When the Cypress Whispers

by Yvette Manessis Corporon

  She had seen Stephen in attack mode only twice since they had known each other. Both times it was when an important deal went bad. Both times it was when he lost millions of dollars in potential revenue. Perhaps, Daphne thought, this was the third time.

  “This is our family, Stephen. Not business, family.”

  He walked toward her. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry. I know how important this is to you, how important she is to you. But Daphne, I just don’t see how. It doesn’t fit with our lives.” He threw his hands up again and hunched his shoulders, as if merely dissecting and analyzing the problem would be enough to make it go away. “It doesn’t fit, Daphne.”

  She stared up at him for as long as she could, but finally dropped her head. It hurt to look into his emotionless eyes anymore.

  Then we don’t fit.

  The breeze kicked in, stirring up the air of what had been a typically hot and stagnant afternoon. Daphne ran to the picnic blanket and reached out, trying to keep it and the remnants of their lunch from floating away on the wind. Her eyes spilling over with tears, she watched as the zephyr lifted a plain white paper napkin—lifting, looping, and twirling in the air, as gracefully and beautifully as a Greek bride dancing on her wedding day.

  Thirty-four

  That night, after Stephen stormed off to the hotel, Daphne took comfort in the warmth of a quiet night at home with Yia-yia and Evie. She needed the reassurance of Yia-yia’s gentle touch to quiet the uncertainty of what her own future held for her.

  Daphne held her palms out to the fire. It was still mid-August, but a hint of early-autumn crispness had worked its way into the air. She wrapped a crochet blanket around her body and hugged her arms around herself to keep warm, willing the gentle bite in the breeze away. It was undetectable to most, but Daphne had trained herself to feel it, to smell the change in the air. Even as a young girl she had always been keenly aware of early warnings that one season was coming to an end and another would soon begin. Unlike most people, Daphne took no autumnal pleasure in a palate of rust and amber leaves crowning a forest of trees. The sight of a woolen sweater or the slightest whiff of crispness on the breeze was enough to send her spiraling into a fit of melancholy. For Daphne, these were signs that the summer was ending and she would soon have to go back to her life in New York; a life of hiding in the back booth of her parents’ diner instead of running free here in Erikousa. Now, as she once again felt the ever-so-slight change in the air, the same brooding feeling washed over her. But this time she knew there was more at stake in the season’s change than ever before.

  “Look at our koukla.” Yia-yia motioned to Evie, who held a tree branch in either hand and was spinning and dancing in the corner of the patio. Yia-yia reached out and handed Daphne a freshly steeped cup of chamomile tea. The tiny yellow-and-white flowers grew all over the island, and picking them had been a yearly ritual for the grandmother and granddaughter, just as harvesting the oregano had been. The sweet aroma of the herbal tea emanating from the hot mug had always had a soothing effect on Daphne, and tonight was no different.

  “She looks like a little wood nymph dancing in the grotto.” Yia-yia smiled as she steadied herself against the stone wall of the fireplace and lowered herself into her chair. Daphne reached out to help, but Yia-yia shook her arm away and settled into her seat.

  “She’s happy,” Daphne replied as she cupped both hands around the mug and watched Evie skip across the patio while her kitten swatted at the hem of Evie’s dress with her paw.

  “Are you?” Yia-yia asked. “Are you happy, Daphne mou?”

  Daphne turned and faced her grandmother. She looked into Yia-yia’s red eyes, gazed at the crags and creases that lined her face and the brown spots that dotted her olive skin, physical markers of time passed and lessons learned. This was the face of the person she loved and trusted most in the world. It had always been that way.

  “I’m not so sure anymore.” She felt lighter just saying the words. “How did you know?” she asked, her voice soft, her eyes pleading for answers. “How did you know Stephen was not for me?”

  “I knew, Daphne, I knew from even before I saw him.” She sighed, a deep mournful sigh that emerged as if escaping from her guts. “You don’t belong together. It wasn’t meant to be.”

  “How is that possible? How did you know before you met him?”

  “I’ve told you, koukla, but you chose not to hear. You chose not to believe.”

