When the Mirror Cracks

by Jan Coffey

  “Burası,” my mother says.

  The driver cuts in front of a moving bus, blocking traffic as he pulls to the curb. As we get out, Elizabeth says something. The young man says something back. They’re all smiles. She even calls back to the driver of the bus, and we get a friendly wave.

  Inside the hamam, cushions line the walls of a carpeted waiting room. In one corner, a low table holds a samovar and glasses for tea. By the reception desk, a potted jasmine plant fills the air with its sweet, exotic fragrance. Seeing it makes me think of the little balcony of my apartment, where jasmine grows wild with the star like flowers. A tall, fit woman greets us in broken English. I’ve worked with enough Russian programmers to recognize her accent. She looks visibly relieved when Elizabeth answers in Turkish.

  While my mother is deciding on what package we’re signing up for, I look back out through the smoked glass door onto the busy street.

  She’s there across the way, by a raised flower bed. The sunglasses are pushed up on top of her head, and she’s wearing the same headscarf and raincoat. She’s staring at the building.

  I walk toward the door and flatten my hands against the glass. “She’s back.”

  Elizabeth enjoys practicing her Turkish and is talking a mile a minute to the front desk person.

  “She followed us here,” I say louder.

  “Is an eighty-minute massage enough?”

  I glance over my shoulder at my mother. “I think I’m going out there to speak to her.”

  She finally comes over. “Who are you talking about?”

  The street is crowded with locals going in every direction. From what I’ve seen, Istanbul is a city of both tank tops and hijabs, and everything in between.

  “The same one we saw on the sidewalk. I think she’s following us. Are you sure you don’t know her?”

  “I don’t see anyone I know. You probably are confusing one headscarf for another.”

  She’s disappeared. My mother doesn’t say it, but from her tone it’s clear she thinks I might be imagining the young woman altogether. I know I’m not.

  “She was there a minute ago.”

  She pats me on the shoulder. “Eighty-minute massage?”

  “Whatever works for you.”

  My feet are dragging as I move away from the door. The Russian woman hands us each a thin red-and-white plaid towel and terry cloth slippers. As we follow her, she points down different hallways, explaining where everything is. Marble floors, marble walls, the ceilings are white too. This place feels as sterile as the hospital I was taken to after the accident.

  “The hamams are separate for men and women.” Elizabeth translates. “The big pool and the steam room and sauna are over there. They do the massages in that direction. The central hamam is through that door.”

  I haven’t really been thinking about what we’re doing, and it’s quickly sinking in. This is not just a massage, but a hamam, a public bath.

  Ahead of us, two middle-aged women come out of the pool area, chatting away. They smile and walk into the locker room. They’re naked. The elder is pear shaped with a birthmark the size of a quarter on her ass. A red-and-white towel is draped over her arm. The younger is thin and flat chested and wearing her towel around her hair like a turban.

  I stare at the towel the receptionist handed me and curse under my breath, hoping that Elizabeth stuffed a bathing suit in my bag.

  In the locker room, another naked woman is blow-drying her hair in front of a wall of mirrors. I try not to stare. I don’t want to make eye contact. They’re perfectly at ease with their bodies, but I’m not. I look for any space that will offer a little privacy. There’s none, except for the toilet stalls around the corner.

  Clearly, this is the norm, and I’m the aberration. Turkish women have a very different attitude than Americans about their bodies. In this culture, modesty has little in common with Western women’s inhibitions. Or my inhibitions.

  The receptionist speaks to my mother again.

  Elizabeth translates for me. “She only has one masseuse available this morning. We’ll have to go back-to-back. Do you want to take the first appointment?”

  “No. You go first.”

  I’m relieved to have answered right, as she doesn’t put up an argument and walks to the wall of lockers.

  I need a little time to adjust to this. My expectations of going to a hamam were plush white robes and a masseuse behind closed doors. Probably that’s exactly the experience our hotel has for tourists, like they never left America.

