Susan Sipal
Writer

Excerpt from Bridging the Bosphorus:

Chapter 1: Language Barriers

If we spoke a different language,

we would perceive a somewhat different world.

(Ludwig Wittgenstein)

 Williamsburg, Virginia

     Denied.

     I screwed my eyes closed, then looked again.  The words on the letter rattling in my hand had not changed.

    Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ozturk,

    It is with deep regret I inform you that your request for a pediatric cardiac surgeon, one outside our approved network, to perform Faith Ozturk’s surgery has been denied.

    We will, of course, cover her surgery at the regular benefit rates with one of our approved network surgeons.

    Sincerely,

    Erma Baddock

     There was a note scribbled at the bottom:

          Nora, so sorry I couldn’t push this through.

     I crumpled the letter in a tight ball and hurled it into a corner before dropping to my knees in the entry hall.  Hitting the hardwood floor, pain jarred through my kneecaps, but it was nothing compared to the pressure that gripped my chest.  I clamped a hand to my mouth, muffling my cries so the children couldn’t hear.  At least the blaring TV covered my noise.

     What were we going to do?  I’d been so sure...so sure they’d accept the specialized pediatric surgeon we needed for Faith’s open-heart surgery.  She was only fourteen months old, after all.  How could anyone in her right mind, even an insurance bureaucrat, deny something as crucial as this to my baby?

     I stumbled to my feet and tip-toed past the family room, where my two older children watched cartoons, to Faith’s bedroom.  Softly, I opened the door and peeked in.  Sunlight played over her light brown curls that toppled above the pulled up covers.  Her light snores masked her labored breathing.

Labored, but steady.  Thank goodness.

The room smelled of the Vaporub I’d soothed onto her chest.  The doctors said it didn’t do any good.  That may be, but it seemed she did breathe a bit easier with it, and I felt like I was doing something to help.

     A louder snore escaped her lips.  I grinned, oddly comforted.  She'd be okay.  I'd make sure of it.  Anyway...she probably had another hour left of her afternoon nap, and I had a ton of work waiting.

     My anxiety easing, I headed to the kitchen to clean up after lunch.  As I passed the entry hall, I noticed the crumpled letter lying in the corner.  Sighing, I picked it up and spread it on the kitchen counter, trying my best to ease the wrinkles.  I left it in an obvious place for my husband to find, and then, breathing deeply, prepared myself for the explosion sure to come.

     Opening the dishwasher, I absentmindedly filled it with lunch’s dishes.  The activity helped to clear my brain and propel me to positive thinking.  At least they hadn’t denied the surgery, just the specialist we’d requested-–the very experienced, and thus very expensive, surgical pediatric cardiologist.

     Faith had been born two months premature with a congenital heart defect.  Her condition wasn’t life threatening, at least not presently, but it seriously limited her quality of life and her physical activities.  The doctors at birth had all recommended we wait until she was a year old to deal with open-heart surgery and recovery before having it corrected.

     The time had come, we’d put it off long enough, but it was such a risky procedure that we wanted to make sure we had the best-qualified cardiologist available.  Unfortunately it looked like our HMO thought any cardiac surgeon, especially a less expensive one in their network, would be just as acceptable.

     Faith wasn’t their child, though.

     “Everything will be all right,” I assured myself as I cleared the table of the last few cups.  “We’ll get through this, somehow.”

     Back at the sink, I looked out the window to see if my husband had returned.  I desperately needed Taner to hold me right now.  But he’d gone to Home Depot to get some part he needed to fix the lawnmower.  Our grass had grown so tall it was seeding, and the blasted lawnmower broke just as he’d cranked it.

The glasses clanked together as I dropped them in the sink.

     “Give me my Action Man!” my older daughter’s high-pitched voice, screeching from the living room, disrupted my thoughts.

     “No!  It’s mine,” my son bellowed back.

     “I had it first.”

     “Well, I’ve got it now.”

     A slap rang out.

