by Jan Coffey
Before I finish, the young man snatches the piece of paper out of my hand and takes it to his boss. No one cares about the circumstances of why I need to fill this prescription. I’m a customer, and they have a product to sell.
I’m hoping they have a product to sell.
I browse along an aisle, pretending to look for something while I wait. Menstrual hygiene products. Razors. Boxes of creams and ointments. Pain relief tablets and cough syrup. The products with western names are mixed with Turkish ones, and the price difference is huge. The young woman behind the cash register watches my every step, and I wonder if she’s worried about me being a shoplifter.
I steal a look at the pharmacist. He’s reading the prescription. I don’t want to guess what he might be thinking. He’ll know what my pills are for. I can’t deal with the judgment of a stranger right now. Or worse, sympathy.
The main reason why I didn’t tell anyone that I was going through therapy is the lingering stigma that is still attached to it, specifically in Elizabeth’s eyes. I’ve heard her attitude about therapists for years.
They’re all quacks.
The school social worker was useless.
The district psychologist didn’t know what he was talking about.
When I was younger, I was bullied in school, and her response to the situation was, Deal with it, or I’ll deal with it for you. Why does everything have to be a crisis?
Elizabeth never had any patience for drama. I’ll fix it for you. In her mind, there’s no such thing as process, only quick fixes. A person can’t plan to work on something for two years, four years, ten years, or whatever. If you’re sick, take a pill. I want results now.
That was why Jax might have felt pressured to sell Externus, despite the fact that he loved the work, the company, and the growth pattern. Elizabeth wanted results.
My mother’s plan for how to get over my sadness about Autumn’s death has two simple steps: first, marry Kyle; second, have another child.
This morning before I left the hotel, I arranged for him to have a separate room. I can’t sleep in the same bed with him. I’m tired of acting like everything is great.
I work my way along the aisle until I come to a narrow door sandwiched between two shelves. It’s covered with posters. Advertisements. Events. My eyes move from one to the next. Written Turkish uses the Latin alphabet with a few extra dots and marks on some of the letters. It’s easy to pretend I can read it. I wish I could, but I can’t.
“Your prescription is waiting for you at the register.”
I’m pleasantly surprised to have the pharmacist deliver the message himself. He’s standing next to me. This close, he’s even more handsome than he looked behind the counter. And he has a deep voice that’s warm and pleasant, with a hint of an accent. The woman he was serving is still at the counter, speaking to someone on her cell phone. And she’s definitely giving me the evil eye.
“I don’t have your prescription in loose pills. I gave you a box. A thirty-day supply. Will that be enough?”
“Yes. Yes. Thank you. That’s great.”
I fight my impulse to explain to him that I really don’t intend to take the pills. Or why I’m filling the prescription at all. All the explanations my mother had wanted me to make to the hotel staff, I’d like to make to him.
There’s no point. He’s in no rush to walk away, and I study him. He’s tall, and he smells good. Osman is sewn in red letters above the chest pocket of his coat.
“Are you Kemal Osman?”
He smiles with surprise. He’s got perfect white teeth.
“How do you know my name?”
“A store clerk in the neighborhood sent me here. Maybe he’s a friend or something?” I show him the card from the lamp shop.
“Ah, yes. My cousin.”
I mention nothing about him sending a kiss.
“I’m very happy he sent you to me.”
It might be my imagination. But the word me holds a punch. A sweet punch. I’m thinking he has to get back to work.
“Have you attended their performance?” He motions to the posters.
I wasn’t paying attention, but he’s referring to an advertisement for Istanbul’s Whirling Dervishes. Men dressed in tall hats and white coats and skirts, and spinning in a circle.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Do you know about them?”
“Yes, actually. They belong to a Sufi order named after the poet Rumi. They seek a closer relationship with God through chanting, praying, and music. The whirling dance is a religious ceremony.”
His eyes flash his approval. “How do you know all that?”
Wikipedia University. I don’t tell him this, but I’ve been fascinated with Sufis for a while. Their history. Their rituals. I’ve learned that their way of life brings them nourishment of the soul. They whirl to lose their minds. Bring them to a higher plane of awareness. No doubt in the West they would suggest medication for this kind of behavior. “I’ve seen this same poster in a few different places around Sultanahmet.”
“There is a great deal to see in Sultanahmet, but I wonder if you have visited other parts of Istanbul.”
“I only flew in a couple of days ago.”
“We have history every place you turn. It is in the air. We are a city of fifteen million people. There is so much to experience outside this part of the city.”
Eighteen million, but I don’t correct him. My information comes from the internet. He lives here. “I’m sure there is.”
“Do you care to go see them?” He motions to the poster.
“I’d planned to see them sometime.”
“The Galata Tekke is a popular Mevlevi Dervish hall in Istanbul. That’s where all the tourists go,” he tells me. “There is a more authentic semahane at an old Sufi lodge in the Zeytinburnu section of the city. A university uses it as a campus now, but some practitioners come every other week for their meditation, and it is open to the public.”
