Barrier Grief , livre ebook

The Barrier Grief
Eyar Berman-Roth
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-05-31
The Barrier Grief About the Author About the Book Dedication Copyright Information The Author’s Word Beyond the Barrier of Silence Unexpected Encounters Heartbreaks That Are Hard to Console Love and Rebirth The Bridge of the Hearts Separation or Reunion? A Ray of Light Guilt Trial Discreet Confessions Failed Plans Nightmare-like Days Painful Surprises Between the Stars and the Desert Reunion and Confessions The End The Author’s Answer
About the Author
The author, Mihaela Arbid Stoica, was born in Bucharest on 12 September 1952. She studied Law at the University of Bucharest, got married at the age of 25 and travelled to Lebanon. She was a teacher of French History in a big Catholic school for girls.
She started to write at the age of 47 after her soul got full of memories, most of them bad and some nice. It was hard to understand oriental tradition, to accept rules when you have a level of education, especially in full civil war. Her first novel was Prisoner in Liberty . This was a big success in Bucharest and made a name for the author for the first time in her life. She believes that you can’t write if you don’t have experiences in life, you can’t talk about pain if you haven’t had a taste of it.
About the Book
The Barrier Grief  follows the story of two friends in the war-torn Beirut, where in spite of the material destructions and the loss of human lives, the old city has stubbornly resisted violence. Donna, a resilient, independent businesswoman, immerses herself in her husband’s trades to provide for her children, only to realize years later that she has forgotten to live for herself. Amidst accepting her children’s choices in a life marred by constant bombing, finding crucial parts about herself strangled in a desert barn and discovering herself alone in a cold bed, would Donna recognize her true destiny? Anna, bereft and estranged from the outside world, has struggled to find her path again. Her son blames her for distancing him from his dying father. Beirut is increasingly dangerous and while everyone advises her to move on, she fears replacing her late husband. Would a new love emerge to heal her wounds or would it knock Anna to the ground again?  The Barrier Grief  is a fresh perspective on motherhood, widowhood and individuality in a world ruled by men.
Dedication
For my daughter, Maya; and my grandchildren, Isabella Maria and
Logan Michael.
Copyright Information
Copyright © Mihaela Arbid Stoica (2019)
The right of Mihaela Arbid Stoica to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528913713 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528960588 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
The Author’s Word
Today, I let my thoughts rest and sat in front of the window, gazing at the infinite blue of the horizon. When I was a child, I used to frequently wonder, What lies beyond the sky? It was obviously a naïve question, but it was only in my adult years that I could confess to myself, it would have been so good for me to be able to ask naïve questions, with no answers, or those that would have brought, even for a moment, joy into my mind and my soul.
Today, I thought like almost every day, What have I done with my life or what haven’t I done with it? What have I done for me and not for the others? As usual, I drew a line, then made up in my mind the sum of my good deeds, discovered that the number of my failures equalled my achievements, and mostly searched for ‘God’s hand’ in all these.
At that moment, I got lost in my calculations. I headed to my kitchen, feeling neither sad nor glad. I made myself a cup of coffee. I needed to do something, to clean my life off memories, to get rid of clothes from my wardrobe and eventually to make a reservation of two tickets for a show. As if I were in a dream, I started pulling out from my wardrobe, clothes I didn’t wear anymore. I rang at my neighbour’s door and let down two full bags in front of her entrance. She would take them to the church. I closed the door behind me, without inviting her to come in. I felt she looked amazed by my distemper. I went down to buy cigarettes. I was nervous, without knowing why. I heard the phone ringing the moment I climbed the stairs.
I opened the door as quickly as I could and found myself repeating feverishly, “Hello, hello…”
A low voice answered me, “You must have run to answer the telephone!”
I was confused; that voice reminded me of a certain person. I replied without hesitation, “Yes!”
And, to make sure that he wasn’t mistaken, I repeated that he was not wrong.
“Then I’m glad I found you.”
He continued after a break, as if he was lighting his cigarette, “I have good news for you.”
