When the Mirror Cracks

by Jan Coffey

  That was all it took. And those three days were the best sex she’d had in decades.

  She brought her cup of tea to her lips now to hide the heat of the recollection. Elizabeth didn’t know why she was thinking of that today, after so long. So much had changed since then, and they both had successfully pretended that it never happened.

  “You hadn’t forgotten that Friday is Christina’s birthday.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Where is she now? Still in bed recovering from a wild night with her prodigal boyfriend?”

  His eyes narrowed, and Elizabeth recognized her comment was inappropriate. Considering their history, it was definitely better not referring to that topic with her future son-in-law.

  “She’s down here somewhere, working.”

  “When did she come down? I didn’t see her.”

  “Since early this morning, I think.”

  “How early?” she asked. “I came down at eight for breakfast. No one was in the business center. I haven’t seen her, and we have a few things we need to chat about.”

  “She was down here working for you, for Externus. We’re trying to sell your company.”

  “Always defending her.”

  “Someone has to,” he said shortly.

  “Why are you such a bear this morning?” she asked, putting her hand on his arm. “What’s wrong with you? I’m on your side.”

  He shook off her touch. “I don’t need you to be on my side, Elizabeth. I’m here to do a job for you. Let’s keep it at that, okay?”

  She felt her temper flare. She wasn’t ready to let this conversation go. But her eyes were suddenly drawn to a man in a dark suit and tie standing on the garden-lined walkway leading from the lobby. He was tall, with broad shoulders and salt-and-pepper hair. Something about him ignited an ember of worry in the pit of her stomach. He removed his dark glasses, and recognition prickled along her spine. Elizabeth knew exactly who he was.

  “There’s Christina,” Kyle said suddenly, pushing up to his feet.

  Elizabeth followed his gaze and saw her daughter marching across the courtyard, heading directly for the man.

  23

  Christina

  “You’re the driver who took me to the airport last night.”

  We’re only a step away from each other, and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s the one. His voice, his hair, even the scar running along his jaw.

  He turns to me and puts his sunglasses back on. Out here in public in the daylight, I find nothing frightening about him. He could easily be mistaken for a member of the hotel management or staff. Maybe he is, except that he’s wearing no name tag.

  “I believe you are mistaken. If you will excuse me.”

  “Wait a minute,” I tell him, blocking his escape route toward the lobby.

  The man is middle-aged, sturdy looking, and wearing a blank look intended to convey that he doesn’t recognize me. I don’t buy that for a second. I saw his eyes as soon as he spotted me coming toward him. He remembers me all right.

  “I have a good memory for faces. You picked me up in a black Lexus SUV on the street in front of the hotel. You took me to the airport, and a different driver brought me back here. I know it was you. We can call the car service if we need verification.”

  He says nothing for a moment and then his attitude changes. “Of course, ma’am. I am sorry that I did not remember immediately. I drive so many people. And please accept my apologies for the incident. It was sudden and unacceptable to question you in that manner.”

  His apology sounds sincere, and it sort of sets me back. Maybe what happened wasn’t as dramatic as I remember it. I think of the conversation I had with Tiam this morning about the men from her volunteer work.

  “I hope my answers to your questions put your mind at ease, at least. Ms. Rahman and I are friends. Is that enough for you?”

  “It is. I thank you and wish you a good day, ma’am.”

  “But why did you want to know about—?”

  “You will please excuse me, ma’am. I must go.”

  He brushes by me and goes up the steps into the lobby. His departure is so abrupt that it takes me a couple of seconds before I realize the reason. Kyle is striding toward me. I look past him and realize he’s come from Elizabeth’s table. I start toward him.

  “Are you okay? Your mother said she didn’t see you all morning.”

  “Of course I’m okay.” I gesture toward her. “She’s waiting for us.”

  He walks beside me. “Did you get my text about the meetings today?”

  “I did. Everything is moved to Friday.”

  We reach the table, and Elizabeth starts in on me before I sit down. “Who was the man you were speaking to just now?”

  Her tone is way sharper than it needs to be. I didn’t sleep at all last night, and the effect of it is starting to wear my patience thin. “It doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t know him.”

  “Christina, who was he?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “For God’s sake, why can’t you answer the question?”

  Kyle sends me a look. He has no patience for fights, especially when it’s between Elizabeth and me. I wonder if he’s told her our news. I guess he probably hasn’t, or she’d be more wound up about my poor decision-making skills than a stranger I was talking to.

  “He’s the driver who took me to the airport last night.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?” Kyle shoots a glance at the door to the lobby and starts to get up. “I’d like to have a word with him.”

  I put a hand on his arm and stop him. “No, don’t. He apologized. It was all a misunderstanding. It’s done.”

  He stares at me for second and then settles. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

  Elizabeth is just getting started. “You went to the airport last night? You said Kyle was using a car service. Why didn’t you tell me you were going? What a careless thing to do in the middle of night.”

  A waiter shows up at the table, asking if I’d like to see a menu. Thankfully, that curtails the barrage for the moment.

  “No, thank you.”

