by Jan Coffey
“I work the airport transport route every night.” She smiles at Kyle, obviously thinking he’s the one to win over.
I don’t believe her. “This is the same car. How did you get here? How did he leave? I was only gone for maybe ten minutes.”
“The company directed us to exchange cars.” She takes Kyle’s suitcase. “The two of you are going to the hotel in Sultanahmet. I have the address.”
“I need his name.”
“Of course, ma’am. I’ll have the office contact you with the information.”
“Do you know him?”
“I am sorry, I cannot say. Company policy. They are very strict.”
Kyle is shooting me a look that says, Let it go for now.
Inside the car, the music is on. She maneuvers through the congestion in front of the terminal like someone who does this all the time. Still unsettled, I’m scanning the vehicles around us.
“What kind of car is he driving?”
“My apologies, ma’am.” She shakes her head. “The office will address your concerns tomorrow.”
Kyle gives me another look and asks the woman if she has been working for this car service long.
That’s enough to set her off. She doesn’t stop talking for the entire drive back.
I know everything about her. She’s a travel blogger. Grew up in some neighborhood in Istanbul. Studied for a year in New York. We hear about everywhere she’s been. Everywhere she wants to go. Her boyfriend is from Morocco. She ticks off the names of a long list of celebrities she’s driven when they were in Istanbul. She has lengthy opinions on the leaders of Turkey, Russia, Israel, the US. I know intimate details of her parents’ health and occupations, her siblings’ marital status. And there’s a new litter of kittens in the alley next to her apartment.
I find it strange that she tells us all of this and still won’t offer anything about the scary guy who drove me to the airport.
Regardless of all the chatter, I’m still jumpy. The first driver’s threatening attitude is not part of the cheerful, welcoming vision I had of Istanbul. His questions and my answers keep replaying in my head. In the end, I’m not sure if he believed me. When he got back on the highway, I had zero confidence that I’d survive that ride.
As we arrive at the hotel, the reason for my nervousness has shifted to something else. The conversation I was planning to have with Kyle on the way back from the airport never happens. I’m thinking of the adjoining rooms I’d arranged for. I’d planned to prepare him for it before we got here, but it’s too late for that now. And as the elevator arrives on our floor, I’m feeling like I’m trekking in shackles into a courtroom for crimes that should have been dismissed.
I use his keycard, and we go in. The connecting door to my room is open. He makes no comment whatsoever about why the closet is empty or why none of my things are on the desk or chairs. Between the two of us, I’ve always been the messy one.
“I need a shower bad.”
He empties his pocket on the dresser, drops his suitcase on the bed, and takes out what he needs. I stare at his back as he disappears into the bathroom.
I leave his key on the dresser and go into my own room. It’s only matter of time before he figures things out.
Sitting at the desk, I check my phone, but I have no new messages. I open the laptop and look through my new email. As far as the Externus acquisition goes, I’ve gone back and forth twice with the company lawyer today, and everything seems to be in line. I’m tempted to log into Jax’s email and read more about the things he had uncovered about Elizabeth. But I already have a clear picture of who she is and what she’s willing to do to get what she wants. There’s no point adding more fuel to the fire.
I’m trying to keep myself busy, but at the same time I’m focused on what’s going on in the next room.
Kyle is out of the shower. I hear him moving his things around. I close the laptop and walk to the window. Pulling back the curtains, I stare out at the rooftops of the city. The window is partly open. The air smells crisp. The sky is growing lighter in the east.
From a distant mosque, I hear a sound that’s becoming as familiar to me as a church bell ringing the hour. The call for the morning prayer. I wonder if a certain young hijabi woman is awake and praying right this minute.
The city is rolling back the blankets of night, stretching, acknowledging Allah, and welcoming the new day. The air, the sky, the glow of lights, the hum of people, the tendrils of existence that make a place come alive…some of it has already become familiar to me. And some has yet to be discovered and explored. The realization is bittersweet. What I have right now is wearing on me. My life is exhausting. What is out there—beyond the domes and rooftops of this ancient place—is a new beginning. And I am ready to explore it.
“I can’t think straight, see straight. I need to get some sleep.”
Kyle’s voice has me turn away from the window. He’s standing in the doorway.
“Why do we have two rooms? Are we sleeping in this bed or that one?”
He’s wearing gray knit boxer shorts and nothing else. His hair is wet. His legs are long and strong. The flat abs and the muscles on his arms and chest are proof he works out, regardless of all the time he spends on the road. There used to be a day when seeing him like this would take my breath away. When a mere look from him would have me climbing into bed with him. And neither of us would be getting any sleep.
It’s different now. A glass wall exists between us, and what I see on the other side is no longer mine.
“You sleep there.” I motion to his room. “And I sleep here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s time, Kyle.”
He lets out a frustrated breath. “Is this about Autumn again?” He doesn’t wait for my answer. “Look, I said some things, and you said some things. But that’s all behind us.”
