Three Daughters: A Novel (37 page)

In the near distance, she could see softly striated buttes with breathtaking rings of purple and deepest rose separating the myriad shades of tan and beige and brown. She reined in the horse and took in the magnificent scene. There was a stillness that was so healing she almost wept.
This is as close to eternity as I’m likely to get in this life
, she thought. Images sprang to mind of loved ones who had died. Dr. Max . . . she could still remember his face. Julia’s Ambrose. Her own dead baby. “I feel close to the dead here,” she said aloud. Then, looking down, she saw something shiny. It was a sizable piece of metal with numbers on it.

She urged the horse on, unconsciously tightening her muscles for whatever else she might find. Yet nothing—not a lifetime of preparation—could have conditioned her for the scene that caught up with her in the next moment.

Nadia got off the horse and walked right up to the crash. She was horrified but mesmerized. The body of the plane looked as if it had snapped in two, with the back jutting up at a peculiar angle. A man’s severed arm lay against the top of the seat as if he were sitting there engaged in casual conversation. Strapped to the wrist by a handsome plaid band was a watch; the fully readable black figures gave the time as 4:47. A woman was draped upside down, half-out of the wreckage, like a gifted gymnast. Her dress was bunched around her waist, exposing her buttocks and thighs. Right below the innocent folds of a satin slip was an open deadly gash that already showed the peckings of desert birds. Bustards circled the air.

Nadia thought,
I’ve got to pull her dress down. I’ve got to do that much.
She tugged at the limp voile skirt and draped it modestly. She was so young, barely a woman, and she hadn’t expected death. Who would? Briefly, Nadia passed her hand over the broad forehead, feeling the urge to comfort the poor thing even in death. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, exploding into a sob. “So very sorry.”

As for the man, there was a crumpled ball of cloth just barely visible beyond the right wing. A shoe dangled crazily from a foreshortened leg. Was that an adult body? Was that all of it, compressed from impact?

She wanted to flee, but her arms and legs felt like lead. Julia would be worried. The horse, as if sensing her distress, turned around and went a few yards, stopping to chew on an unexpected clump of grass. The sight of that miserly and unlikely patch of green made her feel unspeakably sad. She had been staring down, eyes brimming and blurred, but something made her focus. She saw what looked like a yellow package on the ground. Oh, dear God! Mother Mary! It was a baby!

It was lying thirty feet from the wreck, cradled in a small depression that had managed to trap enough moisture to sustain a cushion of herbage. The infant was wrapped tightly in a blanket, militarily neat and taut. It was the type of paralyzing swaddling that would soon lose favor as too restrictive, even cruel. Unexpectedly—Nadia almost didn’t trust her eyes—the neat little package began to move. The infant wriggled a tiny arm out of the outer yellow bunting and swiped its wind-blistered lips with a fist. Then it gave a lusty cry into the vast brown waste.

“The tea will help,” said Julia, gently swabbing the cotton over the raw skin. “She’s so swollen . . . oh! Look at her earlobe! It’s one big blister.” As she continued dabbing the cool tea over the parched, raw skin, tears slid down her cheeks. “The poor little thing. Suppose you hadn’t gone? Suppose you hadn’t found her? She so badly windburned.”

“Do you think she’s getting enough liquids? I’m more worried that she’s still dehydrated.” Nadia squeezed the little mouth and once more dripped water, drop by drop, into the tiny O. The lips were cracked and bleeding and she hated touching them, but without water the baby would die.

“I’m going to offer her the breast,” said Julia. “She needs some nourishment. Delal will just have to have a little less.”

Nadia looked at her sister-in-law with eyes that were suddenly bright as moons. “Of course! Do it now. Please.” Julia, who hadn’t expected to make good on her promise so quickly, hesitated. She looked sheepishly over at her own daughter and began to undo the buttons on her blouse.