  I have hang-ups about my body, and my mother knows it and likes to rub it in. She’s seventy-four and petite and fit, and as toned as a forty-year-old Pilates instructor. Far different from her, I’m big boned. I was never a size zero, two, four, or six. I might have worn size-eight jeans when I was twelve years old, but not after that. The pregnancy only added on the pounds.

  I stuff my bag into the nearest locker and disappear inside a bathroom stall. The door reaches to the floor, and it gives me a small semblance of privacy.

  The sound of water running in a sink beyond the door makes me think of Autumn. I had given her a sponge bath at the hospital. Her eyes were wide open the whole time, watching me. She had a cleft on her chin, round cheeks, an angel kiss between her eyebrows.

  The tears come, and I can’t stop them. Don’t. I can’t fall apart. I won’t. Not twice in one day. I can deal with this. I have to deal with this. I have a job to do in Istanbul.

  There’s a tap on the door of the stall. “How are you doing, sweetheart?”

  She has a sixth sense. I use my shirt to wipe my face and flush the toilet to muffle my voice.

  “Good. I’ll be out soon.”

  “Where are you going first?”

  “Hamam.”

  “I can wait and show you the way before I go in for my massage.”

  “I’ll find it. I remember the way.”

  She’s silent for a few moments, but finally I hear her getting into a conversation with the women in the locker room. They laugh at something she says. Still fully clothed, I sit on the toilet and wait.

  Think about work. Think about work.

  It’s so much easier thinking of business. Elizabeth has promised Kyle and me a bonus once we close the deal on Externus. We’ll both undoubtedly lose our jobs, but we’ve never spoken about what happens after. I have no idea what he’s planning to do with his money or what he’ll do for work. I know what I’m going to do. I decided it months ago, even before I lost Autumn.

  The hairdryer stops, and Elizabeth’s conversation ends. I wonder if the women think it’s strange that I’ve barricaded myself in this stall.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?” My mother is outside the door again.

  “I’m fine. Really. I’m coming out.” I hear her footsteps drift away.

  The changing room is silent now that she’s gone. I wait a minute more before stepping out. The women are all gone. But there’s a young girl reaching into my locker.

  “What are you doing?”

  She jumps back, wide-eyed, and waves a folded paper at me. “Korkma. O bana verdi.”

  I don’t know what she’s saying. I look inside the locker. My purse is still zipped. The duffel bag with my things is sitting next to it. Neither looks touched. I think of all the warnings everyone says about pickpockets and beggars. But she doesn’t seem to be either. And she isn’t running away. She continues to wave the paper in front of me.

  “O bana verdi. Amerikalı için.”

  “I don’t speak Turkish.”

  “Amerikalı mısın?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bu seninki.” She shoves the paper into my hand and goes out, looking like she’s just done me a favor.

  I unfold the note and stare at the words. The writing is in English.

  Welcome back, Christina.

  3

  Zari

  Then

  She’s mine. Mine. You can’t take my daughter away fr
om me. I won’t let you.

  Tears bathed Zari’s face. They wouldn’t let up. She’d come to Istanbul, to this hotel, prepared with the words she had to say, with what she was willing to do. But she had no chance.

  The journey here was a nightmare, the hours careening along the razor edge of panic and despair. The bus from Ankara broke down in a long tunnel that cut through the green mountains. The honking, blaring sounds of car and truck horns were deafening, echoing in the steaming concrete tube that entombed them. Zari thought she would die in that darkness. The five-hour journey turned into eight, and the rain beat on the bus roof, falling in sheets as they crossed the Golden Horn into Istanbul’s old city.

  The trip was torture, but this was worse. She was too late.

  She paused on a landing of the hotel’s back stairwell. The walls around her were pressing the air from her lungs. But in reality, it wasn’t Zari who was struggling to breathe. It was the baby in her arms.

  “I’m not going to let you die, little one.”