We’d had a few angry conversations about our daughter before and after she was born. “I did you wrong, Kyle. I wanted her more than I wanted you. I loved her more than I could ever love you.”
“We’ve been through all this before. You treated me badly. Okay. I told you a dozen times that I forgive you.” He runs a hand through his wet hair. “She’s gone, Christina. And we don’t have to do this now.”
“When should we do it?” I ask. “Next week? Next month? When we’re back in LA? And what’s the point of waiting? You’ve moved on.”
He bristles. “What do you mean, I’ve moved on?”
I didn’t want to bring it up, but somehow my mouth has gotten ahead of my brain. “With Aimi.”
His eyes narrow. “How do you know her?”
“Elizabeth saw the picture you posted on Instagram and showed her to me. I looked her up.”
There are so many more photos of the two of them together on her social media page. I felt like a stalker going through them. It didn’t stop me though.
“Aimi is a consultant. A headhunter. Our relationship is professional.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“This is ridiculous. What else do you want to know about her?”
I shrug. “Nothing. That’s your room, this is my room, and Aimi is none of my business.”
Kyle isn’t giving up. He comes in and sits heavily on my bed, facing me. “I told you. She’s a headhunter. She’s always at the conferences. I met with her this time because she has an offer for me from one of the major gaming companies in Japan.”
I’m not surprised that Kyle already has a job offer. He’s good at what he does. He’ll be an asset to them.
“But I told her I’m not making any decisions yet. Not until I talk to you.”
“Me? How am I involved in this?”
“You seem to have forgotten this, but you and I are together. We’re a team. I won’t go anywhere without you.”
This is not about our romantic relationship, and my brain clicks over from personal to business mode. I think of the financial aspects of this sale. We were each promised matching bonuses.
Not a fortune, but enough to give us a healthy start. And then I think of Elizabeth. She’s walking away with the lion’s share of the money. But I know my mother. I’ve come to understand that I can expect nothing else from her when the business here is concluded. What is hers, she keeps. That’s fine with me; I have no right to it. I wonder about Kyle though, and his motivation for us staying together. My mother keeps suggesting marriage and a baby. She doesn’t want to lose him.
I’m becoming a real cynic, and I hate myself for it. My thoughts, my actions, the distrustful way I look at everyone around me—it’s all Elizabeth’s view of life. Talk about playing the blame game, I remind myself. I’m so broken.
“Well, I think you should accept the job. Go to Japan. Have an adventure. And I’ll take care of our lease when I get back to LA. Unless you want to keep the apartment. In that case, I’ll find another place.”
“You’re tired. I’m tired. We’re not having this conversation now.”
He can deny it all he wants, but I’ve said what has been on my mind. I don’t know what else there is to say. A weight has been lifted off my shoulders. It’s so much easier to run away than to stay and rebuild a relationship from shards and rubble. I grab my bag and start putting the laptop and my notes and phone into it.
“Where are you going?”
“Downstairs. I have some work to do.”
“You can work here.”
He’s sitting half-naked on my bed. “Better Wi-Fi connection down there.”
“When was the last time you slept? You look exhausted. Come to bed.”
This is the problem with trying to break up with him in a civilized manner. He hasn’t listened to anything I’ve said.
He tosses the decorative pillows on a chair and pulls down the cover. “Why don’t you get in here with me. I know we’ll both feel much better after we’ve had some sleep.”
I can read the signals. If I get into that bed with him, we’re having sex. We haven’t had sex since I was eight months pregnant. My body is ready to do what he says, but my brain is saying No way.
“I have to go.” I check my bag to make sure I have everything. I pick up my coat. I won’t be coming back here any time soon, if I can help it. At least, not when he’s sitting on my bed looking like he does right now. I head for the door.
“Who is he?”
The absurdity and the shock of his question make me stop and turn to him.
“Who is he, Christina? Who are you going out to see?” He pushes to his feet, coming toward me. “Tell me who he is. Don’t jerk me around like this. I know there’s somebody else.”
My immediate inclination is to defend myself and remind him that for as long as we’ve been together, there’s been no one else but him. Regardless of the model lifestyle of my mother, I’ve never been one for sleeping around.
“What makes you think there’s a man? That there’s someone else?”
“Because I’ve been watching you.”
“What do you mean, you’ve been watching me?”
“You told me that this is your first time in Istanbul.”
I think of the airport and how many flights I have taken this past year.
He motions to the bag hanging from my shoulder. “Do you want to take out your passport? Let’s count the number of Turkish entry stamps you’ve got.”
I hike the bag higher on my shoulder. I have no intention of showing him anything.
“You came to Turkey twice in the past year…before this trip. But every time, you lied to me about where you were going, and who you were traveling with. Why?”
I’d told him I was getting away with old girlfriends. I wonder how Kyle found out.
“It’s not too much of a fucking stretch to figure out that there’s someone else.”
I head for the door. “There’s no other man, Kyle. And you and I are done.”
Part VI
Come, come, whoever you are.
Wanderer, idolater, worshipper of fire.