     Then a shrill cry of hurt and protest.

     I braced myself.

     Running footsteps tracked me to the kitchen sink.  Two sets of small hands wrapped around my black leggings and tugged on my baggy, Sierra Club sweatshirt.

     “Mama, Leah hit me.”

     I looked into Kurt’s watery brown eyes, my soon-to-be seven-year-old.  A red hand-print splotched his cheek.

     “I did not.”  Four-year-old Leah peered up at me, her blue eyes as earnest as her brother’s.  “He took my toy.”

     Her long, bright red hair glistened in the sunlight streaming through the window.  Kurt, with his dark hair and eyes, was the very image of my husband, but Leah looked just like me, including her freckled fair complexion.

Their personalities, however, were reversed.  Kurt possessed my high sensitivity, while Leah had inherited her father’s temper.

     Sighing, I dropped to my knees and pulled them to me.  Their soft little bodies nestled closer, then turned wiry as they fought each other for supremacy on my lap.

I clasped their arms, holding them close but apart, biting back the urge to raise my voice.  “Leah, it’s always important that you tell me the truth.  Now, let me hold the Action Man while we discuss this together.”

     Ten minutes later I sent a subdued, but still grumbling, brother and sister back to play.  Maybe I could finish my work quickly before the next eruption.

     Hostage negotiations are always a tricky issue.  But over the last four years, I’d gained tremendous experience.  What is it about having a sibling that necessitates staking territory and the inevitable border trespass?  Why is it not instinctive to share and play nicely together?  Especially during times of crisis?

     I’d been on edge lately, Taner too, as the time drew closer to Faith’s surgery.  And Leah and Kurt had been at each other's throats, as if sensing my strained attention and thus needing to work harder to get their fair share.

     Human nature.  It’s a fascinating study.  One I spent years at-–first through my sociology classes at college, and then through work with various social service ministries.  I’ve always tried to understand what makes people act the way they do.  It’s just very hard at times.

     “Breaking news on the war on terrorism-” a newscaster interrupted Blowing in the Wind on my sink-side radio.  I listened to the current terrorist threat to blow up nuclear power plants--and we had one just down the road--then clicked the power off.

My chest clogged.  I couldn’t handle more stress today.

     Taking a break, I checked on the warring parties in the living room.  Leah and Kurt played quietly together, for once, making silly faces with their potato heads and giggling.  I turned back to the kitchen, my heart a touch lighter.

     If only I could shut my mind off as easily as the radio.

Submerging my hands into soapy dish-water, I grappled with the large pots, my thoughts struggling for clarity.  From the instinctive slap of a four-year-old, to the critical denial from a health insurance company, to the plotted atrocity of a terrorist, I am left wondering why.  Why can’t we show more tolerance?

     The last pot dropped on top of the others, clanging loudly.  Leaving the dirty water gurgling down the sink, and the dishwasher humming, I whipped off my apron and hung it inside the pantry.

The back door opened.  Taner tossed his windbreaker onto the laundry machine as he entered.

     “Did you get what you needed?” I asked.

     “No, they were out,” he muttered in a frustrated voice.  “I had to go to three different stores, and none of them had the right part.  The idiots.  I’ll have to special order it.”

     “I’m sorry.  Taner, the insurance...”  My voice drained away as I saw him pushing up his glasses to read the letter I’d laid on the counter.  I braced myself, preparing for his response.

He flung the letter off the counter, and without looking at me or saying a word, marched away, toward Faith’s room.

     Five minutes later, not able to stand the suspense any longer, I peeked in Faith’s bedroom.  They weren’t there.  I found Taner sitting on the couch in the family room, holding Faith, who wriggled in his arms trying to get down, while Kurt and Leah squished up beside him, playing Nintendo and fighting over who got to be Pikachu.

Taner's gaze pierced mine.  It was impossible to misread the look of blame in his, even behind those horn-rimmed glasses.

