A Recipe for Daphne by Nektaria Anastasiadou (reading well .txt) 📕

it to the tray on the sideboard, and locked himself into the bathroom. He turned on the shower to its hottest setting and vented his frustration—with Rea’s doubts and his own—by scrubbing himself raw with an exfoliation mitt and a bar of carrot-smelling soap. It was three days before he was to leave for Miami. As soon as he got back, he would find an apartment and move out.

When he had worked out the details of his plan, he got out of the shower and threw on a robe. Steam poured out of the bathroom as he opened the door. “Mother!” he shouted. She didn’t reply. “Where are you?”

He went into the living room. The package, still unopened, rested at the foot of the armchair. He went to the kitchen. First he saw the soil spilled all over the floor, then the African violet, and then his mother crumpled beside it. Her eyes were open.

“Mama! Mama, are you okay?”

She tried to pull her housedress down over her swollen legs, as if she were embarrassed to be showing so much skin. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

The hospital doctors said she’d fainted from hypotension caused by mild bradycardia, which was common in older patients. Fortunately, she hadn’t suffered any fractures or head injuries: just a few nasty bruises. The emergency-room intern hung a Holter monitor around her neck, stuck its five sky-blue electrodes to her chest, and explained to Kosmas that his mother had to be monitored to determine if she needed a pacemaker.

“A pacemaker?” whispered Kosmas. He and the intern were standing in the stark hallway. Rea was still hooked up to a saline IV in the examination room, but the door was open. “Is this serious?”

“It doesn’t look so at the moment,” the intern said. “The ECG was fine. She doesn’t have a temperature. But at her age, it’s best to be careful. Put a bit more salt in her food, keep her well hydrated, increase her intake of red meat. Her blood tests showed low iron levels. Anemia, that is. She could lose a little weight. She’s not diabetic yet, but she’s headed in that direction. You have to keep a good eye on her.”

“For how long?”

“Until we can determine what’s going on. We may need to keep her on the Holter for a couple of weeks.”

“I’m supposed to go to America in three days.” Kosmas glanced at the wall clock. It was past midnight. He corrected himself: “Two days.”

“Is there anyone else who can take care of her? Your father? A sibling?”

Kosmas thought of Mr. Dimitris. He wouldn’t refuse, but the situation would be awkward for Rea. And Kosmas would also be guilty of encouraging Mr. Dimitris in a hopeless suit. Better not to involve him.

“No one,” said Kosmas.

The intern stuck his ballpoint pen into his shirt pocket. “Perhaps you could postpone.”

Kosmas felt like a child whose ice cream had fallen off its cone onto the dirty pavement.

After taking his mother home and putting her to bed with a cup of chamomile tea, he took his airplane ticket from his dresser drawer, sat down at the narrow kitchen table, and stared at the mess left in the wake of his mother’s fainting episode: the black soil spilled on the floor, the hot red pepper flakes scattered across the table. Then he read every word and abbreviation on his red and white Turkish Airlines ticket. His chest tightened. He had to talk to Daphne right away.

She answered his call immediately, but instead of greeting him, she said, “Only three days left until we’re together again!”

Kosmas heard traffic noise and happy Latin music that seemed entirely out of place as he stared at his mother’s jumbled bottles of olive oil and vinegar. “About that,” he said, trying to remember what day and time it was for Daphne. “Where are you?”

“At dinner with a friend. Is something wrong?”

“It’s Mother. She fainted and had to be taken to the hospital. They have to monitor her heart for a couple of weeks. She might need a pacemaker.”

“Is she still there? In the hospital?”

With his ticket, he swept the table of hot pepper flakes—called acı in Turkish, the same word for pain. “No,” he said. “She’s here, napping.”

“Is she going to be okay?”

“Hopefully, it’s just . . .”

Again Kosmas heard electric steel strings. The Spanish lyrics that accompanied the music, although unintelligible, seemed to express his longing and disappointment.

“You’re not coming,” said Daphne.

Kosmas felt a rush of relief. The tightness in his chest eased: she’d made the decision for him. “I’m just not sure if it’s the right thing to do,” he said.

Daphne was silent.

For a moment Kosmas heard nothing but the ripping of wind. Daphne had moved away from the music.

“Did she receive my birthday gift?”

“Today—no, yesterday. But she hasn’t opened it yet.”

“I guess she didn’t have a chance. Why don’t you give it to her now, to cheer her up? It’s a Pantone coffee maker from the Pérez Art Museum. Pink, her favorite color. ”

Kosmas was too tired for concealment. “Before she fainted, we had our talk. I told her your father is Muslim.”

“I thought you already did that.”

Kosmas lowered his foot over the potless violet and squashed it into the floor tile. Now he had a second crisis on his hands: Daphne had learned that he’d lied to her a month ago about the talk with his mother.

“And?” said Daphne, her voice frighteningly quiet. “Does this change things for us?”

Kosmas thought of calling Mr. Dimitris whether Rea liked it or not. He could get on that airplane after all. He could talk this out with Daphne, face to face. But that wouldn’t be right. It was his filial duty to stay. He ripped his ticket in half and threw it onto the soil and acı pepper at his feet. “Nothing’s changed,” he said. “I love you just as much as ever. But I have to look after her now. I’m all she has.”

21

The Moon and the Star

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