The baby gave one sharp cry as she rooted for the breast, but the thrill of getting nourishment overcame the pain of working the cracked lips. Both women unconsciously worked their mouths as if helping to suck. The baby’s eyes were swollen shut, like two bulbous mounds, completely obscuring even the long lashes. The cheeks, too, were twice the normal size. The nose, the lips, the ears—everything was grotesquely swollen. Julia sighed and wiped her teary cheeks. “I guess we’ll have to take her to the police.”

“No!” It came out a vehement refusal.

“But Nadia, we have to turn her in. This is someone’s baby.”

“Those were her parents,” said Nadia. “And they’re dead. She’s nobody’s baby.”

Julia looked at her sister-in-law with alarm. “But they had relatives. Whoever those people were, they’ve got relatives and the relatives will want to know what happened to the baby.”

Nadia looked as if she were in a trance. “If I hadn’t come along, she’d be dead right now. I found her. I want to nurse her back to health. We’ll tell them she was too sick to be moved. She is too sick to be moved. Don’t tell them about her yet.” Her eyes were frantic. “Please.”

“She could use a few more days with us, I guess.” Julia didn’t like the look on Nadia’s face, but realized it would be dangerous to disagree with her now. She was still in shock. Two frights so close together. First her own terrible miscarriage and then this. Mangled bodies. Poor Nadia. Let her have a baby to hold a few more days. What harm would it do? They’d play dumb if anyone questioned it. They’d say the baby needed care. They’d say they thought it was a foundling. They didn’t even have to admit to seeing the crash. Oh, God, it all sounded false.

“Hide the baby,” said Nadia. “Mary Thomas is coming up the hill.”

“Why hide the baby?” said Julia defiantly. “We’ve had her three days.”

“I’m not ready to face anyone. I haven’t decided what to say.”

“I don’t know what that means,” said Julia.

“Please. Don’t argue with me now. Just don’t let her come into the house. Tell her I had a restless night and that I’m sleeping. Tell her anything. I’m supposed to be pregnant. She’ll understand.”

Julia gave her a look that said,
I’ll give in this time but we’re going to settle this later
. She spoke to Mary for ten minutes and then returned.

For a long time she was silent, but when her sister-in-law made no inquiries, she plunged into the news. She relayed the details in a stony, warning monotone. “The crash is already being detailed over the radio. The owner of the plane reported the passengers missing and they sent out a search party. They said all three died. A young couple and their infant daughter. The man was here to scout for Arabian horses—that was his business and he’d been here before. The woman was his wife of two years. The child was barely six weeks old.” She sighed and her shoulders slumped. Then, as if it were her closing argument, she added. “They were Americans.”

“I know,” said Nadia softly.

“How did you know?”

“Before I left, I thought it would be best if I took something from the parents. I took a gold ring from his hand and a locket from around her neck. The ring is inscribed inside—Harvard, May 18, 1931. That’s a university in America, isn’t it? It says Leonardstown, Maryland, 7-2-30. Something important must have happened to her during the summer of 1930. Maybe that was the day they met. Julia—”

Nadia’s eyes were unnaturally bright, glowing with some inner certainty. They were focused on the still distended face in her arms. Something miraculous had happened—the baby had opened her eyes. “Julia . . . no one knows the baby’s alive. She could be mine. She is mine. All I have to do is give birth to her. I’m going to give birth to her and you’re going to help me.”

Samir was returning to his room at the Hacienda Gardens Hotel, which was not a hotel at all but a semicircular grouping of one-room houses with peaked tiled roofs and rough-hewn black doors set into thick adobe walls. There was a piece of paper attached to his door. On it was a cartoon drawing of a little man with a jaunty cap carrying a tray, on which was a card that read “A Message For You.” At the bottom someone had scrawled,
Telegram at front office
.

He didn’t remember the walk across the gravel driveway. He took the most direct route and brushed against the bushy azalea plants overhanging the narrow sidewalk. Inside the office a smiling girl with a flat, too-wide face—a face he would never forget—handed him the yellow envelope.