     I stumbled to the laundry room, and through a mist of tears, sorted whites from darks.  I wanted so badly to go throw myself on my bed and have a good cry, but I wouldn’t...I couldn’t.  I wouldn’t give in.  I’d learned to fight and I’d continue to fight.  I wouldn’t revert to how I’d been before.

     I knew exactly what he was thinking.  Not that I was a mind-reader or anything, just that we’d had the same argument for so many times that I had it memorized.  This was all my fault.  If I hadn’t quit a good paying job to start the migrant ministry, we wouldn’t be under such financial duress, and I’d still have the premium health insurance coverage that my paralegal work for Simon and Davis had afforded.

     How could I blame him?  He had a point.  But I’d never foreseen the unexpected pregnancy nor the problems resulting from it.

Taner never coped well with stress, especially financial stress.  Probably because of his upbringing.  Now he’d get angry and distant just when I needed him the most.

     As if to prove my thoughts, Taner stalked past me without saying a word.  He flung open the back door and slammed it shut behind him.  A few minutes later, through the kitchen window, I saw him in the back yard, sharpening the blades on my grandmother’s old push-mower.  Probably picturing me under them.

I measured the detergent into the washer, measuring Taner’s reaction at the same time.  Why is it that Taner and I can never agree on anything?  In fact, I'd say that the person in this world who thinks least like me is my own husband.  Forget trying to understand insurance companies and terrorists, I’d just like to understand him.  It's almost like we speak two different languages.

     I could plan peace in the Middle East easier than peace in my own home.  Now there’s the real challenge--creating peace within a family, actually between a man and woman.

     “Mama, Mama, Mama.” Faith ran out of the family room and threw herself at my legs.  I picked her up and hugged her tight, the warmth of her small body easing the tightness in my chest.

     Instantly, she wiggled to get down.  “Cookie, cookie.”  She pointed at the Cookie Monster jar on the counter, her face scrunched up in a look of expectation.

     I held it down for her.  “Just one, now.”  She came out with one in each hand.  “Put one back, Faith.”

“No!” she yelled her favorite word, then poked out her bottom lip.

“Yes,” I countered firmly, careful to keep my voice low.  “Or I’ll take both away.”

She threw one back in mutinously, but toddled off, leaving a trail of cookie crumbs on the floor I’d just swept.

     A stranger would have no clue that her heart didn’t function properly.  Until one listened to her wheezy breathing or sorted through the pile of laboratory test results littering the top of my desk.

     Anyway...I wasn’t getting my work done standing around moaning and complaining.

     After tossing in the load of whites, I started cleaning out the refrigerator.  Thumping a Tupperware bowl down on the counter, I opened it to see if it contained something worth saving.  Whew!  The stench of week-old chicken made me gag.  I quickly replaced the lid and opened another window to let in fresh air, and stood a moment, gazing out.

     The fall sun filtered through the dogwood leaves off our back porch, turning their red color a dancing flame.  Squirrels stuffed their cheeks with the red berries and screeched at our cat draped sleepily across the wide porch rail.  He flicked his tail, completely ignoring them, and snoozed on.

It was a cool, Saturday afternoon.  As Kurt and Leah had both been sent home from school the day before with a high fever and running noses, I was keeping them inside, and relatively quiet.

Taner passed by the window, pushing hard on the old mower.

     I’d like to be outside with him, working in the yard together.  But I was quite sure I wasn’t welcomed at the moment.  We used to do most of our work together, both inside and out.  Actually, until I’d started working from home, Taner had done most of the house cleaning.  But now...

     A few hours later, I’d hung two loads of clothes outside on the line, helped the kids clean up their mess--again--and was on my way to the refrigerator to see what I could fix for supper, when Taner marched back in the house.

     “So, what do you plan to do about this?” he threw at me without preamble.

     I didn’t pretend ignorance.  “I’ll request an appeal on Monday.”

     “That's all?”  He flung his arm wide, grass clippings and a dust of dirt falling to the floor from his flannel shirt.