  Giving up was not the Kurdish way. Back in Qalat Dizah in Kurdistan, before the bombs murdered her people, before the army tanks and bulldozers leveled her city, Zari grew up memorizing Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh, the Book of Kings. Character and perseverance were ingrained in her from childhood.

  She always saw herself as the intelligent and independent Sindokht. As Farangis, who raised an army to avenge her husband’s death. She was the brave Rudabeh, mother of Rostam, the greatest of all heroes. And when Zari was forced to leave behind her country and everyone she loved, she was Manizheh going into exile. The blood that flowed in their veins flowed in hers.

  Memories of those heroic women from their history came to her now. They embodied wisdom, devotion, and courage. They shaped civilizations. They were mothers who fought for their families, for their people.

  But today, she had no chance to be like them. She had no chance to raise her voice or fight. Zari’s body trembled. She’d come here as quickly as she could, but she was too late. Every shred of hope she’d been clinging to was gone now. Her life was shattered.

  The Kurds have no friends but the mountains. It was so true. Here in Istanbul, she was alone. She had absolutely no one to help her. No one to fight with her, to stand at her side. She was nothing but a refugee, just one of the million forced to walk away from their war-torn homeland.

  But Zari hadn’t walked away. She ran. With the shriek and blast of artillery shells all around her, she’d ran as quickly as she could. Cradling her swollen belly with both hands, she’d escaped the city she called home.

  Joining one weary, tattered group and then another, she’d dragged herself through the rugged passes. The moon glistened on the snows of the rocky peaks as she traveled north and west into Turkey. She could still feel the bitter night-cold in her bones. And beside the trails, she’d seen the remains of fellow Kurds, mostly the old and the injured, who had not survived the arduous trek. But when they passed by the small, swaddled bundles—too numerous to count—she’d averted her eyes and whispered soothing words to the one in her womb.

  Now, here in the hotel in Istanbul, Zari tried to pry open the fingers squeezing the blood from her heart.

  The child flailed one arm, unable to get even a whisper of air into her lungs. The cough was getting worse by the hour.

  “Breathe, my love. Breathe.”

  The congestion was as thick as mud. From dawn to dusk and more, twenty-four hours a day, Zari had fed her, changed her, played with her, loved her. If she could only breathe for her.

  She was no doctor, but she knew that any one of these moments could be the last. A final, exhausted try. And then surrender.

  A coughing fit and the baby gasped.

  “Please do it. Don’t give up, kızım.”

  Kızım. My daughter.

  Panic prickled down her spine. Placing the child on her thin shoulder, Zari clapped her repeatedly on the back as she descended the steps. Suddenly, a hard cough and the child drew a raspy, wheezing breath. And then she shrieked.

  She hurried down, knowing the reprieve was momentary.

  At the bottom of the stairwell, the door to the service alley swung open. A uniformed hotel security guard stepped forward, blocking their path. Wariness darkened his features.

  “Wait.” He stared at the scarf on her head, at the heavy bag slung from her shoulder. She averted her eyes. “You’re not a guest, and you don’t work here. What are you doing inside the hotel?”

  The guard spoke Turkish. Zari understood the language well enough, but she couldn’t risk speaking it. Her native tongues were Sorani, Farsi, Arabic. None of which she could speak now, for he’d recognize that she was a Kurd and a refugee. Since arriving in this country, she’d learned and spoken mostly English. She had to. That’s what she decided to use now. “I came to see a friend who is staying here. I thought she was staying here.”

  “A tourist?”

  “A tourist.”

  “From where?”

  Zari clutched the child tighter in her arms.

  “America. But I was wrong.” Before he could ask the name, she motioned to the door behind the guard’s shoulders. “I’m leaving now.”

  “Your baby?” He looked suspiciously from Zari’s worn, wet clothes to the child’s new coat and shoes.

  “Yes. Tiam. Tiam Rahman. She is mine.”

  “You are not a Turk. Show me your papers.”