  Daphne brought the mug to her chest. She felt her heart thumping faster and faster. “I’m ready to listen, Yia-yia. I’m ready to.” Faced with so many new questions, Daphne had now resigned herself to seeking answers.

  “I knew this day would come, koukla. I just wasn’t sure when it would be. I hoped it would be soon—I hoped it would be before you left me again.”

  Daphne placed the mug on the floor and leaned in, grabbing Yia-yia’s hands with her own. “I won’t leave you.” Her laugh masked the sob that attempted to escape her throat. “I’m not exactly sure what that means yet, but I won’t leave you, Yia-yia. Not again.”

  She knew it was true. She could never leave Yia-yia again, even if that meant losing Stephen in the process.

  Yia-yia closed her eyes and began to speak. “I told you that when I was a little girl, just about Evie’s age, my yia-yia sat with me and told me my fate. She told me that I would hear the island speaking to me, that I would one day be privy to its secrets. I didn’t understand what she meant until that day when I saw Dora in the Jewish quarter, and then I heard it and I understood. But even then, Daphne, even then, I didn’t understand why. Why had I been chosen? What did it mean, and why was I the one? I had done nothing special. I was in no way extraordinary. I was no different from any of the other girls on the island who had been brought up to be wives and mothers. But then one night, not long after I brought Dora here, I fell asleep with your mother in my arms as she nursed. I awoke with a start, thinking I heard your mother crying for more milk, but there she was, still asleep and nestled in the crook of my arm. I squinted in the darkness and thought I saw someone in the corner of the room, but I wasn’t certain. And then I saw her.” Yia-yia’s face softened at the thought of that night. Her eyes took on a faraway, longing glow, as if she could still see the image of this person so many years later.

  “It was my yia-yia, my own beloved yia-yia who cared for me and loved me so tenderly and completely, just as I have loved you.” The tears began to fall down Yia-yia’s face like slow, lazy rivers that over time carved the very creases and wrinkles they disappeared into. “As she walked toward me, I wanted to jump up, to hold her, to hug her and kiss her, I missed her so desperately. But she put her finger to her lips and held her arm out toward me. ‘The baby,’ she said. ‘Stay there, my Evangelia, and don’t wake the precious baby.’ I lay there, cradling your mother and watching as my dead grandmother walked to the foot of the bed. But I was not afraid, not at all.” Yia-yia shook her head, her scarf slipping away, exposing her braids.

  “This was my yia-yia. She had come to me, and I felt nothing but love and gratitude. ‘The island has spoken to you, Evangelia,’ she said. ‘You are blessed. You are a good woman with a clean soul. The spirits know they can trust you, my granddaughter, just as they trusted me and my grandmother before me. Years ago we were chosen because our hearts are clean, not tinged with selfishness and darkness like so many others. But this honor comes with a burden as well, my koukla. As in ancient times, the blessed oracles who could hear the gods’ whispers were virgins or widows. We are not virgins, but all widows instead. We are blessed, my girl, but also cursed. It is easy for a broken heart to turn black, bitter, and filled with rage. But not yours—yours stayed clean and pure even after it was shattered. And that is why you have been chosen. The world is different from when this gift was bestowed upon our ancestors, my child. But even so, we still need divine guidance to help us see sometimes what is right before our eyes, to decide which path to choose, to help us hear sometimes what
is being whispered on the breeze.’ ”

  Daphne trembled as Yia-yia spoke. Is this what Yia-yia had meant? That this was their family’s curse, their history? Was this her fate then too—to be a widow, to live her life alone, full of unfulfilled dreams, as she helped others fulfill theirs? She thought she had a decision to make, a decision that would lay the path for the rest of her life; but from what Yia-yia was saying, it seemed the decision had already been made for her.

  “And then, Daphne mou,” Yia-yia continued, shifting her gaze from the faraway setting sun and back to Daphne, “and then my yia-yia was gone. It was the last time I would see her, although I have heard her voice thousands of times in my mind and even on the breeze.” Yia-yia lifted her trembling hand to sip her tea. The cup shook between her fingers, the wavering liquid spilling over the rim and falling onto the black fabric of Yia-yia’s dress.