     I clunked Grandma’s blackened cast-iron skillet onto the stove.  “Well, what more can I do?”

     “Start hunting for a real job, one that pays real money and helps you take care of your family instead of everybody else’s.”

     I bit back a retort, straining to keep my voice neutral.  “That’s not going to help us now.  Even if I got a new job with better insurance, it wouldn’t cover Faith’s preexisting condition.”

     “But it might help pay the medical bills that are going to flood us.  I can’t handle this alone.”  He trudged to the letter I’d placed back on the counter, and hands on his hip read it again.

     I slumped against the stove.  I wanted, no--needed desperately--for him to hold me, but the scowl on his face when he looked up told me that wasn’t about to happen.  Was he mad at the insurance company or me?  Sometimes with him it was so hard to tell.  I tried to imagine what Taner was feeling.  But although I've always had a talent for empathy with others, it seems to completely desert me where my husband is concerned.

“Can’t we talk about this a little calmer, like partners?  Work together to come up with a plan?” I asked quietly.

     He threw a hand wide.  “What you mean by that is can’t I just agree with how you want to do things.  You don’t want to face reality.  You just want to continue to live in your ideal dreamland that doesn’t pay our bills.  Look where it’s gotten us.”

     “You know that’s not true.”

     “Nothing I want matters to you, does it?” his voice rose with his anger.  “You promised that one of the benefits of your working part-time would mean more time at home, so you could do more with the kids and keep things cleaner around here, and look at the place.”

     I glanced around.  The kitchen looked like a war zone.  I was in the process of dismantling it.  But everyone knows that to clean up you have to first mess up a little.  Leftovers crowded the counter space as I sorted through what was good and what could be tossed to the chickens.  I’d also separated the kids’ artwork from school that week to see what was worth filing in memorabilia.  It, too, was spread all over our counter.

     But I wouldn’t let myself get distracted from the current problem.  “Look, Taner, maybe we don’t need to do anything so drastic.  A lot of people are dependent on me now with the non-profit.  Why don’t we just wait to see how the appeal process goes before we talk about me job hunting?”

     The tic in his cheek spasmed.  “Allah, Allah," he muttered under his breath as he waved his hand in that familiar Turkish roll.  “You used to complain of how my mother never did anything on her own, but she got a lot done compared to you.  You just sit around and wait for something good to come your way.  Which is never going to happen.”

Then he stomped off, which is a little hard to do when you've removed your work-boots and are only wearing socks.  But he managed.

     The bathroom door slammed behind him.  I clenched the counter and closed my eyes.

     There it goes again.  His anger.

It rules us.

     We'd been married eleven years.  You'd think we'd understand each other by now.

Wrong.

     He doesn't understand me.  And I don't think he understands himself either.  But I do.

     He's got a problem with anger.  It controls him.

     Don’t get me wrong.  He's never hit me.  Ever.  His anger is not that type.

     He just yells a lot.  Yells and stomps around and complains.  Mutters stuff under his breath.  Throws his hands up in the air.  That sort of thing.  The famed Mediterranean temperament.  It was the one thing I hated about him.

I thumped an empty mayonnaise bottle on the counter.

     The water turned on in the bathroom.

"Don't let him get you down."  I mumbled to myself.  "Take a breath."

The breathing didn't help.

     I dished out the food that had gone bad into a bucket to throw to the chickens.  Why couldn't he calm down and relax a moment?  Why couldn't he think first about whether my plan had merit?  And why the hell did everything have to be spotless for him?

     What a legacy his father had left him.

     His father had been an alcoholic until he died a few years ago from cirrhosis of the liver.  And he'd been obsessive about the house being neat.  Especially when he was sober.  He'd ruled his house with fear--fear of his drinking and fear of his anger.

     “Mom?”

     I swiped the wetness from my eyes before turning.  Kurt stood in the doorway, a hesitant look on his face.

     “Is Daddy mad?”

     “A little, Precious.  He’s very tired.  He’s been working hard lately.”