YOU HAVE A DAUGHTER STOP BOTH OF US FINE STOP LOVE NADIA.

He stood there, dazed. For a moment he feared that he was going crazy and he stumbled out of the tiny office and took deep grateful gulps of rose-scented air.
Inhale
, he coached himself,
exhale
. He began to calm down. Just as suddenly as the muddle had spread, it receded and his head was as clear as a crystal night. Already his chest surged with the bittersweet twinge of parental love.
Thanks be to God!

BOOK THREE

1935–1958

HEARTS WOUNDED AND WISE

28.

DO YOU WONDER WHO I AM?

S
he’s the most beautiful baby in the world. The most beautiful.” Samir nuzzled his cheek against the downy head of his daughter.

“Mmm.” Every mention of the baby’s looks made Nadia’s stomach squeeze together. She felt overstimulated both by happiness and fear. The baby was too beautiful. It would be a few years before the true miracle of that face came into its full magnetism but even now, almost bald, she was extraordinary. It wasn’t only the singular placement of her features or the dense satiny quality of her complexion; it was also the intelligent look of inquiry in her eyes and the sweetness of her disposition. Nadia would look at her baby and be thrilled anew. This was so much more than she had expected. “I found you,” she would say to the baby when they were alone. “I saved you. You’re my little girl.”

She was christened Nijmeh—Star—which seemed appropriate for the shining happiness she brought to her parents. Julia was a tense godmother. Over and over she imagined someone saying,
And whose baby is this? Not Nadia’s. Why on earth would you think we’d believe it was Nadia’s?
And wouldn’t someone think the baby looked too big for a newborn? Nervous and perspiring and still not convinced she had done the right thing, Julia made a feeble attempt to account for the fine fuzz of pale hair—brown but very close to blonde—as “probably from Grandmother Jamilla.”

Nadia had thrown her a stern look and Miriam countered quietly that her mother’s hair had been reddish brown and very different in texture. The straight, delicate nose was seen to come from Samir’s mother’s face, as were the rounded cheeks. The beautiful hands and long limbs were undoubtedly from Nadia.

Julia kept resolving to put time and distance between herself and the baby to save herself the emotional turmoil—the most hateful thing was lying to Peter—but she couldn’t stay away from her goddaughter. She felt a heavy sense of responsibility.

Nadia was too busy to brood. Taking care of an infant took up every hour of the day. She had to mash and puree three meals and spoon minute amounts of food into a mouth that would grin and let it all dribble out. During the bath she was so afraid of losing her grip that she climbed in the deep tub with Nijmeh. Afterward she dressed her in batiste balloon rompers or hand-smocked lace-collared dresses. Unshorn lambs and smiling giraffes were appliquéd on her quilts. Her bed was veiled with silk netting held back with wide ribbons. Outdoors, Nijmeh was wheeled along the streets in an elaborate canopied stroller.

Often while diapering her daughter and subjected to her naked stare, Nadia’s conscience would rasp and prod.
Do you wonder who I am? Do you have any memory of the other mother?
It seemed not. Nijmeh sucked her thumb and hummed, babbled and drooled. She slept peacefully, flat on her back with arms curved upward. She banged her head into Nadia’s chest with glee when she was picked up. She flexed her knees and was ready to vault with eagerness when Samir came into view.

As she grew her true hair came in dark, closer to the color of strong tea. It was as thick and straight and smooth as a skein of silk. It was cut blunt below her ears, the style for little girls, and held to the side with a barrette. Her eyes, pale at birth, settled into a dark unmistakable green—the color of wet leaves. A peculiar minute upward spike on the outer corner doubled their impact. Her skin, while not as light as Nadia’s, was dense and poreless and quick to color. Her beauty was disturbing and difficult to absorb. It defined and limited her life. It was the first and often the only thing anyone thought about her. Beautiful, beautiful Nijmeh. What else was there left to say that could matter? Nadia and Samir became her refuge from the constant stares and comments. They were her wall of protection.

