No Time To Blink

by Dina Silver

  She made a tsk sound. “That’s terrible. I believe that you didn’t know about my sister. I would like to apologize for blaming you and taking it out on you. That was wrong of me.”

  “I’m sure you couldn’t help yourself.”

  She smiled.

  “Is that why you called me a fool? Because I didn’t know what I was getting into?”

  She shook her head, her expression softer. “I don’t know why I said that. If I’m honest with you, I think you are the opposite. I think you are brave for coming here, and Danny and I both can’t imagine how hard this must be for you.”

  No one knew what I was going through. Despite the people lined up to help, I felt truly alone when it came to fighting for my daughter, whom I feared wouldn’t even remember me.

  “I feel helpless, not brave. I’m scared that she won’t want to come home. That she won’t recognize me. That he’s going to fight me to the bitter end, and that I’ll never see her again.” I dabbed under my eye with a napkin. “I can hardly sleep at night. Days and weeks and months have passed, and yes, I’m finally back here, and I know everyone is doing what they can, but sometimes it feels like it’s no one’s priority but mine. I imagine she has a cold or an ear infection. I’m sure she’s already speaking and maybe walking. I will never hear her say Mama for the first time, if she’s even said it at all. He’s robbed me of so much more than my heart and my happiness. He’s taken memories away from me.”

  Yasmine sighed. “It’s so very grave what he’s done.” She took another sip of wine. “Danny and I have tried to have a child for many years. I have an older brother, and he is the only one on my side who has been blessed with children. I have two nieces and a nephew who I adore, and about two years ago, I got pregnant.” She smiled at the thought. “I called my mother and father immediately, and we were all so happy. Danny cried, he was so overjoyed . . . but then three months later, I lost the baby.” She shrugged. “No one knows why. The doctor insisted that it was nothing I had done and that miscarriages happen all too often, but to be glad I was able to at least get pregnant, and it would happen again for us.” She paused. “It has not happened again. I do not pretend to know what it’s like to lose a daughter in the way that you have, but I have lost a child, and I have felt helpless in that regard.”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  She shook her head. “I have many blessings of my own. I’m only thirty-two years old, and I won’t give up trying for our baby.”

  “I will pray for you.”

  “And I will pray for you.” She raised her glass. “To wine and women and new friends.”

  Yasmine and I decided to walk home that day instead of taking the car. We strolled arm in arm along the waterfront and up through the side streets of Ras Beirut, laughing and crying and thanking God and wine—the great equalizer—for finally bringing us together. I had a friend again, and I was going to need one.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ANN MARIE

  Chicago, 2008

  Just as my mom is at a place in her life where she’s ready to reveal something, she loses her voice. The deterioration has been mind-blowingly rapid, like water flooding a broken dam.

  She’s now seated at my kitchen island after having a horrible coughing spell. I make her some herbal tea, and she’s resting and checking her e-mails. She closes the laptop and mimes a square shape with her hands.

  “You want me to get the box?”

  She nods.

  I sigh. “Mom, I really don’t think that’s a good idea. First, because you’re in no condition to be reminiscing or explaining anything to me, and second, I think we have enough drama going on here. Maybe it should wait. I don’t want you to get upset.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Should I be scared?” I ask.

  She places her hand on her heart and then makes the box shape again.

  I retrieve the cardboard box filled with her journals, along with the one from my nightstand, and bring them all to the family room. She joins me in there and sits on the floor in front of the box and starts to rummage through them. Her face is anxious, like she’s just sat down to take an exam she hasn’t studied for, and her inner struggle is surfacing. Through her eyes, I can see that her brain is working so hard to fight the tumor on this one. She takes a few journals out of the box and flips through them, looking for something at the top of each page. She tosses a couple on the floor next to her. The whole scene is painful to watch. Her eyesight is suffering, and her brain isn’t processing her thoughts into actions. I’m afraid to step in and upset her, so I sit and sweat for about fifteen minutes until she finds what she’s looking for. When she turns to face me, her expression is filled with relief.