I stare at the poster and then steal a look at his face. His eyes are on me. Is he playing tourist guide or is he asking me out?
“We can have dinner afterwards, if you like.”
He is asking me out. My lip twitches, and I bite it so I won’t smile. This feels amazingly good, getting noticed by this guy. But the old doubts immediately rise to the surface.
Does he ask every American tourist who comes into the pharmacy for antidepressants out on a date?
He’s reading my mind. “You would be perfectly safe. You already met my cousin. And you know where I work…Christina.”
He knows my name.
Of course, he knows my name. He saw it on the prescription bottles.
“May I?” He holds out a hand for my cell phone.
I don’t hesitate at all and hand it to him.
He adds his information to my contacts. Confidence oozes out of his pores.
“Ring me up. It would give me great pleasure to escort you.”
By the time I’m back on the street, my face feels permanently flushed, and my heart is racing.
I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again or not. But something just happened. A good-looking guy was flirting with me. More than that. He asked me out. And I feel alive.
The lane is busier than before. I don’t have to look at the map. I know how to get back to the hotel. But I’m not in any hurry.
An entrance to the Grand Bazaar at the end of the block looks enticing. I wander in that direction and notice the shoppers smiling at me. I smile back.
I pause near the arched stone entrance to the bazaar. A dozen tourists, all wearing electric blue T-shirts bearing the name of the same tour company, jostle me as they go by. Half of them stop and paw through leather purses hanging from a bunch of metal racks outside a shop. I imagine they’re trying to get their requisite shopping done in the six or twelve or however many hours they have allocated for Istanbul.
My thoughts drift back to Elizabeth. I hope she’s okay. I should tell Kyle about what h
appened with the robbery. He has a lot at stake in this sale too.
I dial Kyle’s number. He doesn’t answer the first time. It goes to his voice mail. He’s in the middle of his workday. The images flashing through my brain all have a certain tall, black-haired Japanese woman in them.
The fact that those visions no longer bother me might have something to do with the attention I received from Kemal Osman. To feel attractive, to be the center of a person’s attention, to receive a compliment—whatever the young pharmacist’s motives were—filled a need in me. And I feel better about myself.
I dial Kyle again and he answers.
13
Elizabeth
Now
Useless. Totally useless.
The embassy person she’d spoken with was polite enough, but a complete waste of time. What was worse, no one else would talk to her. No one in a supervisory role was “available.” No one with higher security clearance would check on the information she gave them. Elizabeth might as well have been a nobody, because that’s how she was treated.
She should have known. Regardless of her service record, regardless of her personal connections with the State Department here in Turkey, she had no life-and-death emergency. Elizabeth couldn’t get the consulate personnel to consider the theft in the hotel room or her presence in the country as a situation that deserved any elevated level of attention.
Fine, she’d follow the procedure outlined for any Joe Shmoe. Make an appointment and come back to the consulate on the assigned date with the required forms.
Once the veracity of the documents is ascertained, a temporary identification card would be issued until a replacement…
Blah, blah, blah.
Humiliated, exhausted, frustrated, and fuming, Elizabeth took a cab back to the hotel. By the time she arrived in Sultanahmet, it was a little past twelve noon. Going to the police station would have to wait. Right now, she needed a shower, a change of clothes, and food.
The hotel manager immediately approached her when she entered the building. The police report wouldn’t be ready for a couple of days. She was glad she hadn’t wasted more time going there first.
Elizabeth was also told that she would be moved into a deluxe room overlooking the Hagia Sophia. Her entire stay would be gratis, courtesy of the management. Her meals should be charged to the room, as they would be compliments of the hotel.
“If you’re looking for your daughter, Ms. Hall is in the hotel’s Seasons Restaurant,” the manager advised, eager to please.
Elizabeth went out, descended the stone steps from the lobby, and made her way along a flower-lined walk to the entrance of the restaurant. As she approached the glass-walled conservatory in the middle of the courtyard, she saw her reflection in the windows. She almost didn’t recognize herself. The scruffy, poorly dressed woman staring back at her was old and tired. She’d aged ten years in one day, physically and emotionally. She leaned forward to wipe a smudge off her cheek. Her image distorted and melted away, replaced by the lunch crowd packing the restaurant beyond. Through the glass, she saw a young, dark-haired girl running between the tables, chased by her mother. The child burst through the door and bumped into Elizabeth. Startling blue-green eyes looked up at her, and she ran off.
The ground shifted, her vision blurred. What she saw was a hungry Kurdish child crying in an alley. The tightness in her throat felt like claws choking off her air, and a knot swelled in her chest.
The girl called her Shaitan. Satan.
Elizabeth fought back the lapse in her sanity and combed her fingers through her hair. She adjusted the sunglasses on top of her head. She was becoming soft in her old age.
The conservatory was octagonal shaped, with floor-to-ceiling glass and views of the lush inner courtyard. Wide doors opened to a terrace filled with more tables. She spotted Christina outside. She had her laptop open in front of her and a manila folder beside it.
She wasn’t alone. A woman in a navy blue headscarf and a matching raincoat stood by her table. Her back was to Elizabeth.
