Daphne shuddered as Yia-yia finished her story. Although it was another oppressively hot day, her flesh erupted in goose bumps. As far back as she could remember, Daphne had loved each and every one of Yia-yia’s stories, but the myth of Iphigenia always lingered with Daphne in a way the others did not. Each time she heard the tale, a vivid picture of a young girl just about Daphne’s age came into her mind. But now the picture was even clearer. Now with Alex in her life, she could feel the excitement Iphigenia must have felt with each step she took closer and closer to her groom. Daphne could picture herself walking to the altar, imagining Alex there waiting for her. She could see his iridescent eyes ablaze, his khakis frayed at the hem.
She could see Iphigenia, wearing a one-shouldered robe embroidered with gold and a wreath of wildflowers woven into her long black hair. She could feel the girl’s anxious excitement as she clutched her mother’s hand and walked through the city streets while the citizens tossed flower petals as she passed. And then, every time Yia-yia got to the part where Iphigenia realized she was to be not wed but murdered, Daphne felt the blood drain from her body, just as if it were her own delicate throat being slit in sacrifice.
“I can’t believe they actually used to do that, Yia-yia. Kill their own children as a sacrifice to the gods. Why would they do that? Why would someone ask for that?”
“Ah, koukla mou. There are many things we can’t understand. But don’t be fooled— don’t blame bloodlust solely on the gods. There was a time . . .” Yia-yia gazed at the coffee simmering on the fire. “There was a time when people consulted old soothsayers or young priestesses to decipher the will of the gods. But as is often the case, power corrupts. It is said that even the great soothsayer Calchas had his own motives for sending Iphigenia to her death.” The thick black coffee in the briki erupted into a furious boil.
“But don’t worry, my girl. Just as the furies were revealed to be benevolent, so were the gods. When they saw that their wishes were being twisted and translated for the selfishness of man, the great god Zeus became furious. From that moment on, the gods ordained that only older women with pure, open hearts were to translate the gods’ wishes and be given the honor of oracle reader. They knew that only women who had truly known what it is to love another could be trusted, Daphne. Only these women could understand how precious life really is.”
Daphne watched as Yia-yia swirled her coffee in her cup. Where are those supposed benevolent gods and furies now? Daphne wondered. If they had been so just, so fair, as Yia-yia claimed, then why had her own grandmother’s life taken such a tragic turn? She wondered what Yia-yia’s life might have been like if she didn’t have the stigma of the word widow attached to her, like a scarlet letter emblazoned on her black dress.
Daphne knew she had been given a glorious gift in being born in America with its opportunities, equality, and dorm rooms to sneak away to. She knew she was lucky to have found Alex, and she wanted nothing more than to continue discovering the nuances of life and love with him. As she looked into her coffee cup, Daphne pictured herself walking through life not alone, as Yia-yia had. She pictured herself holding Alex’s hand—side by side with him, instead of in his shadow. She twirled the cup around and around, imploring the grounds to reveal her life’s journey.
But it was no use. As usual, Daphne could see nothing more than a muddy mess.
Sixteen
It had been a glorious, if exhausting, day—the kind of day Daphne knew she and Evie would look back on and cherish. After leaving Nitsa’s, Evie once again climbed on her mother’s back the moment she saw Daphne grab the bamboo stick. They tap-tap-tapped their way home to Yia-yia’s, stopping only so Evie could pick the biggest, ripest, and blackest blackberries.
Once back at home, Daphne packed a bag with towels, their swimsuits, water bottles, and the fatty mortadella sandwiches that Daphne had loved as a little girl and now Evie had developed a taste for as well. Off they went, with no plan other than to enjoy the day and each other’s company while exploring the island. But as they left the house, Daphne did make sure they had just one more addition to their explorers’ party.
Knowing that Evie wouldn’t soon forget her snake fixation and that carrying Evie all day long, up and down the island’s many hills and rocky paths, would soon grow tiresome, Daphne untied Jack from his post in the back garden and enlisted the gentle donkey’s help.
“Think of him as our own little island taxicab.” Daphne laughed as she placed Evie on his back and guided them down the stairs to begin their adventure.
