Dedication
For my mother and my yia-yias
Epigraph
Saved when I neither hoped nor thought I’d be,
I owe the Gods a mighty debt of thanks.
—SOPHOCLES
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue: Erikousa, Greece August 1990
One: Corfu Present Day
Two: As she was falling
Three: Come on, Daphne
Four: Erikousa Summer 1992
Five: Daphne leaned out
Six: As she ascended
Seven: Yonkers May 1995
Eight: Evie, come on
Nine: Go to the garden
Ten: Later that afternoon
Eleven: Manhattan January 1998
Twelve: Thankful Evie had finally
Thirteen: At five a.m.
Fourteen: It was 10:00 a.m.
Fifteen: Erikousa 1999
Sixteen: It had been a glorious
Seventeen: Sitting on the edge
Eighteen: The next morning
Nineteen: I was like
Twenty: Daphne ran into
Twenty-one: It was past nine
Twenty-two: New York 2001
Twenty-three: Evie ran across
Twenty-four: Yia-yia
Twenty-five: Here, let me do
Twenty-six: After everyone had stuffed
Twenty-seven: Daphne and Yia-yia
Twenty-eight: Mommy, can I ask
Twenty-nine: Connecticut and Brooklyn 2008
Thirty: She had never
Thirty-one: Daphne didn’t stop
Thirty-two: Mommy, where have
Thirty-three: With Stephen’s help
Thirty-four: That night, after Stephen
Thirty-five: Wearing the black
Thirty-six: Daphne pulled a single
Thirty-seven: The following morning
Thirty-eight: Although she had
Thirty-nine: Daphne took Popi
Forty: Her voice came
Forty-one: Brooklyn One Year Later
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
ERIKOUSA, GREECE
AUGUST 1990
“Yia sou, Yia-yia,” Daphne called out as she raced down the ancient stone steps. It was just a quarter mile down the dirt road to the beach, but to the anxious twelve-year-old, the trip felt like forever. She ran the entire way, stopping only once and only for a moment, fingers reaching out to pluck a blackberry from a roadside bush whose giant fruit looked too dark, heavy, and sweet to pass up—even for a girl on a mission.
Daphne dropped her towel the instant her feet reached the caramel-colored sand. Not even stopping to kick off her white Keds, she slipped out of them as she ran to the water. First right, then left, the laceless sneakers littered the pristine beach. Daphne had discovered long ago that laces on shoes only got in her way.
She finally slowed her pace, stepping gingerly, arms out for balance, as she navigated the black rocks that pocked the shoreline. She let out a little gasp as her bare feet first felt the cooling welcome of the Ionian Sea.
Daphne trekked ahead until the lower half of her slender thighs was underwater. She raised both arms above her head, fingers tapping together in anticipation, bent her knees, then sprang up on her toes, propelling her body forward in a perfect arc. Finally fully submerged in the calm, clear water, she opened her eyes.
There they were, just as she had left them last summer—her silent underwater companions. Daphne smiled as she spotted the spiky black sea urchins and then waved her arms and kicked her legs to turn and catch a glimpse of the knuckle-size barnacles that clung to the submerged rocks. Everywhere she looked there were fish, so many fish in different shapes and sizes, whose names she only knew in Greek. Tsipoura. Barbounia. She had never once considered learning their English names; why would she? It wasn’t as if any of the kids back home ever stopped to ask how she spent her summers or what the fish were called. In fact, they never stopped to speak to her at all.
She stayed in the sea for hours, diving, swimming, and daydreaming, never once feeling lonely or scared in the water all by herself. She wasn’t like some of the other girls, afraid of what might lurk under the surface. She loved being out here, solitary and silent in her little cove. The sea never judged her; it only welcomed her, even invited her. The sea didn’t care that Daphne’s hand-me-down swimsuit was too big, its elastic stretched beyond repair by cousin Popi’s newfound curves. It didn’t care that even now, even thousands of miles away from the diner, Daphne’s hair still had the faint, stubborn scent of grease.
