Chapter Eight
CATHERINE
Chicago, 1970
I was still grinning like a fool and thinking about goddamned chicken potpie when he finished his sentence. “What?” I asked.
“I’m being transferred back to Beirut. They have an immediate position for me and want me there before the holidays.” His tone was eager. “This is a dream come true for us.”
I stared at him, stunned. “You’re not serious.” I shook my head. “We’ve only just gotten settled here. This is our new home.”
Gabriel frowned. There was disappointment on both of our faces. I stood in the kitchen waiting for whatever he was going to tell me next, and at the same time not wanting to hear one more word about it. My head was still shaking when he pulled a chair out from the table and told me to sit.
“I know it’s sooner than I ever thought it would happen . . .”
“Years sooner!” I nearly laughed.
He took a breath. “It’s going to be beautiful. You and me, back in my country, together. The two of us in the place that I love the most. You are going to be so happy there.”
I sat, speechless.
“We are leaving in two weeks.” His tone changed.
I looked into his eyes and saw irritation. “I’m not going there,” I blurted. “I’ve only just begun to get comfortable here. I’m staying here.” I clutched my stomach. “I’m not having my baby in Lebanon.”
Gabriel slammed his fist on the table, shocking me and rattling the silverware. I closed my eyes when he did it a second time. He stood abruptly, causing his chair to fall backward onto the floor.
I kept my head down and my eyes on my lap while he paced the kitchen, pulling his hair and mumbling something to himself in Arabic. “Our baby, CC. Our baby!”
I stayed still when he pulled his chair upright and sat back down.
“It is our baby, and we’re a family now.” His tone was softer, and he placed a finger under my chin. His dark eyes were fixed on me, searching my face for any indication that I might be relenting. I was taken aback by his aggression, but regardless of my devastation in that moment, we could always find solace in each other.
I flinched a little when he kissed my forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should never have come home and surprised you like that. I should’ve known this would be a big adjustment for you.” He looked away for a second. “I was just so thrilled when they called and told me today. Please understand. I did not mean to upset you.” He kissed me again. “I never want to upset you.”
When Gabriel would speak about the prospect of moving to Beirut, it was always more of a “one day” probability. One day we’ll buy a house in the suburbs. One day we’ll get a cocker spaniel. One day we’ll have three children. One day we’ll move to Beirut. My brain couldn’t conceive of it happening before all those other things.
“Is this a new blouse?” he asked, trying to distract me.
I nodded.
“It looks beautiful on you.”
I forced a smile. “I bought it today at Marshall Field’s.”
“How nice.”
I folded my hands in my lap and hesitated before saying anything that might upset him again. “You know how much I’ve been looking forward to spending the holidays in Greenwich.”
He tilted his head to the side. “My darling, I know. I’m sorry for the timing, but we must go together. I cannot leave my new bride behind.” He searched my face again for some reassurance that I understood where he was coming from, but instead I began to cry. Gabriel sighed and left the room.
We didn’t speak of it again until two days later when I confessed how nervous I was to break the news to my mother.
“You’re a married woman, CC. She will have to understand,” he said.
“I know, but it doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Who is more important to you, your husband or your mother?”
“That’s not fair. You’re both important to me, but you know how we were all looking forward to being together for Christmas.”
He threw his arms up. “And what about what I’m looking forward to?”
Mother had begged me to come home in March so that her ob-gyn could be the one to deliver the baby, who was due in April. She didn’t trust anyone in any vocation who practiced outside of the state of Connecticut. Even less if they weren’t at least three degrees of separation from a member of the Belle Haven Club. Telling her that I’d be having my baby delivered in Beirut, Lebanon, would be akin to telling her I’d become a Charles Manson follower.
Eleven more days.
I kept a countdown on a piece of paper and began the process of packing everything I’d just unpacked a few months earlier. I would call Mother the next day, giving her ten days to fret over everything. Growing up with a strict Catholic background and four younger siblings, I learned early on to give her the least amount of time possible when it came to digesting bad news. And to make sure she had at least three gimlets in her before doing so.
The next morning, I sat near the window and snuck a few puffs of a cigarette before dialing. One long drag gave me the bit of strength I needed to endure the number of times the phone rang before anyone answered.
“Someone pick up,” I mumbled to myself.
“Hello? Clarke residence.”
My ears rejoiced at the sound of Jessie’s voice. “It’s CC,” I said. Jessie was a true southerner who had been displaced at some point in her young life and wound up working for my mother when she was newly married. She was a proud African American woman who wore a white, pressed uniform every single day and made a fierce pitcher of spiked lemonade for parties. Growing up, Jessie’s room in the annex was a safe place to escape, and she often served as a sounding board for my four sisters and me. Many times she would act as a neutral go-between with Mother and us. She’d take time to listen to our gripes and gave great real-world advice when those gripes were categorically First World complaints. I always valued her opinions, and when she was cross with me, I’d move mountains to get back in her good graces.
“Oh, my girl. How are you feeling? I’m thinking about you every day, you know.”
“Thank you, Jess. Is Mother nearby?” I asked. “I need to speak with her.”