I felt that my heart, already frail, start throbbing. I knew whom I was talking to. I was sure it could be only the voice of the guy who, a year before, had looked at me behind his glasses and asked me arrogantly, “Why would you want to write at that age, lady; do you happen to think you’re Agatha Christie?”
I guessed he was waiting for me to ask him, “What’s the big news?” so that he could feel my emotion or at least my anxiety. But I gave him no satisfaction, replying him with a laconic ‘yes’.
“Am I disturbing you?” he asked me, surprised by my indifference.
“No, I’m just waiting for you to tell me the news.”
“I’m sorry,” he began with a tender voice. “I was rude with you the first time, but we receive daily…” and continued, after another moment of silence, “tens of manuscripts.” I wasn’t interested neither in his pleading, nor in his excuse, which came much too late. Irritated by so much fuss about this subject, I interrupted him, “What’s the result?”
He answered, “We will publish your book.”
I kept quiet because I wasn’t willing at all to show my joy and my emotion.
“I want us to fix a date to meet and discuss about the contract. Moreover, there are certain paragraphs of extreme sincerity that I’ve marked with my pencil. Do you agree to read them once more?”
I felt like between a dream and reality. A strange sensation I had never felt during my whole life was invading me up to my most profound cell. I think I was floating, thrilling. I felt shivers of joy and curiosity.
“It depends,” I found myself replying.
“Are you free for lunch?” he asked me with a tone that sounded challenging.
I looked at my watch. It wasn’t ten o’clock yet. Therefore, I had enough time to get ready. So, after a hesitation that seemed to him more like a sign of feminine coquetry, I asked him, “Where shall we meet and when?”
“Not before two o’clock.”
I smiled, disappointed. It was late for me. I was dying of impatience, so his final phrase shocked me even more, “Then I’ll wait for you at two in front of my block.”
I was struck with amazement by his call. I had lived too many emotions in less than thirty minutes. I was confused. I was glad but at the same time the shadow of a doubt sneaked into my soul. Won’t my family be shocked by everything I’ve lived and thought, all written here in black and white?
It wasn’t only one question, but many of them. I didn’t dare asking any of them. I only remembered that the time passed by so slowly until two o’clock that it tested all my resistance. But I also recalled the sweet taste of the success. I dressed and undressed myself tens of times, did my hair, combed and uncombed it. I finally made a ponytail and dressed in a pair of black pants I used to wear almost daily. At several minutes to two o’clock, I also dressed in a lavender blouse, put my lipstick on, took my purse and my glasses and sat down on the entrance chair, like a good pupil hanging by the telephone.
I watched my shoes and my purse. It was the only accessory I cared about my entire life. At five past two, I was still standing next to the telephone. I started finding excuses for him, without being too convinced by any of them, traffic jam, a last minute telephone call, when he was about to leave his office, a flat tire, etc. At ten minutes to two, my friend and neighbour rang the doorbell. I grabbed at the door and opened it.
“Whom are you waiting for?” she asked me curiously.
I didn’t resist anymore and told her my whole story in several phrases.
“It’s good that he is running late,” she said and went to my bedroom, without enlightening me.
“It is such an important day and you’re dressed as if you’re going to the market?”
Without thinking too much, she began undressing me with one hand, while pulling out a grey tailor-made suit from my wardrobe with another. Keeping on arguing, she pulled my assorted shoes from their box, threw me another purse and tried to powder my face while I was zipping my clothes.
I was only able to tell myself, “What’s the use of all this? It’s just a simple meeting; we’ll discuss the contract. He’s just someone I don’t know…he’s also arrogant and…”
The phone rang.
“He came,” I whispered, strangled by emotion.
“Take a deep breath,” she told me, brushing my hair.
We went out of my house together. It was only in the lift that I looked in the mirror. I combed my hair and put on my lipstick once more. After several deep breaths, I looked at my watch while I opened the door of the lift.
Oh , I told myself, he’s thirty minutes late.
I guessed that my friend was watching me