None of that mattered here. The sea christened her again each summer, making everything new, fresh, and clean. Daphne always imagined the earth and rocks that jutted out on either side of the cove as protective arms, caressing her and forming a safe little pool for her to swim in. Here she felt safe from the secrets of the open sea and from the stares of girls whose freckled skin smelled of strawberry lotion.
Even when her muscles began to spasm and her lungs ached from always holding her breath just a few seconds too long, she still wasn’t ready to leave her watery playground. She simply flipped over on her back, floated, and stared up at the sky, impossibly blue and sprinkled with light, wispy clouds—clouds that to Daphne looked like delicate silk threads embellishing the perfection of the heavens.
No wonder Athena was mad. I bet that’s what Arachne’s silk looked like, she thought, remembering the story Yia-yia had told her about the vain girl who was turned into a spider because she dared to boast that her weaving skills were greater than the goddess’s. Daphne smiled, retelling the story to herself as her fingers paddled the water and the incoming tide lapped against her weightless body.
Finally Daphne looked down at herself and noticed the telltale signs that she had done it again, stayed in the water too long. As much as she’d have liked to believe that she was one of the legendary sea nymphs who swam and frolicked in these waters, the sad reality was that she was merely a mortal. Her normally olive-colored fingers had turned grayish white, and her skin was puckered and pruned. It was time to get back to dry land.
As Daphne gathered everything she’d tossed about the beach, she looked at her watch and saw that it was 1:45, even later than she thought. She knew Yia-yia had prepared lunch and would be pacing the patio by now, waiting for her beloved granddaughter to return.
“Yia-yia’s gonna kill me,” Daphne said, though no one was there to hear her. Or was there? She looked around the small beach as she stood dripping on the sand. She had the strangest feeling, as if someone was watching her, as if she could hear someone in the distance. It sounded like a woman’s voice singing . . . soft and familiar, yet so faint and fleeting that Daphne couldn’t be sure what it was.
She turned again toward the sea and lifted her towel to shake it out. Closing her eyes against the barrage of sand, Daphne waved her arms up and down, the towel floating on the breeze like a gull in flight. Suddenly the wind picked up and an unexpectedly cool gust sliced against her wet skin. She dug her heels into the sand to keep from falling and tightened her grip on the towel, which was now slapping like a flag on a blustery winter day.
Eyes still closed against the sand, which stung as it struck her face, she heard the nearby cypress trees rustle as the wind tore through their branches and rattled their leaves. She froze. There . . . there it was. She heard it. She was certain this time. It had to be. Her fingers released the towel, and she opened her eyes to watch as the zephyr carried it down the beach. She knew she’d hea
rd it this time.
Daphne’s heart raced faster. Could it be? Could it really and finally be? As far back as she could remember, Yia-yia had told her the legend of the cypress whispers. In hushed, reverent tones, Yia-yia insisted that the cypresses had their own secret language that traveled between the trees on the gentle morning breeze and quieted down again as the afternoon stillness set in. Time and again the old woman had pulled Daphne close and asked her to listen. Time and again Daphne had tried to hear the truths that Yia-yia swore they spoke of, to hear the answers they whispered on the wind, but she could not.
Please, please speak to me, Daphne pleaded. Her eyes widened with possibility and hope. She clutched her hands to her heart and held her breath to be certain, to listen once more with no distractions. She turned her face toward where she thought the voice had come from, the farthest reaches of the cove, where the cluster of trees and thicket was so dense that not even she dared take that shortcut home. Feeling faint from holding her breath, Daphne waited and prayed.
This time she heard nothing, only the hollow churning of her empty stomach.
Finally she exhaled, her small shoulders slumped forward with the weight of yet another disappointment.
She sighed, shaking her black curls and sending droplets of water everywhere. It was no use. There was no singing. No story. No beautiful woman’s voice serenading her. No answers to life’s mysteries waiting to be plucked from the breeze like a blackberry. All she could hear was the ordinary sound of branches rattling and leaves trembling in the wind.
