends and members of the club coming by the house. Everyone with a new connection, a new source for us to try, and all of whom seemed to move at a snail’s pace.

  But hope and headway were rare commodities. My husband had boarded a plane with our daughter and flown home, essentially to a country where my family’s substantial influence had little bearing. Even my uncle Fitz, the senator from Connecticut who was being primed to run as a Democratic presidential nominee in the next few years, was struggling with how to handle the situation. There was little our family could not achieve within the United States, but Beirut was proving to be another story. The only saving grace was that my father had gotten Gabriel to sign the divorce papers as soon as he’d walked in our house, but they did not hold the same weight overseas.

  “As an American, Catherine has no rights or jurisdiction in Lebanon,” I overheard as I walked into my father’s office with my sister Patricia trailing behind me. The man who was speaking stood when he noticed me.

  Father tapped a cigarette out in an ashtray on his desk. “This is Charley Stillwater, your uncle Fitz’s right-hand man. Charley, this is my eldest daughter, CC.”

  The man nodded. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances,” he said politely and with a thick British accent.

  It’d been days since I’d looked in the mirror, but his expression told me all I needed to know about my appearance. His lips curled inward with regret, and his eyes filled with pity.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. There was no comfortable physical position for my body to maintain, sitting or standing. My limbs ached, my head was constantly pounding, my face and feet were swollen, my throat was sore, my breaths hurried. I was in a state of controlled, perpetual panic, and outbursts were not tolerated. “Nothing can be accomplished with chaos,” Mother would say, and then I would repeat those words to myself as I attempted to fall asleep. A chore that would’ve been impossible without weed and pills.

  “I didn’t mean to disrupt,” I said. “You were saying . . . about my rights?”

  He glanced at my father, who spoke. “Your uncle Fitz and his staff are doing everything they can. I want you to know that.” He took a breath and began to pace. “It’s a little difficult, but we will fight this every step of the way.”

  Charley spoke. “We are just trying to line up the right people in Beirut to get ahold of Gabriel—and the baby—and first see that—”

  “Her name is Ann Marie,” I said.

  “Yes, of course,” he added.

  “Don’t interrupt the man!” my father snapped and choked on his Scotch. “Go on, Charley.”

  “Locating them and making certain that Ann Marie is safe is our first priority. Getting her back to you is our immediate second.”

  He was a nice-looking man. Young, maybe thirty years old, blond thinning hair kept very short, blue eyes, and a very smart linen suit worn with loafers and no socks. Just as my uncle Fitz did.

  “I want to leave for Beirut as soon as possible,” I declared. “Why am I even still here?” I looked at my father, but he didn’t meet my gaze. “If he jumped on a plane with her, then I’ll do the same.” I looked to Charley for support.

  “It isn’t going to be that easy,” he said.

  “It was easy for Gabriel,” I shouted, and Patricia led me to one of the leather chairs against the wall. “Dad, please. I know you can get us on a plane.”

  My father lit a cigarette and filled the air with smoke before starting. “We can assume that he’s not going to allow you access to Ann Marie without a fight, and we are not going over there without all of our ammunition. I’m not going to have you put in harm’s way with no rights, no citizenship, and no family. They will jail you for much less than trying to kidnap your own child.”

  I burst into tears. Everyone in the house was so used to my breaking down by then that there was little attempt to console me anymore. Charley and my father walked out, and Patricia went to fetch Jessie, who brought me a Coke and sat with me. Once I calmed down, she walked me upstairs to my room and encouraged me to shower. It was the last place I’d been when Ann Marie was taken.

  “Go on now. I’ll wait out here for you.” She sat at my dressing table.

  I walked over to give her a hug and glanced at the telegram from last week.

  Please allow me to see Ann Ma
rie and say a proper goodbye.

  “How could he have done this to me? To our baby?” My heart grew heavy and my head light. “How?” I stumbled backward. “Does he hate me that much?”

  Jessie shook her head. Everyone was out of words.