  I need a short nap before I go to meet Tiam, and getting something to eat from room service would be better than staying here.

  “I finished my presentation for the buyers and sent it you,” I tell Kyle before Elizabeth can say anything more. “Can you look through it?”

  “Yeah. I’ll do it this afternoon.”

  I turn to her next. “Patricia Nicholls.”

  She nearly chokes on the sip of tea she’s just taken. I wait as she clears her throat. Her face is guarded by the time she looks up at me.

  “She was a friend of yours when you were living in Ankara. Right around the time I was born.” I’m not giving her the opportunity for any denials. And I’m not going to play the game of her not remembering the woman’s name. “She’s retired and lives in Istanbul. Now that we have a couple of days with nothing to do, why don’t you give her a call? We can go visit her. Or maybe we can invite her to come to the hotel for lunch.”

  “What for?”

  “For old time’s sake.”

  “I haven’t spoken to her for years. I really don’t feel any driving need to renew the acquaintance.”

  “Okay. Then if you don’t mind, I will.”

  “I do mind. She was my friend.” Elizabeth’s voice is getting icier. “You don’t even know her.”

  Kyle shoots his signature look my way again. The frown that says, Let it go. But he has no idea what is motivating me.

  “But I’d like to get to know her,” I say in a reasonable tone. “We’re all in Istanbul, and Patricia is a connection with the first couple of years of my life. I’d love to hear what those days were like.”

  “How did you find out about Patricia Nicholls?” Kyle asks.

  “Her name comes up in some of Jax’s private emails.”

  I look directly at Elizabeth. She doesn’t know if Patricia was or wasn’t mentione
d in the file I showed her yesterday, but I’m hoping the threat is enough to trigger a reaction. Even though Tiam asked me, I can’t exactly call the woman out of the blue and ask her if she knows who got her friend pregnant thirty-three years ago. I can’t even imagine her speaking to me. But by doing it this way, at least I know I’m chipping away at the wall Elizabeth is hiding behind.

  “What emails?” Kyle wants to know.

  “I’ll call her,” Elizabeth breaks in immediately. “We’ll see what her schedule is like. Do you have a number for her?”

  “Did you buy a phone?”

  “I got one this morning. It has a Turkish number.”

  She digs her phone out of her bag and slides it across the table to me. I put Patricia’s information into her contacts. She’s the first entry. I hand it back to her and stand up.

  “No lunch?” Kyle asks.

  “No, thanks. I’m really tired. I’m going up for a nap.” I gather my stuff. But before leaving, I drop my other news on Elizabeth. “I made a reservation tonight for four people at eight o’clock at the Hamdi Restaurant, by the ferryboat pier. Does that work for you?”

  “Who’s the fourth?” Kyle and Elizabeth ask at the same time.

  “It’s a surprise,” I tell them, turning away.

  Part VIII

  Fair is the leisure of life’s garden ground:

  Pleasant is friendship’s voice and mirth’s soft sound.

  Sweet are the perfumed flowers; yes, yes, what bliss

  Soothes like hope’s fresh scent of loveliness?

  …From the pure lily I heard this clear song:

  ‘Happy their peaceful life who work no wrong;

  Sweet idle flowers, whom heaven’s sweet airs do kiss;

  No conquering king hath joy more fair than this.’

  — Ḥafeẓ

  24

  Tiam

  Christina is pacing on the sidewalk in front of the clinic when I arrive. As I wait to cross the street, her worry is clear as a winter sky. The furrowed brow. The lips compressed into a thin line. She pauses and rubs her hands against her thighs. I’ve seen all of this before in my mother. I’m well aware of how my health affects those who care for me, who love me.

  Although I’ve been following her on social media for twelve years, the past six months are what really count. Christina has become one of us. She is family.

  When she sees me crossing over to her, she smiles. We greet each other with a warm hug, and she doesn’t let go immediately.

  “Everything I’m going through today is routine,” I tell her. “So there’s nothing to be worried about.”

  “Awesome.” She looks up at the four-story white granite building. “What do you want me to do? When we get up there, I mean.”

  “Keep me company. Talk to me.”

  As we go up in the elevator, I fill her in on what will happen.

  “First, the nurses will do the normal check-in requirements—blood pressure, temperature, and things like that. Then the doctor comes in and checks me out. After that, they hook me up to an inflatable percussion vest. That beast of a machine loosens up the mucus in my breathing passages. Then they listen to my lungs again.”

  They’re expecting me, so right away they put me in the room with equipment I need. Nurses and tech aides sail in and out, doing their thing. I’ve been here so often that I know everyone. The staff all speak Turkish, and I translate as much as I can for Christina. She listens carefully to everything.

  I love the fact that she wants to be here. She doesn’t have to do it. Even though she found me—or rather, we found each other—our lives could have continued on separate paths. But she is interested in what’s happening to me. Since our meeting this past spring, she’s taken hold of the ties that connect us, and she hasn’t let go. We talk to each other every week, and we trade messages even more frequently.

