by Jan Coffey
“No. I have money.”
He stared at her, doubt clouding his face.
“If you could just help her breathe, I can pay.” She scrambled to slide the bag from her shoulder.
“Not now. They’ll settle it with you tomorrow at the front desk.”
A set of double doors opened, and the nurse returned.
“They’re ready in ICU, doctor.”
The physician pulled Tiam’s chart from the hook at the end of the crib. When he looked back at her, she read compassion in his eyes.
“We’ll help with her breathing tonight. In the morning, we’ll have to do some tests.”
“Can I wait here? Stay with her?”
“No. You need to go to your friend’s tonight. Your daughter will be in good hands. Tomorrow, we can do the x-rays and run any other tests that are needed. Come back in the morning.”
A weak cry from the crib drew Zari’s attention. Tiam. Zari had chosen that name herself. She’d decided on it while delivering her child in a roadside village with strange women offering shelter and showering her with kindness. Tiam meant “my eyes.” And how appropriate, she thought, as she looked down into the innocent eyes.
“I’ll be here early, my love. I promise.” Tears welled up, and Zari’s vision blurred. She blinked them back and leaned over to kiss the child’s forehead. “And you promise to get better. Please, little one. Live for me.’
The crib was wheeled away, and a sharp feeling of loss cut into Zari’s chest as she followed them to the swinging doors of the ICU. There, an attendant wearing a cap and surgical mask took charge. The doctor went in with them.
The nurse put a hand on Zari’s arm. “You do have a place to stay tonight?”
She was in her forties perhaps, or even older. Lines etched her brow. Zari guessed she was not a woman given to smiling.
“I do.”
“Do you have a husband?”
Another wave of sadness washed over her. “Yes.”
“Is he in Istanbul?”
“No, we came alone.”
“Do you have papers?”
Zari’s face burned. She met the dark brown eyes. Silence filled the space around them. She recited a dua to herself. Oh Allah, open to me the doors of Your mercy.
“You don’t.” The nurse answered for her. She looked up and down the hall. No one else was around. “You’re a good mother. I can tell.”
The words stabbed at her heart, but she fought back the sob rising in her chest. She was a good mother. She loved her daughter.
“I am Emine. Where are you from?”
“Kurdistan.”
“My mother was from Kurdistan.”
Her prayer was answered.
“Zari. I was born and raised in Qalat Dizah.”
Emine nodded, and the sad look in her eyes told Zari that she understood. Fifty thousand people were dead or had been driven out of Qalat Dizah. Months after the attack, it was still being mentioned in the news. But the Kurdish people’s struggle was nothing new. In conflict after conflict, decade after decade, they’d had to escape into the mountains as entire cities and villages were leveled.
Her own place of birth was now forbidden to her. Four thousand towns and villages in Iraq were forbidden to the people who once lived in them.
An orderly called to Emine from down the hall. She was needed.
“Find me tomorrow morning. I’ll go with you to hospital registration. I’ll help with the forms.”
Zari wanted to throw her arms around the older woman. She wanted to thank her a thousand times, but Emine turned and hurried down the hall.
Tears of relief threatened to fall. At least tomorrow was taken care of.
The clock above the doorway of the ICU showed it was nearly eight. She wondered how early the registration office in this hospital opened.
Whatever time it was, she would be here. She wouldn’t have far to go.
Zari padded silently to the end of the corridor and went through a fire door. Going down the dimly lit stairs to the basement, she tried another set of doors. Locked. Sinking into the cool cement corner of the stairwell, she pulled her satchel onto her lap and wrapped her arms around it.
The air was stale and damp. She listened to the distant sounds. From beyond the basement doors, there came the low, muffled hum of ventilation machinery. The faint ululation of an ambulance siren reached her. A door opened far above, and the scuff of footsteps descending made Zari hold her breath until another door opened and closed. Silence surrounded her.
This would have to do for the night. It was safer than the street. She had nowhere else to go. No friend here in Istanbul. She had nothing but a sick child who needed her.
Zari thought wearily of the stories that had given her strength so many times in the past. Those great mothers who suffered epic losses but forged onward. Once again, courage stirred in her blood.
In this hospital, a little girl was fighting for every breath. She was not giving up. And neither would Zari. She would not abandon that child. Her child now.
Never.
5
Zari
“This is not a state hospital,” the clerk told Zari curtly, picking up her cigarette from an ashtray. She took a deep drag and waved it at her. Words came out with a plume of smoke. “The doctor says he might have to keep her for a week. There are tests he needs to run. You must pay ahead.”
Zari guessed that Turks didn’t need to pay ahead. Well-dressed people didn’t need to pay ahead. Maybe if she had papers or references, she wouldn’t need to pay ahead. Back in Ankara she never had to pay ahead. But right now, she had no choice.
She knew the difference between private and state hospitals. She’d been to both. She was too familiar with the crowded waiting rooms and the futility of trying to get someone’s attention. The doctors were overwhelmed. The nurses overworked. Unless you were bleeding to death, no one would pay any attention to you. Yesterday, Zari was afraid Tiam would die before she got help for the child. She was glad she’d brought her here.