     “You’re not fighting, are you?”

     I sat at the table and held out my arms to him.  He snuggled close, something he didn’t do as often since he’d started school.  But he needed to be reassured now.

     “It’s okay, sweetheart.  It’s normal for married people to disagree and sometimes argue.”  I squeezed him gently.  “But we’ll work it out.  We just need to talk.”
     “He said something about his mama.  Is Babaanne coming from Turkey?”

     “I don’t think so.  Do you miss her a lot?”

     “A little.”

     “Here, let me get something.”

I stepped into the front sitting room to retrieve one of our photo albums out of the bookcase, the one that covered the years we’d lived in Turkey, and returned to the kitchen, plopping the heavy album on the table.  Kurt hopped back on my lap, his head nestled under my chin.

     “Look.  Here’s a picture of Babaanne, and she’s holding you as a baby.  See.”

     “What’s that funny looking pot beside her?”

     “That’s a çaydanlık-–a Turkish teapot.”

     Somehow it didn’t surprise me that the teapot would be right at her elbow.  Taner's mother worked from morning prayers to evening prayers, waiting on her husband, refilling his tea glass whenever it hit empty, cooking, cleaning, taking care of her sick mother, then her sick husband.

     We'd lived with his parents for a few months when we first moved to Turkey.  I liked them both.  His father wasn’t drinking--not really anyway--at that time.  He tried to help me learn Turkish.  Of all the people there who didn't speak English, he was the most patient, taking the time to use words I knew and express others in a way that helped me understand their meaning.  I felt comfortable with him.

Until he wanted me to refill his tea glass.  Then I wanted to rebel at the culturally sexist attitude, but couldn’t because of being a guest in his home.

“She reminds me of Great-Grandma Wycliff.”

I blinked, Kurt’s comment about my grandma taking me by surprise.  “Yes, I suppose they look a bit alike, though Great-Grandma was much older, and not at all Turkish.”  The more I thought about it, the more of a resemblance I could see, especially in personality.  “But they both have one thing in common.  They’re two of the most generous women I’ve ever known.”

“What is Babaanne like?”

“Hmm.  Your grandmother is a very smart woman.  She was accepted into medical school when she was younger, but gave it up when she married your Büyükbaba.[1]”  Actually, her story was not that unusual for that time-period in Turkey.

She came of age just after the time of the Atatűrk reforms.  Turkey was transformed from the "sick man of Europe" to an independent, forward-thinking, only secular Muslim country in the world.  Women had the right to vote, to attend school, and were forbidden by law from wearing the veil in government buildings.  Of course, some defied the law and still wore them.

     Taner's mother never finished medical school.  She stayed home to raise her three children and wait hand and foot on her husband.  She did her job well, and never appeared disgruntled by her lot in life.  Her food was always delicious and plentiful.  That's probably what reminded me of my grandma the most.  Grandma was an excellent Southern cook, and would be ashamed if she set the table with less than ten different dishes.

     “You know,” I said, returning my attention to Kurt.  “My grandma did the very same thing.  She was a super pianist, and played the organ for her church forever.  She could have been a classical professional pianist; she was accepted at conservatory.”  Seeing Kurt open his mouth to ask, I quickly added, "That’s a school for studying music.  But she got married and had kids instead, and was the best housewife and mother.”

     “Is that what you want to do, Mama?”  His long lashes fluttered as he looked up at me.

     Kurt always could ask the very question I didn’t know how to answer.  “No, honey.  I enjoy my work and don’t want to stop.”  Inwardly I cringed at the thought of having to abandon my career, which filled such a strong need inside me.  My father was a minister and I'd been taught since the cradle to give of my blessings in a meaningful way.  To make change in the world.

But it’s hard to take care of three children, make sure we all eat healthy and not just junk food, and keep the house in a condition that we want to live in while maintaining a career.  The plight of the modern woman.  Only our circumstance was exacerbated by Faith’s condition.