Come, even though you have broken your vows a thousand times.
Come, and come yet again.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
—Rumi
17
Zari
Then
Yesterday’s snow lay gray and dingy along the sidewalk edges. A cold drizzle had been falling sporadically all day. In the large courtyard in front of the medical building, the bare branches of a tree glistened with a coating of ice.
Zari had grown to dislike doctors. She hated hospitals. For years now, every visit, every hospitalization caused her to die a little inside for fear that she’d never be taking Tiam home again.
Those same clinical centers called her daughter a medical miracle. Children diagnosed with cystic fibrosis rarely survived more than a few years. And yet, here was this angel, fighting insurmountable odds. Still spirited, still working, and still living her life at age twenty.
On the way in, Tiam stopped and hugged her. She was obviously sensing her nervousness.
“She won’t listen to my lungs. She won’t send me for an MRI or chest x-rays. She won’t say things that will upset you. This is a university laboratory. They’re different from regular hospitals. Today’s meeting is about the future.”
Zari clung to Tiam’s words as she fought the usual paralyzing feeling of helplessness. She entered the building, staying close beside her daughter. They might call it something else, but the facility was all glass and stone and tile. And it was as stark and sterile as every other hospital.
In the glassed-in reception area on the second floor, a young woman dressed in everyday clothes was waiting for them.
Introductions were made. Zari stared at the Genetics Technology Laboratory badge hanging from a blue lanyard around the woman’s neck. And beneath her name, Testing Counselor.
The old anxiousness roared back.
“Please call me Hatice,” their host offered.
Hatice meant trustworthy. It was a good name, and Zari believed that such things mattered. The meaning of a name was often a glimpse of the road a person chose to follow or the challenge Allah laid in their path. Her voice was amiable, her eyes direct and kind.
She led them to a conference room near the stairwell. The two younger women had spoken on the phone prior to the appointment. Tiam was an adult. As a university student studying biology, she had taken control of battling her illness. She now decided which doctors she wanted to see or not see. What tests she should have and not have. What courses of treatment she wanted to pursue. And Zari supported her daughter. She was with her every step of the way, in whatever way she was needed.
Inside the conference room, the heavy seminar table of dark wood was large enough for more than a dozen people. The three congregated at one end. Zari and Tiam sat on one side, and Hatice on the other.
A thick folder marked with her daughter’s name had been placed on top of the table. Sheets were extracted. The counselor chatted casually with Tiam.
Hatice finally addressed both of them. It was time to get down to business. “You are aware that before we perform the physical extraction of a blood sample, we need to gather as much information about your family history as possible.”
An icy ball formed in the pit of Zari’s stomach. She wished she’d asked more questions about why they were here. About what this visit entailed, and what her part in it would involve.
A cover sheet was removed from the stack of papers. Lines of empty check boxes filled the page. The woman’s pen tapped lightly on the table as she prepared to start.
Zari read the heading on the questionnaire. “Why are you doing a genetic test when you already know my daughter has CF?”
“That is a very good question, Mrs. Rahman. Diagnosis isn’t the only outcome of this testing. The results will assist your doctor in determining appropriate treatments. Science has advanced a great deal since Tiam was first diagnosed.”
Zari worked in a pharmacy. She was a clerk, but over the years she’d read and lear
ned a great deal. Especially about cystic fibrosis. She knew drugs were changing and science was advancing.
“In the same way,” Hatice continued, “if Tiam someday decides to have a family, it’s critical that we know the genome of her disease. Identifying the mutation is key.”
An unexpected spark of hope raced through Zari. To think…her daughter could plan for five years from now, ten years from now, and could even consider having her own family.
“A family,” she murmured.
“Yes. Typically, women with CF have healthy pregnancies, and their babies are born just fine. Of course, the potential father should be screened to determine if he carries a mutated gene, as well.”
Zari needed a moment to catch her breath. Nervous or calm, stressed or hopeful, her emotions were spilling over in every direction. Every year of Tiam’s life was a gift to them both. And now this…a road that she never imagined they’d be traveling.
“Do either of you have any other questions about that?”
Tiam smiled at her mother. “Do you have any questions?”
Zari shook her head. “No. I understand perfectly.”
“Excellent. Now, these questions are directed at both of you. But,” Hatice continued, addressing Zari, “we expect that you have more direct knowledge of your family history than your daughter, as well as the family history of Tiam’s father.”
“Yes, well, because of…events…it may be difficult to provide answers to all of your questions.”
“Of course. Answer what you can. Whatever you remember will help us develop a more complete profile.”
She started down the list. Name, date of birth, doctor’s name. Tiam answered. Zari saw no harm in having her daughter repeat the dates that were on her government papers.
“Patient ethnicity.” Hatice listed a number of categories.
“Caucasian/White,” Zari answered in a quiet voice.
“We are Kurds,” Tiam corrected.
“That wasn’t one of the options,” she told her daughter.
“Please check Other and write Kurdish.”