“Will you pay, or should we arrange a transfer?”
The woman stubbed out the cigarette and frowned. Zari was aware of two filing clerks pausing from their work beyond the registration counter. They were listening to the conversation.
“I’ll pay.”
The clerk glanced at her skeptically and then turned to her computer. A knot grew in Zari’s throat as she waited. She didn’t know if she had enough money. She hoped she did.
Letters and numbers were punched in. A few minutes later, a printer whirred and spit out a piece of paper. The woman pushed it across the counter.
“Can you pay this much? I’m giving you the minimum of what the patient’s stay will cost for a week.”
Zari looked at the sum. It was a great deal of money. She picked up her satchel from the floor and reached for the envelope with all her savings. As she counted carefully, she realized the two filing clerks had sidled over. They seemed to be counting the bills with her.
She didn’t have enough. Close, but not enough.
Zari laid the stack of liras on the counter, praying silently that the registration clerk would be merciful.
The counting became a group project as the two young clerks hovered over the woman’s shoulder, adding comments here and there when bills stuck together or there was chance of error.
Zari was accustomed to the watchful eyes. This was the way with Turks, but Kurdish people were the same. One person’s business was everyone’s business. In the home or at work, it was the same. For the most part, no one meant any harm. Their intentions were rooted in kindness, in a desire to help. That is, when Zari lived in Kurdistan, and they’d looked on her as one of them. Here though, she was an outsider and a refugee.
Three times, the money was counted. “You’re four thousand five hundred liras short.”
“I’ll get it for you. Today.”
The filing clerks had opinions and readily voiced them.
“That’s a
lot of money.”
“How are you getting that much today?”
The registration person waved them back to work and sipped from the glass of tea she’d forgotten sitting by her ashtray.
“The hospital’s admission requirements are specific. I can’t let your daughter stay.”
“Wait. I can get the money.” Zari pushed up her sleeve and untied the scarf around her dowry bracelet. Eight gold coins on a chain jingled as she exposed them. A gift from her husband at their wedding.
Her husband. Yahya. The bracelet was the last thing of value she had from him.
In Kurdish tribal ways, their marriage was unconventional. Yahya and Zari weren’t first or second cousins. Nor did they grow up in the same neighborhood, or know a friend of a friend. Their union hadn’t been decided on since childhood.
They met at college in Qalat Dizah, and right away they knew. Zari would never forget the day Yahya’s mother and sisters arrived at her mother’s home. She’d never met his family. Her own mother knew in advance about the visit, so two elders were already there.
She knew the traditions. The visitors would explain to her mother the reason for coming. Zari was the only child of a widowed woman. She wanted this marriage, and her mother had promised to accept the offer. But she couldn’t do so immediately. So many ritual formalities needed to be observed. Minutes dragged, and it felt like hours before she was asked to bring some water for the guests. The purpose of serving them was to give the guests a chance to inspect her. She was on display. Her height. Her curves. The arch of her eyebrow. Her smile. Did she blush when they stared at her? Would she talk back to her future mother-in-law?
From that one meeting, they’d judge her character and suitability. According to Kurdish ways, she was supposed to stand there until the guests finished drinking the water. If they were impressed, they’d arrange a second visit and bring the intended groom.
Her khastegari or formal courtship, however, only consisted of that first visit. Yahya’s family was agreeable, so they had tea and sweets, and Zari phoned Yahya.
“Diya te min qebûl dike.” Your mother approves.
He came over, tall and handsome in his best clothes, and they all stayed for dinner. Before the guests left, the wedding date and arrangements were settled.
She turned the bracelet on her wrist so they could see. It was her dowry. The one costly thing that she hadn’t parted with since fleeing her old life.
But what was the value of gold or even a cherished memory compared with the life of an innocent child?
“I’ll go to the bazaar today. I’ll sell this and bring the rest of the money back. Keep Tiam here. She has to be cared for. Please.”
The registration clerk shook out another cigarette. Her eyes flicked toward a shadow that materialized beside Zari.
Emine, the nurse who had helped her last night, was back. They’d seen each other briefly this morning, and she’d promised to come and help her with the forms.
The clerk waved off the two behind her who’d crept close again and tapped the form with her pen. “Fill these.”
Emine took the paperwork and handed Zari the pen. “Cover your gold.”
She rattled off an address and showed her what sections needed to be filled in and what she should say. When they were done, Emine herself handed the form to the woman behind the counter. It was an expression of solidarity.
Draping the satchel over her shoulder, Zari directed a grateful look at her new friend. In spite of the heartache she was feeling about her loss and her anxiety about the bleakness of the future, the nurse’s kindness and support warmed her and gave her a glimmer of hope.
“Will you take me to see Tiam now?”
They started down a long hallway.
“You gave her all of your money.” Emine motioned to the sleeve covering the gold. “And I’m guessing that bracelet is the last thing you have? Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Absolutely. You can save her. Can’t you?”