Their first stop had been the island’s tiny, picturesque church. With its overgrown cemetery, whitewashed walls, elaborate stained-glass windows, and trough of hand-dipped candles burning continually in its entrance, the church looked exactly as Daphne had remembered it, as if it had been frozen in time. At first Evie was petrified by the idea of dead people buried right there in the cemetery adjacent to the church and refused to get off Jack’s back. Just as Daphne was about to coerce her down, Father Nikolaos spotted them from inside the graveyard, where he had been busy replenishing the olive oil and lighting the wicks of the eternal candles of the dead. With his flowing black robes gathered in his right hand and waving frantically with his left, Father Nikolaos came running out of the cemetery straight at them. This sent Evie into a fit of hysteria: she thought the bearded, black-robed person heading toward them was some sort of demon who had escaped from the grave.
Evie watched as her mother bent down to kiss the priest’s hand. But it wasn’t until Father Nikolaos’s wife and children came running to see what the fuss was about that Evie actually believed there was nothing to be afraid of. Finally, after much coercion, Evie agreed to come down from the donkey’s back. Hand in hand with the priest’s thirteen-year-old daughter, she followed Daphne into the church.
Inside, standing on the altar before an icon of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus, Father Nikolaos made the sign of the cross, blessing mother and daughter. Father’s children stood watching, heads bowed and quiet.
“Amen,” Father said when the blessing was done.
Having witnessed this prayer hundreds of times before, the priest’s children knew this was their cue, as well as their escape. “Ella, ella—” They tugged at Evie’s arm and pulled her outside to play, leaving the adults to discuss the wedding details.
It would be a simple, traditional ceremony, they all agreed. The priest’s wife, Presbytera, as all priests’ wives are called, offered to weave the betrothal crowns from local wildflowers. “So much prettier and more symbolic than those store-bought ones,” she insisted as she bounced her baby, the youngest of her five children, on her knee.
“We received the baptismal certificate,” Father Nikolaos added. “Your young man is welcome in our church, and we are pleased that you have chosen to be married in Christ’s house.” His wide mouth erupted in a broad smile that peeked out from the thick brush of his beard.
“Daphne,” the priest’s wife said, her long brown hair neatly knotted at the nape of her neck. “Join us for lunch,” Presbytera insisted as the baby gurgled and lifted his arms toward his father.
Father Nikolaos swooped down and snatched the baby from Presbytera’s lap. Once safely snuggled in his father’s arms, the baby reached his chubby hand up and tugged at his father’s beard, eliciting deep belly laughs from both. Presbytera watched, a serene smile on her face.
For a moment, Daphne was tempted to join them. There was something about Father Nikolaos and Presbytera that drew Daphne to them. On the surface, Daphne had absolutely nothing in common with the simple island priest and his lovely, yet haggard wife. Daphne’s urban lifestyle and opinions were so far removed from those of the devout couple who lived and breathed according to the church’s rules and customs. Daphne knew they would be horrified if they ever learned that back at home she rarely stepped inside a church and that Evie associated Easter Sunday with a visit from the Easter bunny rather than a glorious celebration of Christ’s resurrection. And
if Father and Presbytera had any idea that Evie had not received Holy Communion since her baptism, they would truly be horrified. Here, as in all Greek Orthodox churches around the world, each Sunday, like a weekly spiritual vitamin, parents made sure their children dutifully lined up before the priest to receive the bread and wine of communion. In and out, in and out, the priest dipped the same golden spoon in the chalice and then into each child’s mouth. It’s not that Daphne didn’t want to believe that the communion was blessed and therefore would sanitize any germs; she did have faith, and she actually did want to partake in the ritual of the sacrament. But once again, the reality of her life as a single mother did not allow for any romanticism whatsoever. Whenever Evie got sick, even just with a cold that required her to stay home from school, Daphne’s world was thrown into chaos. Daphne had decided long ago that until the practice was modernized and sanitized, communion was yet one more element of her own Greek childhood that would remain foreign to Evie’s Americanized world.