  The skin on Zari’s neck prickled with worry. She was illegal.

  “Papers.” He extended his hand.

  She could play the confused, submissive woman. It had worked before, when a policeman stopped to question her on a dark highway outside of Kayseri. Perhaps this one would let her pass, but she was so tired of it all. Tired of these men. Just then, a horrible gut-wrenching cough erupted from the child in her arms, filling the stairwell. It sounded like the baby’s lungs were being ripped apart. He stepped back involuntarily.

  “Papers.”

  The child flailed her arms, trying to breathe. The blood of those women of the old stories caught fire in Zari’s veins. Fierce, maternal anger rang out in her voice. “I cannot stop for you. I must get her to a hospital. Get out of my way.”

  Pushing past the security guard, Zari rushed out the door and turned down the alleyway toward the street, praying he wouldn’t follow.

  4

  Zari

  Zari ran along the streets, praying she would find help in time. The baby was struggling to breathe.

  The city was new to her, but when she found a pharmacy on a side street, she pushed past pedestrians and went in. One of the clerks approached her immediately.

  “I need to find a hospital,” Zari said.

  The woman eyed the wheezing child with concern. “Of course. There’s a clinic on the next street, but you’d be better off at the hospital by the Grand Bazaar.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Do you know the city at all?”

  She shook her head. “I have just arrived.”

  “Follow the tram tracks up the hill. The hospital costs money, but your child will be better off in their hands.”

  By the time Zari reached the sliding doors of the emergency room entrance, she thought her own chest would burst. The nurse who took them in, checked the child’s vitals, and wrote down the information, however, was calm and reassuring.

  The doctor who came in greeted Zari in Turkish. After examining the baby, he straightened up, draped his stethoscope around his neck, and turned to her.

  “The congestion in the chest is heavy. She’s having more than an asthma attack. I suspect pneumonia.” He gave orders to the nurse, who hurried off, leaving the two of them.

  Zari leaned over the crib, trying to soothe the agitated child. “Can you help her?”

  “How long has she been like this?”

  “Two days, maybe more. We’ve been on the road. But this is the worst.” The child’s lips were blue. “Can you get her to breathe now?”

  “Any v
omiting or diarrhea?”

  “Both today.”

  “How long has she had the fever?”

  “Since this morning.”

  “I have to admit her.” He looked toward the door where the nurse had disappeared. “We have a new respirator in the ICU that can get air into her lungs. I’ll start her on medication.”

  They knew Zari was an outsider. Still, no asking for papers. No demand for money up front. No turning her away because her shoes were worn and she covered her hair with a headscarf. No ignoring her because she spoke Turkish poorly. No strange looks.

  At least, not by the nurse or this doctor.

  “Has she had antibiotics before?”

  “Yes. Last week. And the month before. She gets like this. Can’t breathe. Bronchitis and pneumonia. She’s sick a lot.”

  “Hospitalized?”

  “Yes.”

  “What hospital? Who is your doctor?” He took a pad and a pen from his pocket. “I’ll need to contact him about previous treatment and medication.”

  Zari felt her heart rise into her throat. “I…we have no doctor here. We’re visiting a friend.”

  “Give me the name, and I’ll search the hospital directory of your city.”

  No directory would have their name. She shook her head and reached for the child’s hand. Cold, fragile fingers wrapped around hers.

  He glanced at the satchel hanging from her shoulder. It was worn and contained all the belongings she’d had time to pack. Zari didn’t know what she would do if he insisted on answers.

  “Does it matter?” she blurted out desperately. “She has no allergies. The last time, they kept her in the hospital five days. She could breathe when she came home.”

  Understanding flickered across his eyes. She wouldn’t be the only sick refugee who would show up at the hospital doors. The biggest fear for most of them was getting arrested. They’d be sent back. But there was nothing in Kurdistan for her to go back to.

  “This is not a state hospital. Treatment here is not free. Once she is stabilized, we can send her to—”