  “I know he loves her, but this is about me,” I continued. “This is about me.” I pounded my chest with the palm of my hand. My thoughts were spinning, thinking of the telegram and trying to replay the scene in my head. Many people in my family assumed he’d seen his daughter and had a burst of great courage. A father under fire who’d rather die than allow a woman to control his destiny. A man sick at the thought of leaving his only child behind for who knew how long. But I knew better. I knew he’d planned the whole thing. He was way too polite. Much too understanding and cooperative. When had he ever asked my permission for anything? A proper goodbye. It is all I ask. I should have known.

  I clawed at my skin in the shower. A bar of Ivory soap was no match for the amount of self-hatred I needed to rinse off me.

  The next morning I walked down the back stairs and found my mother exactly where she always was when the sun came up. Sitting in her chair in full makeup, hair in rollers pulled up in a turban, cigarette resting in her bright yellow ashtray with the newspaper and a black coffee in front of her.

  “Morning, darling. How did you sleep?”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t.”

  “Your father is waiting for you in his office.”

  The clock read 9:00 a.m. “He hasn’t left for work yet?”

  She shook her head and took a drag.

  After pouring myself a glass of orange juice, I walked into my father’s study and found him packing up his briefcase for the day.

  “Jason is here,” I said as I looked out the window that overlooked our driveway. His driver was leaning against the car, smoking.

  “This came for you yesterday.” He held out a piece of paper, and my heart skipped a beat. One glance at the telegram, and I knew who it was from.

  “What does it say?” I froze.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Is she all right?”

  He waved the paper at me, and I snatched it from him.

  Sorry you chose not to join us. We miss you. Please come home.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  CATHERINE

  Greenwich, 1972

  I ran into the kitchen. “I need to use the phone,” I said to Colleen, who was sitting on the stool, leaning against the wall with the cord wrapped around her ankle.

  “I’m on it,” she mouthed.

  I took my index finger and pressed down on the switch hook. “This is important.”

  Colleen screamed at me and then stormed out. Jessie walked in when she heard the commotion. “What’s she fussing about?”

  “Never mind her. I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Of course.”

  “I have to run up to my room, but I need to make a very important phone call, so please sit here for a minute and don’t let anyone pick up the line. It’s really important.” I nearly squealed with excitement. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier. I’ve been in a complete fog.”

  “Think of what?” Jessie asked.

  “Just wait here. Please.”

  I flew up the stairs two at a time and reached for the stack of journals I’d had during my year in Beirut. In the first one on the inside of the cover were some phone numbers I’d written down soon after we’d arrived. There were only three: Walid, the local butcher, and Brigitte. Jessie was waiting for me when I got back to the kitchen.

  “What has you like this?” She waved her hand, alluding to my enthusiasm. “What are you up to?”

  “Do you remember me telling you about my neighbor and friend over there, Brigitte?”

  Jessie nodded. “You have her phone number?”

  “Yes, of course I do! I just can’t believe I didn’t call her immediately.”

  Jessie got up off the stool, and I placed the receiver between my ear and shoulder and dialed the international number, fingers trembling. It would be dinnertime over there; she would have to be home. My breath caught in my throat when I heard the sound of her voice. I wanted to reach through the phone and embrace her. I could barely speak without crying.

  “Brigitte, it’s Catherine,” I said, sniffing and smiling through my tears. My precious baby was feet away, within arm’s reach of this woman. I would have done anything to be her in that moment.

  There was silence on the other end. I wiped my nose and eyes. “Brigitte?”

  I could hear her breathing.

  “Brigitte, it’s Catherine. Can you hear me?” Jessie gave me a concerned look as if it were a poor connection.

  And then after a moment passed, she spoke. “I can hear you,” she said, her tone faint and aloof.

  “Oh, thank God. You are not going to believe what happened, what Gabriel has done,” I started. If there was anyone on the globe who could truly understand and appreciate everything he’d put me through, it was her. “He has kidnapped Ann Marie. He came to my home and snatched her out of her crib and ran. Fled the country.” I sniffed again. “Have you seen them? Please tell me she is all right and safe. Please tell me you’ve seen her?”

  There was more silence. Jessie was pacing and adding to my anxiety. She kept giving me gestures and wanting to know what was going on.

  But I knew exactly what had happened. Brigitte had turned on me.