“She’s breathing. But the doctor is ordering a dozen tests. By the time they’re done, you’ll owe them more than what you can get for your gold.”
“Then I’ll sweep the floor at the mosques. Wash the hospital stairwells. I’ll rely on people’s generosity. When they see how hard I work, maybe they’ll toss me a few coins.”
“Where is your husband?” Emine tone was sharp, clearly not liking Zari’s suggestions.
“Gone. Disappeared. I don’t know if he’s dead or alive.”
“You must know something. You must have some way of finding him. The father must shoulder his responsibility.”
“I’m from Kurdistan. Iraqi Kurdistan.” Zari’s anger was restrained, but just barely. “Do you know what’s happened to thousands upon thousands of us? Do you know why so many like me are here? Homeless? Desperate?”
Emine sighed and turned her face away. “I know.”
It hurt to swallow, to breathe. Zari forced her voice to remain gentle. She didn’t want to come across as a threat to anyone. Her past was hers alone. Her misfortunes belonged to no one else.
“You worked before coming here,” Emine said finally.
“Yes, in Ankara.”
“Did they give you any references?”
When she thought of all that had been taken from her, anger rushed through her, making her blood boil in her veins. “I worked for foreigners. They left.”
If Emine thought it strange that Zari wouldn’t have references, she didn’t show it.
“And you speak English?”
Zari nodded. “I can read and write in English too. And I had one year of college. That was in Qalat Dizah.”
They paused by the doors to the ICU. “You visit with your daughter. I need to make a call to a friend to see if he’ll give you an interview.”
“An interview for a job? A paying job?”
“His family owns a pharmacy. He’s always looking for someone trustworthy to deliver prescriptions to tourists in the hotels. But they have to speak English.”
Zari’s heart filled with gratitude. “You’re a good woman. A charitable woman.”
“You don’t know me. I have two married sons and my mother, and they all live with me. And I’m the only one working. There’s nothing extra to give away.”
“The Prophet said, your smile for your sister is a charity. Guiding a person who is lost is a charity. Seeing for a blind woman is a charity. Removing a rock from the path of people is a charity.”
The pinched corners of Emine’s mouth softened for the first time. “A hadith. My mother is big on reciting them.”
6
Christina
“She’s the tea girl,” my mother says, trying to dismiss the incident of the note as unimportant. “The towel girl. She runs around the spa and fetches whatever anyone needs.”
“Why would she leave me a note?”
“She thought you were a repeat customer. That’s what they do.”
“How would she know my name?”
“The receptionist had our names from the concierge before we got here.”
“Did you get a note?”
“No, but you’re making too much of this. It was a nice gesture. That’s how Turks are. They love their tourists.”
The masseuse is looking at me like I have two heads.
“Forget about it,” my mother suggests. “Relax and enjoy the experience.”
I can’t help but wonder why everything had to happen today. I don’t believe in coincidences. I don’t believe in fate. Everything that happens to us is a response to something that went before, to who we are, to our actions. Jax had been overweight. He spent too many hours in front of a computer and not enough time taking care of his health. So his heart stopped.
Welcome back, Christina. My mother might not be worried about it, but the note still bothers me.
After Jax’s funeral, I had so much on my mind. He was my mother’s husband, my boss. With his death I lost a dear friend. The night of the accid
ent, if I’d been paying closer attention, I might have reacted to the truck changing lanes and veering toward me. Four cars ended up being involved. Autumn was the sole fatality. Even as I think of it now, the gaping hole in my heart is wrenched open even wider.
And then there’s that picture of Kyle and the woman in Japan. My relationship with him has been languishing in no-man’s-land since the day Autumn died, partly because we refuse to talk about what happened. We still live together, so technically we’re still a couple. But I know he’s moved on emotionally, and so have I.
On the way back from the hamam, I ask Elizabeth to watch for the woman in the brown headscarf. She pretends to look. The streets are brimming with people and cars, but there’s no sign of her.
We have an early supper in the hotel. My mother comes up with me afterward and immediately turns on all the lights. A couple of steps into the room, I stop and I stare at the empty space where the crib was this morning. Four circular shapes mark where the legs pressed into the rug. Those indentations will disappear, but my heart and mind are permanently marked with my love for my lost child.
Elizabeth turns to me and realizes what I’m staring at. “You have to move past this. You were doing really well before we got here.”
I don’t tell her, but the truth is I’ve only pretended to be doing well. The way to preserve my sanity is to make everyone around me believe I am perfectly fine. This morning was an aberration.
My mother walks to the TV and picks up the remote. “How about we order tea and watch some Turkish soap operas?”
“Turkish soap operas?”
“They’re a big deal here. Back in the states too, actually. I was talking to the masseuse about them today.”
Coming to Turkey is a stroll down memory lane for her. I was born in Ankara, an hour’s flight away from Istanbul, but we never came back to this country together until now.
Welcome back, Christina.
“We should have asked at the reception desk about the note.”
“Why can’t you let it go?”