Chapter Fourteen
CATHERINE
Beirut, 1971
On a warm and sunny day in late March, there was a knock on my door. I braced myself with one hand on the table as I wobbled onto my feet, very pregnant by then. Little Miss Reema was standing barefoot with her purse in one hand and dragging her favorite penguin in the other. “Hi, sweetie. Am I late to get you this morning?”
She nodded.
“OK, well, come on in, then. We mustn’t keep our guests waiting.” I looked up to see the door to her apartment ajar, but Brigitte was not in eyeshot. “I’ll leave the door open in case your mom is looking for you.”
For two months, I’d been watching Reema three mornings a week so Brigitte could work part-time for the local butcher, who lived in the building next door. I used to watch her from the balcony, trying to bribe Reema each morning to come to work with her, and Reema would plug her nose and scream because she couldn’t stand the smell of raw meat.
“I’d be happy to watch her for you,” I’d offered one morning once I caught up with them in the stairwell.
Brigitte had laughed. “You will end up wishing you weren’t pregnant with your own after a day with this one!”
“Don’t be silly.” I’d smiled at the little girl, almost three years old by then. “I think it’d be wonderful practice for me.”
Brigitte rolled her eyes.
“What?” I’d placed my hands on my hips. “I’m quite the resourceful woman, as you know.”
Brigitte had become a trusted and valued friend in a very short time. I’d used some connections I had with a friend from Greenwich who had an old colleague on the board of the university to get her husband some additional work. Sammy had a company that did construction, and the university board had granted him a huge project in one of the student housing wings. It meant a great deal of extra money for their family, and I was thrilled to be able to help. Another time when Brigitte’s mother was very ill, I had Mother’s doctor research and recommend the best person in Beirut for her to see after many failed attempts at the local clinics. Once she had been properly diagnosed, Gabriel was able to work with the physicians to get her a break on the necessary prescriptions. “It’s what we do,” I’d told her when she’d thanked me. “If you’re like family to my husband, you’re like family to me.”
“Reema is a handful,” she’d said.
I’d waved her off. “You think all your girls are handfuls, but they clearly only misbehave when they are with you.” I’d looked down on Reema. “Isn’t that right?”
She’d nodded.
I’d knelt to her level. “Would you like to spend some time with me?” I’d asked, grinning.
She’d nodded again.
“It’s settled, then. You know how bored I’ve been sitting around here waiting for this baby to come.”
“What about your volunteer work at AUB? Sammy said you were helping grade exams or something like this.”
“There’s a young professor from my hometown in Connecticut. His name is Randall Cunningham; our parents are acquainted. He teaches a course on investigative journalism. He allows me to read papers from time to time, and I help with some of his scheduling. It’s mostly a way for me to access the amenities on campus. My father set it up for me.” I’d paused. “But looking after her won’t intrude on any of that. I make my own schedule, and Randall is just happy to have the extra help.”
I didn’t make any money working for Randall. I was simply happy to have the diversion. Besides, my husband made a good living, and my father would mail me cards every month with a short note and little spare cash inside. So I was never in need of a job.
Brigitte had shrugged. “You are my own personal angel.” She’d waved her index finger at me. “And that baby of yours is truly blessed.”
I’d smiled. “And what would I do without you?”
“You would manage just fine.”
But that wasn’t true. The first few months had taken a toll on my relationship with Gabriel, and when I assumed I had no one to confide in, Brigitte turned up. One evening after a particularly loud argument between us over my long-distance phone bill, Brigitte called me the next morning.
“Hello?” I answered.
“I’m making some white coffee. Would you like to come over and join me for some?” White coffee was invented in Beirut and consists of boiled rosewater or flower water sweetened with sugar. She insisted I drink it during my pregnancy and warned me off caffeine, many years before doctors began cautioning their own patients. I eventually fell in love with the warm, fragrant concoction.
“Thank you, but I’m going to go to the market soon.”
“Please, I insist.”
That day she confessed to overhearing several other arguments between Gabriel and me. “You are too feisty,” she claimed. “And you are loud, too.”
I laughed. “Too feisty and too loud? And you’re just noticing that about me? I thought that was my charm, no?”
“You needn’t argue back so much,” she said, her brow furrowed.
“I’m not very good at keeping silent when I don’t agree with him.”
She sipped her drink. “Lebanese men expect a certain amount of respect.”
“So do American women.”
She blinked.
“I’m sorry that you heard us. That’s embarrassing and not how I was brought up. My mother would die to know the neighbors could hear me fighting with my husband.” And that was the truth. I knew my parents had their fair share of arguments, but never in front of my sisters and me, and certainly never in front of anyone else. This was largely due to my mother refusing to take the bait. Even when my father would angrily snap at her for saying something naive, or chastise her for her frivolous spending, if there was company present, Mother would smile and flutter her lashes as if she hadn’t a clue as to what he was referring. But I know she must’ve been dying inside. I know I would have been.
The funny, and often frustrating, thing about my relationship with Gabriel was that our arguments were like foreplay and often concluded with lovemaking. Sometimes it was the only way to hold his attention.
I rubbed my forehead. “I’ll make sure that we’re much more discreet next time.”
Brigitte smiled and placed her hands in her lap. “Why must there be a next time?” She was older than I was, maybe by fifteen years, and our relationship vacillated between friend and mentor. I was grateful to have her as both. “You are young and beautiful and newly married . . . and pregnant . . . and I know about American women and women’s liberation that is going on over there, but I only want good things and peace for you and Gabriel. And the baby.” She reached across the table and rested her hand on mine. “Beirut is a wonderful place. I have lived here all my life, and I’m used to the customs. But you will learn that women do not have many rights here, and foreign women even less. There are many important things you should know about how it will affect your child.”
I drew a breath. “Like what?”
“For example, I have four daughters and no sons, as you know. Because of that, if something were to happen to Sammy, his wealth would go to his brothers—everything—not to my girls and me. We would have to rely on Sammy’s brothers—one who is single and a drunk, and one who is married and lives in Greece—to care for us. We’d have no claim to anything, including this home, which my husband has worked for his whole life to provide for us.”
That night I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake listening to the gentle ticktock of Gabriel’s wristwatch on his nightstand. What if I had a baby girl inside of me? I couldn’t imagine something happening to Gabriel and being at the mercy of his brother, whom I’ve never even met. My father would never allow that to happen, but what if his hands were tied? And how long could I rely on my family for everything? I’d nearly pushed my mother to the brink of a nervous breakdown as it was.
Unable to drift off, I went and sat on the balcony. The truth was that I’d lived in Beirut for three months, but I’d never committed to actually living there. My perception of life in Beirut was temporary, noncommittal. I always assumed I’d be back home one day in the States with a house in Greenwich down the road from my parents, and Gabriel would be with me. But he’d actually never promised me that. Brigitte’s words shook me to my core.
The next morning, I began to watch Reema three days a week and host tea parties for her stuffed animals. Penguins, mostly. She even gave me one of them for my baby.
“I’ll make sure the baby gets this penguin when he or she is born.”
Reema smiled proudly.
We’d walk to the beach and build sand castles, and I’d treat her to whatever she wanted from the patisserie on the way back home. I refused to accept any compensation from Brigitte other than rosewater and homemade falafel in return for my work. And from that day on, any money that my father sent me went into a secret envelope in the back of my lingerie drawer. Gabriel didn’t blink an eye when I told him my dad had decided not to send me monthly allowances anymore. All he did was restrict the number of phone calls to the States if he was going to be paying for them.