  I cupped the receiver and slid to the floor. “Please do not hang up on me. I know you’re still there. You are a mother, Brigitte, and I thank God you don’t know what I am going through. Please, Brigitte, please tell me she’s all right.”

  “How could you do that to Gabriel . . . to all of us here who cared for you and loved you? You have some nerve calling me after the risks you put me through. You have not called me once since you left Beirut, and now I am your friend again?”

  “You were always my friend.” I began to shake. “If you hate me, I will have to live with that. I love you and the girls, but my husband has taken my baby.”

  “You took her first.” Her words cut me like a blade, slicing through every section of my heart, piece by piece.

  I cried and cried into the phone, and she stayed on the line. My breaths came in gasps. “Is she all right?” I managed to whisper. “Please tell me if she is safe.”

  “She is doing just fine,” Brigitte said and hung up.

  Chapter Thirty

  ANN MARIE

  Chicago, 2008

  I’ve read a few pages in Mom’s journals about the first couple of months she spent living in Lebanon, and some about less favorable times. It’s time I confront her for more details. She’s been on a string of good days where her speech is concerned, and last night she was able to read a book to the boys.

  “Is Nana going to be OK?” Ryan asks me as I’m scrambling eggs for everyone the next morning, and his words land like a punch to the gut.

  “Oh, honey, of course she is,” I answer without hesitation.

  “Because she said she doesn’t know how much longer she’ll be around to read to us.”

  I close my eyes for a long pause, and then open them and resume scrambling. “She probably said that because she’s losing her voice.”

  “I’m sorry that she is sick and losing her voice.”

  “Me too, sweetie.”

  “I’d be really sad if that happened to you.”

  I place the whisk down on the countertop next to the stove and open my arms. “Come here and give me a big hug.” Ryan walks over and leans his body into mine. “Don’t you worry about me, all right? I’m going to be just fine and healthy and love you forever and ever. I plan on being around for lots of years, telling you to brush your teeth and tie your shoes until I’m an old lady.” I kiss the top of his head, and he smiles at me.

  As I’m driving home from dropping the kids off at school, I see Todd’s car in my driveway. I throw the car in park and race inside to
find him with my mother in the family room. Snoopy is in the yard.

  “Get out,” I say.

  “Hi to you, too, Ann Marie.”

  “Get out,” I repeat, and my mother gives me a look as if I’m being overly dramatic.

  Todd lifts his hands in defense. “Calm down, for fuck’s sake. I actually knocked this time. Your mom let me in.”

  I look over at her, and she nods. “What are you doing here?” I ask him.

  Todd lowers his hands and gestures to Mom. “I heard that your mom was in town and that she wasn’t feeling well. I knew she was staying here, and I just wanted to stop in and say hello and wish her well.”

  I let out a massive laugh.

  “I mean it,” he says.

  “You should’ve called me, and I could’ve saved you the trip. She has no interest in seeing you.”

  Mom takes the remote and shuts off the TV hanging above the fireplace. Then she stands and glares at me for being rude.

  “Thank you, Todd,” she says, holding her right hand to her neck. “That was nice of you to look in on me.” Her voice is a scratchy whisper but intelligible.

  I take a breath and relax my shoulders, but I’m still pissed.

  “I hope you make a full recovery,” he says and walks toward the door, so I follow him out. He stops and turns to face me on the driveway. “Before you say another thing, I’m very sorry to see her this way. Forget what’s going on between us for a minute. I really am sorry. I hope you know that.”

  If I allow myself to be vulnerable, I will embrace him and have a breakdown right here in front of the house and beg him to not make me go through this alone. I want so badly to share this nightmare with someone who cares about Mom and me. I take a deep breath. “Thank you,” I say as sincerely as I can muster. “I mean it. And I apologize for being so rude.”

  Once he’s gone, my mom sits back down on the couch.

  “Sorry about that,” I say.

  She waves her hand. “It’s nothing, and you don’t have to be impolite.”

  I roll my eyes. “I actually apologized to him. It was very nice of him to stop by. But now that he’s gone, I would like to talk to you about what I’ve read, if you don’t mind.”