Because of the political turmoil, the most frequent family diversions were the sumptuous Sunday dinners with Miriam, Nadeem, aunts Zareefa and Diana, and their husbands and children. Frequently Julia, Peter, and Delal joined them. That was the core of the family that remained. Each member—even Diana in her small dark house (Miriam often slipped her money, which she accepted without comment)—took a turn putting out a feast of spiced vegetable stews built on a bed of marrow bones, pignolia-and-meat pies in chewy pale crusts, wilted spinach gleaming with oil and onions, olives and pickles, cucumbers and tomatoes, charred eggplant dressed with sesame paste and garlic, and trays of nut-studded sweets, darkened and sodden on the bottom with a residue of rosewater and honey.

All the women took a turn at holding Nijmeh, even Diana who seemed personally affronted. Until then, she’d had the most beautiful girl in the family.

It was a predictable life, simple and uncluttered, and Nadia settled into her role with a new willingness to befriend and be befriended. She wanted Nijmeh to be accepted. And loved.

In 1937, the agricultural depression that had gripped the world had repercussions that extended to the eastern shore of Maryland. Jason Walker, a prominent landowner, still depressed over his son’s untimely death, became despondent over the decline of his cotton and cattle businesses. He put a gun in his mouth and blew out the back of his head.

“I can’t understand it,” sobbed his wife. “We had all the money we could possibly need, even with the losses.” A search of several safety deposit boxes revealed seven hundred thousand dollars in cash.

The Palestine
Post
picked up the story off the Reuters wire service because it tied one tragedy to another. The handsome Thoroughbred scout had come to a tragic end with his wife and child. Now his father had taken his own life. Apparently God had no mercy and his lack of it sold newspapers. “Crash Victim’s Father a Suicide Over Business Ills,” ran the headline.

Julia read it. “Oh, my God,” she yelped before she could stop herself.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” She looked over to Peter with shock in her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Julia, what is it?”

“This poor man . . .” she stammered, “the father of the young pilot who crashed here last year . . . he’s committed suicide over business problems. This terrible depression has taken so many lives . . .”

Peter shrugged. “If you want to be shocked, I’ll tell you ten terrible stories right here in Jerusalem. You don’t have to take your pity all the way to . . . where is it? Where did this man live?”

“Maryland. They call it the tidewater region.” She looked as if she’d seen a ghost.

The next day she took the clipping to Nadia. “Look. You should know about this. Nijmeh comes from a large distinguished family. It says the father”—she gulped—“Nijmeh’s grandfather is to be buried at Laurel Hill, the family estate. He’s survived by his wife, two daughters, one son, and five grandchildren. Nadia, they’re her cousins.”

Without hesitation, Nadia tore the clipping into fine little pieces. “Samir has never been happier. He adores Nijmeh, can’t you see that? I would do the same thing again and again,” she said vehemently. “The only cousin she has is Delal,” she added firmly. “We have two fine girls, Julia. They’ll grow up together just as you always wanted. Look at them.” The girls played at their feet. “They’ll be the best of friends.”

The two most privileged toddlers in the village stared as if the other were the ultimate irresistible toy. Within the next ten minutes both would grind crackers into the irreplaceable hand-knotted silk carpet, and their mothers, blinded by adoration, would ignore it.

Nijmeh offered her duck, her bear, and her musical bird in quick succession, scanning her cousin’s face for signs of happiness. Delal flung each gift to the side. She looked at her mother. “A baby,” she said.

“Yes,” said Julia, “another baby.”

Delal put her pudgy fingers on Nijmeh’s rosy cheek and patted it. “Nice,” she said, biting off the end of the word and giggling deliriously. “Nice baby.” She slapped the cheek again, grinned, and then struck once more. The last slap was so hard it startled Nijmeh and she let out a baffled howl.