  After her car accident, she called me from the hospital. The hours we spent on FaceTime, knowing she wished I were there in the room with her and Autumn, was precious to me. After the baby died, we spent hours on the phone again, both of us grieving. I’ve had many friends in my life, but the connection I have with Christina is different—it goes much deeper.

  And now she’s here, sitting next to me.

  A nurse comes in with the list of my medications printed out on a form. She wants me to double-check it.

  “You take all of these?” Christina asks, glancing at the list. “This is your daily regimen?”

  “Pretty much. On average I take fifty pills a day. Medications, supplements, enzymes, laxatives. Then I have the nebulizer every morning and night. On top of that, I have these lung-clearing exercises and sinus rinses. It goes on and on.”

  It’s one thing to hear about my condition over the phone, it’s another for her to be here with me during a session. Zari is one of the strongest women on the planet, and yet even her spirit bends under the weight of her worry when she comes to the clinic. That’s why I don’t tell her about the appointments and the tests unless I need to be admitted. The less she knows the better. I hate to see her suffer.

  “When did you first know that you were sick?” Christina asks.

  “I don’t remember a time when I felt like other kids. I’ve never been healthy.”

  I tell her about when I was a little girl. I’d stand to the side in the schoolyard or the playground and watch the other children race around. I admit I was pretty envious, but that was my life. And I missed a lot of school days.

  Being honest about a debilitating disease doesn’t exactly make for cheerful conversation. I know this, so when she glances at all the gadgets around the room, I change it up.

  “By the time I was five years old, I’d heard the doctors say kistik fibroz so many times that those were the first words I learned to spell. Everyone was so impressed.”

  “Well,” she says with the crooked half smile that makes me think of Zari. “My first attempt at spelling wasn’t so well received.”

  “Tell me, what was it?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I burst out laughing. “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  I burst out laughing. “How old were you?”

  “I was five.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “A couple of boys in the neighborhood were arguing on the street. One of them said it and then spelled it out for emphasis. I thought it was pretty cool.”

  “And so you shared it at home?”

  “I told Elizabeth Fuck you as soon as she walked into the house that afternoon. And she wasn’t by herself. She had a friend with her.”

  “No!”

  “I said it clearly and proudly. Mommy, fuck you. F.U.C.K. Y.O.U. I remember being so tickled with myself.”

  My laughter starts a new coughing fit, and she watches nervously.

  “I should get someone.”

  I hold on to her hand and make her wait until I catch my breath. In a moment or two, it passes.

  “What did she do?” I finally ask.

  “Oh, it was a total meltdown. She spanked me. Grounded me. I had to go to bed with no supper. It didn’t matter that I’d come to learn the phrase innocently. There was a lot of yelling and drama, and my poor babysitter got fired.” She shakes her head. “Elizabeth has always been big on discipline, and she’s very slow to forgive an offense. And that was one of the first of many crises in our household.”

  I’ve learned a great deal about Elizabeth in the years since I found out she’s my mother. Her public persona seemed to indicate that she was leading a perfect life. A beautiful life. That was the face she showed the world. Hearing about Christina’s childhood gives me another lens to see her through. I find it fascinating. Question after question burns on my tongue every time we speak. But I don’t ask them for two reasons. I don’t want to feel envy about the life I was deprived of. And second, I don’t want Christina to feel any sense of guilt.

  “What about now? Does she still get angry with you?” />
  “All the time. I think during my pregnancy and after losing Autumn, she consciously toned it down. She’s perpetually disappointed in me.”

  “That’s impossible,” I protest. “You’re kind. You’re educated. You’re independent. You have a great job. You’re smart.”

  “Thank you. But I have not turned out the way she wanted. Whatever her expectations were, I’ve never been able to meet them.”

  And as a very sick baby, neither did I.

  I’ve had chances to walk up to Elizabeth and start a conversation this week. I’ve practiced my speech numerous times. Christina has said she’ll be there to support me, and I know she’ll help me get through it. But every time, I’ve used the excuse of not being strong or healthy enough to justify backing out. The truth is that I am intimidated. I know I’m not good enough for her. To go to her and say I’m alive isn’t enough.

  “Tell me, did Zari ever talk to you about all of this? About CF? I mean, when you were younger? You had to be scared.”

  It’s far more pleasant to talk about Zari than to think about Elizabeth.

  “All the time.” We had many important discussions about being sick. “I think I was ten or eleven years old when I asked her if I was going to die from it.”

  “Jeez. What did she say?”

  “She told me that people could die from CF. But she said that children also drown in bathtubs and get hit by cars. The important thing to remember was that I was a fighter and I was alive now and that she’d be beside me every step of the way.”

  “I’m sure the only thing I would have heard was that I could die from it.”

  “Exactly. We often hear only the worst,” I tell her. “But at the same time, I started to understand the reason for all the salty food we ate and for my constant stomach aches. I think I stopped complaining about the medicines and the doctors and the hospital stays after that.”

  The nurse comes in and tells me that the doctor is running late, but he’ll be in to check my lungs in ten minutes. Then they’ll connect the vest.