But even though they maintained their stubborn silence, Daphne knew that the shivering leaves had one thing to say to her.
They’re telling me it’s time to go home.
She slid her sand-coated feet into her sneakers.
Yia-yia is waiting for me. It’s time to go home.
One
CORFU
PRESENT DAY
“There you are!” Popi’s accented English echoed through the airport as she threw her arms out and ran across the terminal. Pushing aside a handful of newly arrived tourists, she barreled her ample body across the crowded terminal to greet her favorite cousin properly. “Oh my god, just look at you! How did you get so skinny? I ate a chicken bigger than you for dinner last night.”
Daphne dropped her bags right there, in the middle of the exit ramp for the arriving flight. She heard the shouts and curses of the other passengers as they maneuvered around her luggage, but Daphne didn’t care. Not in the least. It had been six years since Daphne had been here, six years since she was last in Greece, and she was not about to wait a moment longer to fall into the warm, welcoming embrace of her cousin, despite the protests of her fellow passengers. Like their yia-yias, who were sisters, Popi and Daphne had always been especially close. Popi’s own grandmother had died when she was a baby. From that moment, Yia-yia had stepped in, raised Popi and loved her like her own granddaughter.
“It’s so good to see you,” Daphne cried. She opened her thin, toned arms and felt herself submerged in Popi’s soft flesh.
Popi squealed. They held each other for just a few moments longer before Popi finally let go and shuffled back to get a better look at Daphne.
“Skinny, yes—but also beautiful. Ah, Daphne, your Stephen is a lucky man. What a beautiful bride you will make.” Popi clapped her hands happily, suddenly stopping to cock her head to the right and narrow her eyes, leaning in for a closer look. “You look different.”
“I’ve lost some weight.”
“No. Different,” Popi insisted as she pointed at Daphne’s face.
Daphne touched her hand to her newly refined nose. She had laughed with Stephen about the procedure, calling it the cosmetic surgeon’s version of ethnic cleansing. “Oh, yeah. My nose. I had it fixed.”
“Fixed? Was it broken?”
“No, just big.” Daphne laughed now too. Popi touched her finger to her own Greek nose as Daphne spoke.
“I was having problems breathing at night, and the doctor said this would help.”
Popi didn’t bother waiting for a further explanation. “My own cousin, marrying a rich Amerikanos. You can buy anything you want, even a new nose.” She chuckled. “I am so happy for you, Daphne mou. Ah, Daphne . . . pinch your favorite cousin so some luck rubs off on me, eh? There are no men left in Greece for me.” Popi spat at the floor in disgust.
Daphne was amused by her cousin’s dramatics, but she knew her complaint was steeped in truth. Still single at thirty-four, Popi was an old maid by traditional Greek standards. She had dated a few men here and there, but no one had held her interest for more than a few weeks. But as much as Popi loved to complain about the lack of men in her life, she wasn’t like the other island women, who would lower their standards and settle on a husband. Popi, like her cousin Daphne, had always wanted more.
Daphne reached behind her legs and pulled five-year-old Evie out from where she was hiding behind her mother’s skirt. “Popi, this is Evie.”
“Ahooo. What an angel you are!” Popi shrieked even louder this time. She dug her hands into her purse, searching as she bent down in front of Evie. “Oh, where is it? I know it’s in here somewhere,” she muttered while sorting through the keys, cigarette packs, and candy wrappers that littered her cavernous brown leather satchel.
Evie didn’t say a word. She just looked at this stranger, who looked an awful lot like her mother, just bigger in every way. The little girl held on to her mother’s hand while trying to maneuver herself back behind Daphne again.
“Okay, you’re a little shy. That’s all right,” Popi told her. She finally found what she’d been looking for and pulled out a little stuffed dog. “I thought you might like this.”