  Mom gives me the journal and asks me to turn the pages by mimicking the act with her hand. I scoot closer to her and take a long breath. All I can think about is Stewart Fishman’s expression the first time we met, and how shocked he was to discover who I was. He knew more about me than I did.

  Slowly, I flip through the pages, trying not to focus on the words. Mom squints as I’m doing so and then stops my hand, pointing to the page header and tapping it repeatedly so I will read it aloud.

  “February 2, 1972.”

  She grimaces and takes a moment to rub her temples. I know she’ll get mad if I suggest putting this off, so I sit quietly as she grapples with her memory.

  I start flipping again, and her breathing intensifies. It’s exhausting what she’s trying to accomplish, but I continue to do as she asks.

  “March 21, 1972.”

  She waves her hand slowly, as if I’m getting close. “This one just says April.”

  She nods and points to a page, placing her whole palm on it this time.

  “April 1972?”

  She nods and closes her eyes for a second.

  “Should I read this page?” I swallow the lump in my throat.

  Mom looks at me and then gets up off the floor and sits on the couch. She pats the cushion next to her. We both sit, and I place the journal in my lap, reading aloud.

  April 1972

  I don’t know how long it’s been since Ann Marie was taken.

  I read the words over and then glance at the header again. I would’ve been a year old. “Ann Marie was taken,” I repeat, and my mom looks at me and then at the book, willing me to continue.

  I haven’t been able to write for obvious reasons, but Mother is encouraging me to do so. I cry every minute. I can’t eat because I keep thinking my baby is hungry. I can’t sleep because I think she’s uncomfortable. And I can hardly breathe because she’s not with me. I don’t want to live without my daughter. Everyone says I need to be strong, but I failed her when she needed me the most, and now I may never see her again.

  “Who took me from you?”

  She taps the book.

  I place the journal on the couch. “I can’t do this.” I stand and cross the room. My heart is racing. I can’t believe what I just read. My hands go to my face, and I press my fingertips into my eyes, rubbing. When I look back at her, she’s just sitting there with the same neutral expression and inability to explain anything.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask. I pace the room as she watches me. “Maybe I don’t want to know what’s in there,” I say and stop moving. “I just need you to get better.” My eyes sting. “I’m not going to lose my husband and my mother in the same year.”

  She holds up her hand, and I wait. “Please,” she says.

  “Ann Marie was taken?” I throw my arms in the air, and her gaze goes to the floor. “Why are you doing this to me? I don’t need any more anxiety right now.” I shake my head.

  “Please,” she manages again.

  My tears are flowing now, and I sit back down next to her. “No, you please. Please get better. I need you to fight for me.”

  She struggles to say a few quiet words. “I always have.” Then she hands me the journal, and I relent.

  Everyone believes Gabriel won’t
harm her except for me. I want to believe it, and I pray for her safety every day, but how can I trust him? He’s trying to get back at me, and he’s done it. He knows the one thing that would destroy me would be to separate me from my daughter. Please, God, keep her safe. I’m coming for her.

  “Gabriel? My father took me from you?”

  She looks at me.

  “Is this what Stewart was talking about?”

  She nods.

  “Oh, Mom. I’m so sorry.” I place my hand on the page. “I can’t even imagine what you went through. How long were we apart?”

  She begins to cry as I rapidly turn the pages, scanning the dates at the top and the handwritten words beneath them until I can find something—anything—that mentions a reunion between us.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper to myself.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  ANN MARIE

  Chicago, 2008

  I stay awake until midnight so I can reach my father first thing in the morning in Rome, where he now lives. My stomach is in knots. It’s a phone call that I’ve dreaded and anticipated for so many reasons, and now with what I know, I can barely dial the phone.