“Let me find her for you.” The receiver made an initial thud and then a few more as it inevitably hung, bouncing against the kitchen wall. I could picture it dangling inches above the yellow vinyl stool that was reserved for phone calls and matched the tiny pineapple print on the wallpaper. A huge chunk of which was missing from years of wear due to my sisters and me putting our feet up on the wall.
The phone was jostled again before I heard her voice. “You there?” she asked.
“Hi, Mom.”
“So good of you to call. How are things in Chicago? Have you had a big snow yet?”
“Not even close. The weather has been very mild. Quite nice, actually.”
“Have you settled on a parish? Father Patrick asked about you last week after Wednesday-morning Mass. I presume his recommendations were good?”
Thanks to Mother’s insistence, Father Patrick of Saint Mary’s Parish in Greenwich—where I’d spent every Sunday morning of my childhood—had made some calls and set up appointments for me in Chicago so that Gabriel and I could have a proper place of worship. I had only just settled on Holy Name Cathedral the week before.
I took another drag and blew the smoke through the window screen. “They were good. And yes, I’ve put a thank-you note in the mail to him.”
“Very glad to hear that,” she said. Mother would continue to ask me about myself, how I was feeling, about the church, the apartment, the weather, but never about Gabriel. It was as if I’d packed up and moved to the city alone and impregnated myself.
“I have some news,” I started. She must’ve dreaded every time one of her daughters began a sentence that way.
“Oh?”
My throat tightened. “Gabriel has been transferred to Beirut.” There was a long, disapproving silence on the other end, and the words were as difficult for me to speak as they were for me to believe. I yearned for her to comfort me. “Mom?”
“I’m here.”
My eyes began to well up. “Please say something.”
The day I left for college, my mother had stood at our front door beneath the outdoor lantern that hung from an enormous steel chain. It had been drizzling outside, and she puffed a cigarette as I stood in the driveway, embracing my sisters and saying goodbyes. Once everyone else had gone inside, Father had his driver bring the car around, and then he’d handed me some cash and told me to phone when I needed more.
“Darling,” Dad had called to her, and she’d waved from where she was standing. “Are you going to say goodbye?”
“It’s raining.” She’d crossed her arms as if to shiver. “Call when you get there, CC.”
I could have gone to her and embraced her that day; I wanted to. But I’d never done that before, so why would I have done it then? Instead, I’d gotten in the car with the most vacant feeling I’d ever had. I’d longed for her warmth, and all I could think was that she was stuck at home with my father and maybe she longed for some compassion as well. Maybe she envied me because I got to leave.
Talking with her on the phone that day, I experienced the same emptiness.
“I don’t imagine that you’re going with him, are you?” she asked.
“Of course I’m going with him. He’s my husband, and we’re having a baby.” She needed constant reminders. “What would you have me do?”
“I would have you come home. You are not going to have your baby in a foreign country with doctors who don’t even speak our language. I will not allow it!”
“Please don’t make this any more difficult for me than it already is. I’m going to need so much help. We’re due to leave in ten days—”
“Catherine! Ten days?” She was nearly panting. “How long have you known about this? How could you spring this on us?” She always included the entire family when she was exceptionally furious.
“Gabriel just told me only a few days ago. He found out at work and came home happier than I’d seen him in a long time.” My voice cracked. “I’m so scared, Mom. Please, I could really use your help.” Something I rarely asked for.
I could hear her sigh on the other end. I knew she’d rather pretend she was in control of the situation than listen to me cry for much longer. “We will work this out. Uncle David has some business connections over there. He’s the one who knew Gabriel to begin with. I will ring Serine and see to it that she recommend a physician and contact some family for you.” She paused. “Please tell me you’ll still be able to come for Christmas.”
I shook my head as if she could see me. “I don’t think so.” There was no hiding my tears at that point.
“OK, OK, all right. Take a breath. Don’t get all upset. I’m going to make some calls, and I will get back to you. I still think you should be allowed to come home for the holidays. We’ve many plans with family, and I was counting on you being a part of everything.” Again, she neglected to include my husband. Perhaps that was why he was less than eager to spend the holidays with her in Greenwich.
“I’ve been looking forward to seeing everyone more than anything in the world.”
“Then that settles it. You will come home and then meet him in Beirut.”
I wiped my eyes. My family did not discuss much in the way of emotions. If I was cross with my mother or father, I simply kept my anger to myself. My sisters and I did not dare to confront our parents and challenge their decisions, no matter how frustrating. My parents did not sit us down if they knew we were displeased with something. We were expected to follow rules and keep quiet. The mere idea of being given a platform for our grievances simply did not exist in our home. But I was married, and those rules did not apply to me any longer. I think that was the hardest pill of all for my mother to swallow.
“It’s not going to happen. We’ve already talked about it, and he wants us to be together, and to be honest, I don’t really want to travel there on my own without him.” I took a deep breath.
“Your father is not going to be pleased.”
“Hopefully, he will understand,” I said.
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take. This is a great deal of Gabriel to ask.”
I sighed. “He knows, Mother, and he loves and appreciates me.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Ten days later, we left for Lebanon, but not before I submitted my article on the Walnut Room. Abigail Rushton encouraged me to do so, even though I would never see it published.