“Ooh.” Julia rushed to hold her daughter’s hand captive. “That hurts the baby. You love Nijmeh,” she explained in a coaxing tone. “You don’t want to hurt her.”

As it happened, although Nijmeh adored her cousin, Delal never learned to like Nijmeh. At some visceral level, she understood everything. Nijmeh had begun by stealing some of the breast milk that was rightfully hers. And that was just the beginning.

Mother and daughter started out early to avoid the worst heat, but before they crossed the square to reach the road to Miriam’s house, the hot east wind was nipping at their heels. Julia’s news about the Walkers had let out demons and being outside was better than staying in. The news story was always in the back of Nadia’s mind and she had learned to live with it. But this was different. It had made her dream of death.

She couldn’t afford to have her strength eroded. She was drawn to her mother’s house for a good reason that had not yet occurred to her, although she’d climbed that road more than once that week.

The sirocco at best was suffocating. At its worst it had a chemical effect on the nerves, killed cattle, and stunned the hardiest of men. Nijmeh stopped and held up a dust-covered sandaled foot to her mother. “Off.”

“I can’t take your shoes off.” Nadia looked around for a place to sit. “Let’s stop in the post office and see what the trouble is.”

“Pebbles out.”

Nadia knew that Rose Muffrige, the postal clerk, would have something to say about taking Nijmeh out on a day like this. “Let’s take the pebbles out right here. Sit down.”

Nijmeh sat immediately. She patted the sidewalk and then put her hand to her face, leaving a black smudge. She turned over her palm. “Dirty.”

“Everything’s dirty.” Nadia emptied the shoes, buckled them, and rose to leave. They crossed Main Street, past the Roman Catholic church and school, past the old Friends meeting house, veering left to the dirt road that led to her mother’s cottage, which was shaded and set high up to receive any available breeze. They walked a few yards in silence. She could hear Nijmeh panting, each breath punctuated by a grunt. “Heh, heh, heh.”

Heat waves danced above the road. Nadia stopped and looked back. “Are you hot? Ooh. Look at your face. It’s so red. Are you all right?”

“Hot,” said Nijmeh.

“I know you are, sweetheart. I didn’t think it would get this hot so early. Can you walk?”

“Walk.”

“I could carry you.”

“Walk.”

“We’ll be there soon.”

By the time they reached Miriam’s house, Nadia was agitated and remorseful. “We shouldn’t have come.” She took Nijmeh to the sink and began to sponge off her arms and face. “Her feet are all swollen.”

Miriam, who had been silent during Nadia’s ministrations, crossed her arms in front of her. “You’re making too much of a fuss.”

Her words were unexpected and made both women silent. Nijmeh looked from one to the other.

“Her face is terribly red,” said Nadia.

Miriam turned to Nijmeh. “Wa wa?” she asked, using the term for any physical hurt. “Does anything hurt you?”

“No.” Nijmeh answered timidly and looked at her mother.

Nadia, feeling fragile, had decided to deal gracefully with her mother’s words, but just then she realized why she had sought out this tidy kitchen so eagerly.

“There, you see,” her mother was saying, “she’s sturdier than you think. This is the weather we have and everyone walks in it if they need to. We’ve learned to live with all sorts of discomfort. Don’t make her feel she has it so bad. She’s a beautiful girl, but it’s better if you let her take life in her stride.”

Mama, didn’t you have a secret, too? Dr. Max. Help me deal with mine.

“The important thing is that Nijmeh has caught your interest,” her mother continued. “I never had my mother’s interest and that’s the worst thing. It makes you feel lost.” This unexpected confession made Nadia’s eyes fill, but she held back. Her mother was not asking for pity.

“Can we have something to drink?” she asked to show she wasn’t annoyed. She felt better.

“Of course. I have lemonade and cookies, unless you’re ready for lunch.”

“Lemonade and cookies,” Nijmeh said, speaking with such unusual clarity that the women laughed.