Daphne watched as Presbytera took the baby from the priest’s arms. Cooing in the baby’s ear with each step, she walked to the altar and genuflected before the large icon of the Virgin Mary holding a chubby baby Jesus in her arms. Presbytera leaned closer to the icon and kissed the Virgin’s feet before lifting her child to do the same, his drool leaving a streak of wet gloss across the pale blue folds of baby Jesus’ swaddling.
As much as Daphne would have loved to spend more time in the company of the spiritual couple, she knew that once she and Stephen were married, there wouldn’t be as many opportunities for her to spend an entire day alone with Evie. She politely declined with a promise to come back and visit.
From the church, Daphne, Evie, and Jack headed straight for the cove, where they spread a large blanket out just above the waterline and covered it with the food Daphne had brought from home. They didn’t say much as they sat nibbling the sandwiches, just sat on the blanket; Daphne with her feet straight out in front of her and Evie nestled between her mother’s legs, leaning her back against Daphne’s slim torso, the little girl’s curls cascading down Daphne’s body like a dark waterfall. As they sat together, eating their lunch, they looked out toward the horizon and watched as the seabirds performed their soaring ballets, dipping, climbing, and gliding across the cloudless sky.
Daphne thought about telling Evie a story, one of Yia-yia’s stories—maybe the one about Persephone, or perhaps even Cupid and Psyche. But as she opened her mouth to speak, Daphne looked down at Evie and was surprised by the quiet peacefulness of her face—her pink cheeks, her rosebud lips, the dark veil of her long lashes fluttering with each blink. Her little girl seemed happy—truly and honestly happy. Daphne felt a swell of emotion in her chest and an eruption of tears in her eyes.
Evie was happy. And it wasn’t a gift or a toy or anything remotely material that was responsible for the joy she felt. It was this place. It was this moment. It was as Yia-yia had said: the mere fact that Daphne was sitting still long enough for Evie to catch her.
Daphne opened her mouth to speak, but as she did, a sudden gust of wind kicked up, blowing sand in her eyes and mouth. As she rubbed her stinging, burning eyes, she looked once again at Evie, who was now sitting straight up and looking behind them toward the veil of trees that lined the beach.
“What is it, honey?” Daphne asked as she rubbed her eyes.
“Did you hear that?” Evie asked as she looked back toward the trees.
“Hear what?”
“I thought I heard singing.” Evie added as she stood, turning her back to Daphne, and looked down the beach. “A woman’s voice.” She took a few steps closer to the trees. “It was pretty and soft . . . and Greek.”
Daphne stood and looked toward the thicket. Impossible, she thought as chills ran up and down her spine. She reached for Evie’s hand. Daphne remembered standing here, on the very same spot, as a young girl herself, straining to hear the faintest whispers of a song on the breeze.
“You know, Evie,” she said as she put her arm around the little girl and pulled her back to the blanket, “when I was a little girl, I would come here every day and swim alone in the cove. I was never afraid of being alone in the sea because Yia-yia told me the story about the cypress whispers. She told me that the island would look after me and speak to me in whispers and songs.”
Evie’s eyes widened as she clutched Daphne’s hand. “Like ghosts?” She shuddered. “You mean I heard a ghost?” She burrowed into her mother’s lap.
“No, Evie, honey. There are no ghosts.” Daphne laughed at the irony—the same thought which terrified Evie now, was the one thing which Daphne had prayed for herself as a child. It was the one thing that she had wanted most of all, but like so many of Daphne’s dreams, it never had materialized.
“It’s just another story like Persephone or Arachne,” Daphne continued, “an old myth for the old women to share by the evening fire. What you heard was just the radio at Nitsa’s. People are always complaining that she plays it too loud.” Daphne watched as the relief washed over Eve’s face.
“But when you told me you heard singing, it reminded me of when I was a little girl, of how many times I would sit here hour after hour, waiting and wondering if I would ever hear the cypress whispers myself.”
“But you never did?”
“No, honey, I never did,” Daphne said as she looked beyond the thicket. “They don’t exist. The cypress whispers don’t exist.”