  For years, I’d beg my mom to allow me to reach out to him, only to have her shoot down the idea. Eventually, it just became easier to appease her, and ultimately, my memory of him faded with time, along with the will to have him in my life. There were many times that I felt guilty about my part in the lack of a relationship. I felt like I should’ve done more, should’ve invited him to my wedding, should’ve sent him photos of his grandchildren, but he’d never reached out to me, either, and once I had kids of my own, it was more difficult for me to forgive his indifference.

  But now that I was privy to the truth—or at least some of it—how could I not confront him? He might be the only person capable of providing me with any answers.

  “Hello?” he answers quickly.

  “It’s Ann Marie,” I say.

  There is a pause. “How are you?”

  “I’m OK, thanks. How are you and your family?” I ask. He remarried when I was in my twenties and has two children with his current wife. The few details I know about him read like a résumé.

  “Good, good. I heard you are going through a divorce. I’m very worried about you.”

  I clear my throat. “Who told you?”

  “Serine.”

  We both hang on the line for an awkward moment. There is so much to say, but I’m really only calling for one reason. Can I be selfish and ask the things I want to ask, even if they involve only him and me? I seem to have this opportunity only every other decade or so.

  “I want to help you. I e-mailed your mother a few months ago when I first heard, but she did not get back to me.”

  “You did? She never mentioned that.”

  “Yes, yes, I did.”

  I rub my forehead and lean back on my headboard. “Thank you, but there’s not much anyone can do except for the attorneys.”

  “Is this why you’re calling?”

  “No, actually, I’m calling about Mom.”

  “Is she all right?”

  I take a second, as the words are always hard to get out. “She has brain cancer.” I hear him draw a breath. “And she wanted you to know,” I say.

  “How long?”

  “How long have we known?”

  “How long does she have?”

  I pull a pillow onto my lap. “We don’t know for sure, but it’s not looking good.” My words catch in my throat.

  “Please, Ann Marie, can I speak with her?”

  “It’s late here, after midnight, and she’s asleep now, but she can’t talk very well anyway. She has a tumor that is pressing on her brain. It’s very hard for her to speak.”

  He is silent.

  “It’s so awful,” I add. “She’s going through treatment and trying to stay positive. We all are. I hope you don’t mind me calling you, especially right before Christmas and—”

  “I want to see her.”

  I sit up. “What?”

  “I want to come and see her. I will book a flight today, and I want to be there for her. For both of you.”

  “Umm . . .”

  “Please send me an e-mail with your address. I will fly into Chicago next week after the New Year and find my own way to your house. I will stay in a hotel. You don’t need to bother.”

  “Maybe I should ask her . . . ,” I start.

  “I will call you tomorrow with my dates. Thank you for calling me, Ann Marie. I can’t tell you how I would feel if something had happened to her and no one had informed me.”

  She said the same thing about him, I think to myself.

  “Wait!” I say before he ends the call. “There’s something else.”

  “What is it?”

  I clear my throat. “She told me, well, I know what happened. When I was young. When I was a baby.” I’m stammering. “That you abducted me.”

  I can hear him release a breath into the phone. “She must be worse than you are telling me.”

  My throat chokes up, and I begin to get teary eyed. “Why did you do that to her? And why has no one told me?” I sniff. “I deserve to know.”

  “Did she tell you that she took you first?”

  “She didn’t tell me anything because she can’t speak!” I say in a loud whisper so as to not wake the house. My hands are shaking. “She’s been asking me to read her journals, so I’m uncovering all these secrets with no one to explain them.” I lift my head and reach for a tissue. “I e-mailed her cousin Laura, but I haven’t heard back from her.”

  “Her family will only tell you one side. They will vilify me.”

  “They already have. I just never knew why.”

  Since I have no idea what he looks like today, my image of him as a young man is frozen in time from the few photographs I’ve seen. There was a small photo album in my grandparents’ house, and I remember sitting with my grandmother, going through them when I was about nine years old.

  “That is your father,” was all she would say as we turned the sticky photo pages covered with a loose cellophane protector.