Kurt was still watching me expectantly.  How to explain it to him?  “I’m just trying to do what’s best for our family.  But now Faith needs to be in the hospital for a few days.  That’s going to take some extra money.”

     I set him off my lap before the little smarty could come up with another difficult question.  “Now, why don’t you go along and check on your sisters while I finish getting supper together, before we all starve.”

     He giggled at that, and ran back in the direction of his sisters’ squeals.

     I opened the refrigerator to scrounge for something to make for dinner.  We had some wilting lettuce, browning eggplant, and a chicken about to go bad.  The proper Turkish wife knows 101 ways to fix eggplant.  I knew one, and it took way too much time.  Instead, I got out the chicken and some brown rice from the pantry, tossed the chicken in the rotisserie, and stirred the rice in a pot of water.  Supper would be ready in forty-five minutes.

     The water stopped in the bathroom.  A moment later, the bedroom door opened.  Footsteps padded across the dining room, and then Taner towered behind me, his dark hair still wet, his glasses tucked in his blue denim shirt pocket.  He smelled like mint soap.

     He looked good, too.  As usual.  Even now, my heart still jerked in acknowledgment of his attraction.

     He opened the pot and saw the rice, then squinted back at the chicken.  The counter was still a mess.

     "Nora, I'd like to talk with you a moment."

     I steeled myself in preparation.  "What Taner?"

     "Could you work more hours with the non-profit?”  His deep brown eyes quizzed me between his long dark lashes, his tone more controlled.  “Or push them to pay you a fair salary?”

“I don’t think the Board would approve that at this time.  There’s not enough money.  And besides, Faith would have to go to full-time daycare, and I don’t think she can handle that right now, especially with the surgery coming up.”

“I don’t know what else to do.  I’m already working two jobs.”  He covered his eyes and groaned.  “I'm going to ask my mother to come stay with us.  She could take care of the house and kids so you could work more.”

My gut cramped at the idea.  I shoved my hands deeper in my pocket.  “I thought she was afraid of flying.”

“She’d come if we really needed her.  And maybe she’d fix something besides chicken and rice."

     I jerked my head up at that.  "Look, I’m doing the best I can.  Without appreciation, I might add.  Besides, the children like it."

     "Didn't we just eat it a few days ago?"  His gaze rested on the leftover chicken I was throwing out, a few grains of rice still clinging to its clammy carcass.

     "What would you like to have?"

     "Something with a little more variety.  Maybe bőrek or dolma."

“I’ve already fixed chicken.  And besides, Turkish food takes too long to prepare.”

He ignored me, opening the refrigerator and shoving things around on the shelves I hadn’t finished cleaning--yet.

“You shouldn't store leftovers in here uncovered,” he mumbled.  "Allah, Allah.  Look at this mess.”

     That's it.  I flung my dishcloth down and marched toward the back door.

     "Nora.  What's wrong?" he yelled after me.

     I ignored him.

     "Come on.  Don't act like that.  I wasn't complaining."

     I yanked open the door.

     "So, is it only you who needs to be treated with respect?  I was going to help."  He slammed carrots on the counter.

I slammed the door behind myself, then paused a few moments on the porch, drawing a deep breath.

     The door opened behind me and he stepped out.

     I glanced at him over my shoulder.  He looked...resigned, his shoulders slumped and his face somber.  He pulled the door shut with a sharp click.

     Was he going to apologize and talk with me nicely?  My nerves tautened.  I felt as if I stood on the edge of a rocky chasm eroded from years of marital discord, pushed to the brink, as I waited for him to speak.  I wanted desperately to feel his arms about me, pulling me back, to talk lovingly until we worked things out.

“Nora, I can’t take this any more.  I’m tired of always fighting with you.  We can’t agree on anything, and you don’t take our financial situation seriously at all-–even with Faith’s medical bills.”

He paused and thrust his fingers through his wet hair, spraying sparkling droplets.  “I want a divorce.”

I gasped in shock, his words hurtling me into the chasm.

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