AT ABOUT EIGHT IN THE evening, when the sun’s rays began to lose their dagger-like edge and the oppressive heat of the day finally began to lift, Daphne glanced down at her watch. It was time to gather their things and head for home. As she guided Jack and Evie back home along the blackberry-lined paths, Daphne looked back at her daughter and was once again filled with overpowering emotion. Evie’s face was still as bright and beaming as the midday sun had been.
“That was fun, wasn’t it, honey?” Daphne asked.
“Mommy, that was the most fun I’ve had in my whole entire life,” Evie shouted as she leaned her little body forward and wrapped her arms around Jack’s neck.
“Me, too—the most fun ever.” Daphne nodded in agreement and smiled at her daughter, holding tightly to Jack’s reins as they continued their walk home. The most fun I’ve had in my entire life, Daphne repeated to herself again and again.
It was true—she had forgotten how wonderful, how rewarding, a day spent doing virtually nothing could be. But now, Daphne realized, as long as Evie was beside her, there really was no such thing as a day filled with nothing. Even life’s simplest pleasures—a picnic, a sandcastle, a ride on an old, tired donkey—were cause for celebration more joyous than any she could have ever imagined.
Seventeen
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Daphne flinched as she gingerly applied the lemonita lotion to her pink shoulders. As she dabbed the final drop of opaque liquid onto her burning skin, Daphne took a deep breath and summoned all the strength left in her aching body to stand up. Still wrapped in her towel, she walked over to the closet and flung it open, scanning the contents before she found what she was looking for. She slipped the strapless blue dress over her shoulders.
“Yia-yia, Evie. Pame, let’s go. I’m ready,” Daphne called as she reached across the bed to snatch a flashlight from the bureau, knowing they would need the additional light, since there were still no streetlights along the island’s paths. As she rushed out the door, flashlight in hand, Daphne caught a final glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her feet froze in place as she did, and she turned her head once more to look more closely at her reflection. Gone were the dark circles under her eyes. Gone was the sallow, green-tinged complexion that greeted her when she looked into a mirror back at home. Gone was the frumpy, messy bun that she always wore when she was cooking. Tonight the woman who stared back was younger, happier, more alive and vibrant, than Daphne had felt or looked in years. With her sun-kissed skin, loose, bouncy curls, strapless summer dress, and, most importantl
y, relaxed, stress-free face, the woman in the mirror was not a bundle of worry and angst. This woman was happy. She was carefree. And she was beautiful. For the first time in a very long time, Daphne felt beautiful.
“Ella, Evie, Yia-yia, pame—let’s go,” she shouted again before she stole one last look in the mirror and practically skipped out the door.
At precisely 10:05 p.m., Daphne, Evie, and Yia-yia walked through the double doors of the Hotel Nitsa. As they stepped inside, they were immediately assaulted by the blaring bouzouki music that filled the reception area. But as loud as the music was, it was intermittently drowned out by a half dozen or so shaggy-haired French tourists who sat at the bar playing a drinking game that consisted of them shouting “Opa!” whenever someone did a shot of ouzo—which, from the looks of it, seemed to be every few seconds.
“Daphne!” Popi cried out from the bar stool where she sat between two of the young tourists, shot glass in hand. “Ella, come play. Meet my new friends.” Popi brought her hand to her mouth and giggled before shouting, “Opa!” and downing the shot. Immediately, her new friends followed suit.
“Opa!” cried the Frenchmen.
Daphne, Yia-yia, who was shaking her head in disbelief, and even little Evie stood in the center of the room, staring at Popi. Yia-yia brought her hands together in prayer, shaking them back and forth, an exasperated moan escaping from her mouth as she rocked them. Daphne looked at Yia-yia, knowing that this hand-shaking often led to singsonging, and she immediately made up her mind that she would have none of that tonight. As tired as she had been earlier in the evening, Daphne now felt energized. Maybe it was the bouzouki music, maybe it was the flattering glimpse of herself that she’d caught in the mirror, or maybe it was the remnants of a perfect day spent with Evie; whatever it was, she felt alive tonight, and she wasn’t about to let a lament song bring her down. Before Yia-yia could begin her first verse, Daphne scurried over to Popi’s side at the bar, grabbed her under the arm, and practically lifted her off the bar stool.
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