  “So you see, Daphne, I knew this young man was not for you. I heard the whispers. I heard them telling me that if you committed yourself to him, you were destined to a life of unhappiness, another broken heart. This man does not see you for who you truly are, all that you are worth. He thinks he knows you, but he knows only what he sees on the surface, afraid to look deeper. You deserve someone who will look deeper, Daphne, who loves you for what you have been and who you are, not just what you can become. A man who cannot look deep into your heart will break your heart. It will happen little by little and over time. But he will break your heart. And your heart has been broken enough already.”

  Daphne looked up into the black night sky. A shooting star exploded across the heavens. Persephone, Ariadne . . . Evangelia, Daphne. Different women, different times. But their stories, so much alike. Their stories, so much more than myths.

  Daphne promised Yia-yia she would listen, and listen she did. Daphne stayed up most of the night, listening to her stories of the island and how she had learned so much in life just by stopping, sitting still, and listening. In the end, Daphne realized there was nothing old-fashioned or closed-minded about Yia-yia’s beliefs and the way she lived her life. Yia-yia explained that she did indeed pray and hope that Daphne would once again find a man to love and share her life with. That while the cypress whispers were true, the tradition of widows never marrying again was simply because there were never any men left on the island for the women to marry. There was no stigma, just not enough men. But if she did marry again, Yia-yia made Daphne promise that it would be for love—not security, not money, not even physical pleasure—for true love, like the love she had known with Alex.

  When they finally went to bed just before dawn, Daphne kissed her grandmother’s wrinkled cheek and thanked her. “Do not thank me, Daphne mou. I have done nothing but love you. And that, my koukla, is all I have to give, and all that has ever mattered to me in this world; that you know how much you are loved.”

  As her head hit the pillow that night, Daphne knew she was at a crossroads in her life, and that she needed more time. She needed more time with Yia-yia, more time to devote to Evie, and more time to figure out exactly how Stephen fit into her life, if at all. She made up her mind to walk to the hotel the next morning and tell him that she had realized it was just too soon, that she was not ready to make such a huge commitment again. He was a product of his environment, just as she was of hers. And nothing, not a new bank account or even a newly refined nose, could ever change who she was.

  IT COULDN’T HAVE BEEN LONG after she had fallen asleep; it was still dark in the tiny bedroom, and outside the window Daphne could barely make out the first sliver of light weaving its way into the blanket of night that still covered the island. At first she thought it was the creak of the bedsprings beneath her body. But she lay perfectly still, and she heard it again. Daphne sat up in bed, squinting into the predawn darkness. There, at the other end of the room, stood Yia-yia. Her braids were unbound, her hair freely flowing down to her waist, her feet shuffling under the hem of her white nightgown. “Yia-yia—why are you still up?” Daphne asked.

  “I wanted to say good night to you one more time, my Daphne.” Yia-yia stood at the foot of the bed. “I need to be certain that you know just how much I love you and our beautiful little Evie. I never doubted you for a moment, Daphne, even when you doubted yourself. I never did. I love you with all my heart, my koukla. You’ll find your happiness again, when you are ready to finally follow your heart again, just close your eyes and listen. A beautiful life awaits you, and those of us who love you will always be by your side. When you need strength or guidance, promise me you’ll just close your eyes and listen.”

  “I will, Yia-yia. I promise.” There was no more doubt left in Daphne. It was gone, exorcised from her life like the possibility of living someone else’s dream, of fulfilling someone else’s destiny and not her own.

  “Good night, my koukla.” Yia-yia turned and shuffled out of the room. As she did, Daphne rolled over on her side and fell instantly asleep. She slept peacefully and soundly that night, confident that she would make the right decision and that she would never again lose sight of what she valued most in life: her family and her history—as well as her future.