  I can only imagine the questions I must’ve had but was too afraid to ask. My heart aches for that confused little nine-year-old girl.

  “It was an incredibly painful time for everyone, and your mother and I both made selfish choices,” he says, and I cringe at him insulting her in any manner. “That is all in the past now. I will come to see you, and you can ask me anything you’d like, in person, as it should be discussed. Not over the phone.”

  We hang up the phone, and I cry myself to sleep, trying to imagine why she would burden me with this now. Why, when my marriage is crumbling and my mother is sick, do I need to know these things now?

  The next morning is Christmas Eve, and I find my mom and Snoopy in the kitchen. He raises a brow when I enter the room but doesn’t do much else. His ears perk up when she tries to speak and actually gets the words to come out. “Morning,” Mom says. I think Snoopy misses the sound of her voice, too. It’s been a little more than a month since her diagnosis.

  I take a seat at the breakfast table, where she’s sitting. “Well, hey there. A good morning to you as well.” I smile. “So, I have some news that I hope you’re going to be OK with.” I scan her face. “We have a visitor coming.”

  She can’t quite form an expression, but I’m getting more and more accustomed to reading her eyes. “I called my father last night.” I smile and give her two thumbs up.

  She stares at me.

  “He’s coming next week, after the holiday, to see you in person.”

  She turns her head to the side, looking out the glass doors onto our snow-covered patio. Ryan and Jimmy come in, arguing about a deflated soccer ball, and Snoopy runs to them, wagging his short nub of a tail.

  “Guys, please,” I say. “I’m trying to talk to Nana.”

  “I’m starving,” Jimmy informs me.

  “There’s no air in this ball,�
� Ryan says. “Dad’s the only one who knows how to use the air pump.”

  They both start to sit at the table, scraping the chair legs on the hardwood floor as they pull their seats out. Mom turns her head back to the commotion and smiles.

  “Hi, Nana,” Ryan says. Jimmy is busy petting the dog.

  She lifts a hand to hold his attention. It’s her only move to indicate she’s going to try and say something. Ryan and I stare at her. “Tonight,” she starts. “Who comes tonight?”

  Ryan answers. “Santa,” he says and gives me a great idea.

  She nods and releases a breathy cough.

  “Why don’t you guys go in the family room and I’ll bring some bowls of cereal in there?” I shoo them back out. Snoopy looks conflicted and almost follows the boys but returns to Mom’s side instead. “And, by the way, I know how to use the air pump!” I shout after them.

  “Back to my father. He didn’t give me much of a choice,” I add. “I hope you’re not upset.”

  Mom shook her head. “I’m not.”

  She looks frail sitting next to me. Wearing a forest-green long-sleeve sweater and khaki pants with her hair in a chignon and her nails buffed and filed. There’s a sad look in her eyes that I understand. She’s dressed for the day but won’t be going anywhere. I find it hard to say the right things around her.

  I reach for her hand. “Is it what you were hoping for?” I wonder. “That he would come here?” My expression is incredulous.

  She looks at me and shrugs.

  “You’re not sure if you were hoping to see him again?”

  She inhales through her nose. “I would like that, yes.”

  I avert my eyes for a moment. “I told him what I know. Which is not much.”

  She raises a brow.

  “He said if you’re revealing things to me, then you really must be sick,” I say and then stand and kiss her on the head, inhaling her perfume. “I have a surprise for you later tonight.”

  She lifts her hand, and I wait. “I hate surprises.”

  “Me too!” I can’t help but laugh. “But you’re going to like this one.”

  Thank God for Christmas Eve, the one night a year my sons go to bed without an argument. At 9:00 p.m., I knock on Mom’s bedroom door. Snoopy is alert with his eyes fixated on me when I enter, and I see that she’s fallen asleep with a book on her chest. “Hi, Snoop dog,” I say with a giggle. He lays his head back down on the comforter since I lost the “no dogs on the bed” battle.