She wondered if this was the same hijabi woman who’d been following them since they arrived. Same thin frame, same height. The same large handbag hanging from her shoulder as she’d seen this morning. It had to be her. On the street near the hotel this morning, Elizabeth had seen her speaking to her daughter. She wanted something.
Elizabeth started toward them.
A busboy carrying a loaded tray backed onto her path, and there was no way to avoid the collision. Plates shattered on the high-gloss marble floor. The noise of the crash silenced the dining area, and all eyes turned.
Elizabeth stiffened under the pressure of the glares. She was accustomed to standing on the side, to being the one who was critical of others. She’d labored hard in her life to earn that position. She refused to be the target of an embarrassing scene.
Other servers converged from every corner, making sure she was unharmed. A wave of apologies followed. In what was only seconds, order was restored, and Elizabeth started for Christina’s table again.
The hijabi woman was no longer there. As she went onto the terrace, Elizabeth looked around her. Every table was filled. She focused on the women, on those wearing headscarves. She had vanished.
“That was an impressive entrance.” Christina closed her laptop with a snap and planted her elbows on top.
“Par for the course.” Elizabeth dropped into the chair across from her. “It’s been a tough day.”
“Get your passport?”
“I accomplished absolutely nothing. No police report. No passport. Nothing.” She scanned the walkways in the gardens beyond the terrace. “Who were you talking to just now?”
“No one.”
“I saw her standing by this table.”
“Who did you see?”
Elizabeth knew Christina’s moods and her demeanor. She recognized when her daughter was sad, depressed, or was in over her head and needed help. Right now, her flushed cheeks said that she was upset.
“You called Kyle and had an argument with him, didn’t you?”
“Why do you think my life revolves around Kyle, Mother?”
“Because he’s your boyfriend. He’s the father of your child. Was,” she corrected.
“Keep him out of it, will you?”
“Fine. Then tell me what’s wrong.”
Christina slid the manila folder next to her laptop across the table. “I found these among Jax’s emails. I printed them out in the business center this morning.”
Her first thought was that Jax had screwed her about selling the company. She was the finance person, he the engineer. When it came to the Externus start-up, he sat behind his desk and she pounded on doors to get every dollar of the financing they needed. Before he died, he had been dragging his feet, but she was ready to cash out. She wasn’t getting any younger.
“Everything in this folder is about your past.”
She didn’t want to open the folder. He was screwing her over, but in a different way.
For her entire life, nothing had come easy for Elizabeth. The jobs, the money, having a child. After coming back to the US with Christina, she went to graduate school at night and got an advanced degree in finance. She needed a job, a way to support the two of them. Over a decade later, she met Jax York. They were working for the same company.
He was interesting and smart and harmless, and he was the kind of guy that needed someone to take charge of his life. Someone to help him with his business plans once he decided to branch off on his own. Elizabeth was good at those sorts of things. She enjoyed the challenge, and her financial degree was an asset in planning a future.
Not once in her life had she been tempted to marry. But with Jax and his ideas for Externus, it made sense financially. Also, he and Christina got along.
Jax York was sixty-two and she was sixty-eight when they got married. Neither of them cared about why he had been a lifetime bachelor or why she’d never married. Their past was their own, th
eir secrets tucked safely behind separate doors.
All went according to plan. A lot of buzz surrounded Externus’s startup. From the first day, they’d forecasted making it a four-to-five-year commitment. Build it and sell it. But then, this past year, Jax had suddenly become fixated on knowing more about Elizabeth’s history. What she did before she had Christina. Why she left her job overseas and returned to the States. She answered some of his questions and ignored the rest. But she sensed that he hadn’t given up. Looking at that folder now, she wondered what was inside.
“You can’t ignore what’s in here.”
That was exactly what she was going to do. Elizabeth motioned to a server to come over and grilled him in Turkish on the luncheon specials.
“Do you want me to order for you too?”
“I can’t eat after reading all this.”
Always the one for drama, Elizabeth thought, placing her order.
The waiter was still collecting the menus when Christina started in on her.
“Jax was working with an investigator. He was digging into your past.”
She drank her water, but it did nothing to loosen the tightness in her throat. The bastard.
“You weren’t some freelance interpreter, backpacking your way through the world.”
Elizabeth knew there would be no chance of changing the topic. Her daughter wouldn’t let it go. Not when she was wound up like this.
“You worked with the State Department.” She leaned toward her, lowering her voice. “You were CIA.”
Elizabeth held up the glass for a busboy to fill as he went by.
Christina took the folder back and opened it, spreading the pages out on the table.
“You could go to jail for having State Department documents,” Elizabeth warned.
“These are declassified. Anyone can access them.”
She glanced at the pages. At the top of the facsimiles of memos and reports, Top Secret was stamped and X-ed out, with Unclassified appearing in block letters.
So much for confidentiality. Elizabeth knew any number of Jax’s minions could have hacked in and gotten these, regardless of the security level. He called them programmers and gamers, but they were all thieves and hackers.