  DAPHNE FOUND HER THE NEXT morning, her lifeless body lying in the single bed where she had slept alone every night since her young husband was lost at sea. She sank to her knees beside her grandmother’s motionless corpse and leaned in to kiss Yia-yia’s hollow cheek, tears cascading down her face and onto Yia-yia’s gray skin. She pulled the bedsheet up to Yia-yia’s chest and covered the still-warm remains of the woman who had taught Daphne so much about life and love. Stroking the soft flannel that covered her arm, she lifted Yia-yia’s hand to her mouth and kissed the thin skin of her gnarled fingers, praying there were some way to breathe life into the veins that protruded from her hand. She knew she would have to leave her there and go explain to Evie what had happened, alert Father Nikolaos, make the arrangements, and share the news with their friends and family—but she couldn’t pull herself away just yet. She needed another moment alone with her beloved Yia-yia before she could face the cold reality of what would come next.

  Finally she stood to go, leaning down and kissing the top of Yia-yia’s head. She traced her finger along Yia-yia’s lips and tucked a stray gray hair behind her ear, just as she had so many times before. Her fingers lingered down the length of Yia-yia’s gray and black hair, still fastened in braids.

  “Tell me a story, Yia-yia, one last story.” She could barely get the whisper out. Her vision blurred as the tears fell down Daphne’s face and spotted the white flannel of Yia-yia’s nightgown. But there was no story this time. Yia-yia lay silent.

  Daphne turned to leave the room. She stopped, remembering the image of Yia-yia at her bedside, her final promise to her grandmother. Daphne lifted her head and closed her eyes, her hands braced against the door frame. There, standing in the doorway, struggling to find the strength to stay upright, she fulfilled her final promise to Yia-yia. There, standing in the doorway, Daphne finally stopped to listen.

  It was no louder than a soft murmur, like the sound of a hummingbird’s tiny wings flitting on the breeze. She stayed there, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, forcing her sobs to quiet down so she could hear.

  And finally, she did.

  Even as the tears continued to spill down her cheeks, a broad smile spread across Daphne’s face. She was amazed that in the midst of such despair, such sorrow, there could also be such beauty and joy. She clutched her hands to her chest, sobbing and laughing simultaneously. The voice she heard was not the booming baritone of some great and powerful God, nor was it the ethereal mutterings of some nameless, faceless deity. The voice that greeted Daphne on the breeze was a familiar one. It was the voice of Yia-yia; soft, comforting and loving—singing softly to Daphne now, just as she had so many years ago, so many times before.

  I love you like no other . . .

  I have no gifts to shower upon you

  No gold or jewels or riches

  But still, I give
you all I have

  And that, my sweet child, is all my love

  I promise you this,

  You will always have my love

  Thirty-five

  Wearing the black uniform of mourning, Nitsa, Popi, and Daphne worked side by side all morning preparing Yia-yia for her funeral. There was no mortician to summon for such duties. Here, in death as in life, families took care of their own. Daphne searched the closet and found Yia-yia’s nicest black dress, the one she had planned on wearing to the wedding. She hand-washed the dress in the basin out back and placed it on the clothesline, infusing the fabric with the island breeze that had meant so much to the old woman.

  The three women worked together through their tears. They laughed, thinking of all the wonderful times they’d shared together, and cried, thinking that Yia-yia would no longer be waiting for them by the fire. Together they bathed Yia-yia’s lifeless body, but Daphne insisted she be the one to braid Yia-yia’s hair for the last time. They lifted Yia-yia into the simple wood casket and placed her hands on her chest. In her hands they placed a single red rose plucked from her garden along with an icon of her beloved Agios Spyridon.

  “So you can always tell me your stories,” Daphne whispered into Yia-yia’s ear as she tucked a cypress sprig beneath her grandmother’s body.

  Daphne had toyed with the idea of holding the wake in the church, but instead she chose to honor the island tradition of a home wake. She wanted Yia-yia to spend her final moments in the simple and sparse home that had provided them all with immeasurable riches. At first Evie was frightened by the sight of Yia-yia lying still and silent in the middle of the living room. The little girl could not understand why her yia-yia was lying in the brown box and would not get up to see the newly hatched chicks, as Evie so desperately pleaded with her to do.

  “She’s gone, honey,” Daphne tried explaining as she stood next to the casket, stroking Evie’s hair. “She’s up in heaven with your daddy and your other yia-yia and Papou. They’re watching over you, sweetheart.”