Evie’s demeanor changed the moment she saw the little dog. Her reticence seemed to evaporate as she crept out toward Popi. The little girl smiled as she took her new toy and hugged it to her chest.
“What do you say, Evie?” Daphne prompted.
“Thank you,” Evie said dutifully.
“Evie, I’m your mother’s cousin Penelope, but you can call me Thea Popi.” Though in the United States, Popi would have been regarded as Evie’s cousin, in Greece she was considered Evie’s aunt. It was that way with the Greeks; the generational divide was always respected and never to be crossed. Calling someone thea or theo—aunt or uncle—was often more a sign of respect than familial ties.
“I know, it is a funny name,” Popi continued. “But your mother gave it to me. Shame on you, Daphne.” Popi looked up and shook her stubby finger at her cousin before turning back to Evie.
“When your mother and I were little girls just like you”—Popi tapped Evie’s nose with the tip of her finger—“my family came to live in New York for a few years. Your mother and I were very, very close. Like sisters.” Popi beamed. “Your mother tried and tried, but no matter how hard she tried, she just could not say my name. Pee-ne-lo-pee. Can you say Penelope?”
“Pee-ne-lo-pee,” Evie repeated.
“That is perfect.” Evie’s spine straightened as the word left Popi’s lips. The child seemed to grow inches before their eyes.
“But your mother”—Popi inched closer to Evie as she spoke—“ah, your mother, she was not so perfect. She just could not say it. So she started calling me Popi. Now everybody calls me that.”
Evie looked up at her mother. “Mommy, you were a little girl once?”
“Yes, Evie. I was, but that was a long, long time ago.” Daphne looked down at her daughter, remembering when she too was this young, this innocent, this eager to hear the stories the adults would share with her.
“Come, let’s go.” Popi slapped the gray Corfu Airport dust off of her black skirt as she stood. “We’ll go straight to the apartment so you can take a shower and rest for a little while. Are you tired, Evie?”
Evie shook her head no. She reached for her small pink suitcase.
“We actually slept really well on the plane,” Daphne said as she began to gather their
bags. “We were in first class. They have seats that turn into beds. I mean, real beds that lie all the way flat.” She wrapped her fingers around the handles of the two large black rolling suitcases, and tucked the white garment bag that held her wedding dress under her arm.
“Let me help. I’ll take that,” Popi said as she took the garment bag from Daphne.
“What a difference from when we were kids, huh, Popi?”
“What a difference a rich American husband makes.” Popi snorted. She held out her hand to Evie. The little girl hesitated, but then lifted her delicate hand to lock fingers with her aunt.
As they walked through the terminal, Popi said, “I need to find a husband, too. A rich Amerikanos. And you’re going to help me, okay?”
“Like Stephen?” Evie asked.
Popi nodded. “Yes, just like Stephen. I want a handsome, rich Amerikanos to make me happy and make me laugh all the time.” Popi tickled Evie’s palm with her fingernails.
Then Popi and Evie walked on hand in hand. Daphne stood still in the airless terminal, twirling her diamond ring, watching her daughter and cousin pass through the sliding doors and into the Corfu sunshine. As Daphne began to follow, she heard a ring tone coming from somewhere deep in her handbag. She fumbled for a few moments, but finally located the phone just before the call went to voice mail.
“Yia sou, greetings from Corfu.”
“Well, I see you’ve arrived. Safe and sound, I hope.” It was Stephen, calling from New York.
“Safe and sound and dying for you to get here,” she replied as she tucked the phone under her ear, readjusted her fingers around the handles of the suitcase, tilted it on its wheels, and walked out of the terminal into the dry heat of the island afternoon.
DAPHNE AND EVIE GAZED CONTENTEDLY at the scenery for the ten-minute trip to Popi’s apartment in Kerkyra, the main city of Corfu, as they pointed out special places to Evie.
“You see that tiny little green island out there in the water?” Daphne asked as she pointed out the window.
“Yes, I see it,” Evie answered.
When the Cypress Whispers Page 1
