Gülbahar Çağman

“I dreamt of her again last night,” Filiz finally said, tired of the silence that had become usual between them.

“Is that so?” Gülbahar asked, as she grabbed her mug between her hands and pressed it against her lips.

“Yes,” Filiz said, waiting in vain for her mother to stop staring absently at the wall, “she wants to know why you haven’t come to see her.”

Something, a little flinch in Gülbahar’s eyes, but she didn’t move. She took a sip of her coffee, then put the mug down.

“Is that so?” Gülbahar asked again, with little emotion in her voice. “Is that one of those twin things they say? That you can feel when the other one is in pain or something?” Her eyes turned black, and Filiz knew what was coming. “Then why didn’t you feel when she was in pain, ah, Filiz? Why did it take us five days to find her? She didn’t appear in your dreams then? She didn’t tell you? Maybe she should have, right? Instead of having us wait for her body to be found by a random dog nabbing her bony fingers. Or maybe you knew all along. Maybe she told you where she was but you didn’t tell. You didn’t tell me!”

She grabbed her cup, but Filiz quickly took it from her hands. She had smashed enough cups already, plates, too, and vases. Everything and anything that could shatter into pieces, she had; the floor nothing but a mosaic of angry little memories and denial.

“Mom, look at me,” but when Gülbahar finally did, Filiz didn’t see anything. Her eyes were empty, hollow as if deprived of a soul. “All I’m saying is that you have to go see her, she’s your daughter, she can’t rest in peace until she sees you one last time.”

“Filiz, bal kızım,” Gülbahar reached for her daughter’s hand and squeezed her fingers, “do you have any idea of what it would do to me? Canım, Filizcım, that is my child there, in the ground, and nothing prepares you for that. When your grandma died, Filiz, don’t you remember? I would spend days lying by her side on her grave, your aunt had to come and bring me home. But it was my mother, Filiz, she was meant to die before me. But my daughter? What kind of cruel and unnatural world calls for a mother’s tears to water the ground where their daughter lies?”

Filiz couldn’t answer—not that she would’ve known how to—because the conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door. With a hand gesture, Filiz told her mom that she would get it and immediately stood up, and when she opened the door she found herself face-to-face with Natalia, long camel coat, white turtleneck sweater, skinny jeans, and black boots. Over her freshly dyed blonde hair, a black beret that made her look more like a cliché than anything else. She took her sunglasses off, revealing made-up eyes, blue because of her color contacts, no way had she spent the sleepless nights they had. Her eyes did seem to convey something, though, but it wasn’t worry, regret even, it was more like pity, and an infuriating ball of fire started forming at the pit of Filiz’s stomach. Natalia picked up a flower arrangement that had been sitting on the floor, beautiful, delicate flowers, the type of arrangement that only they would be able to afford, and handed it to Filiz.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said, yet there was no regret in her voice, no emotion whatsoever.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, too.” The words rushed out of Filiz’s mouth before she could even think about it, “after all, Nazlı was your friend.”

For a brief moment, Filiz could see something different in her expression, something resembling pain, maybe? Grief? But it was gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

“Is your mom home?” Natalia asked. “I would like to see her, to extend my condolences. I never had the opportunity to properly—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Natis,” Filiz told her, regretting instantly having called her by her nickname, almost as if nothing had happened. “Actually, I think that the best you can do is leave. I’ll give her the flowers and tell her you dropped by—”

“What is she doing here?” Filiz froze as soon as she heard Gülbahar’s voice behind her, and she could tell that Natalia was scared as well, her eyes glossy in mere terror.

“Natalia just came here to drop off some flowers, but she’s leaving now.”

“She has no business coming anywhere near our house, she’s not welcome here.”

“With all due respect, Mrs. Tchaman.”

“It’s Çağman,” Gülbahar corrected her, irritated, “and your due respect you can shove it wherever it fits you. Get the fuck out of my house.”

Filiz and Natalia both looked at each other, shocked. Never had either of them heard Gülbahar curse, it wouldn’t match the headscarf and the tesbih she had in her hand at all times. But that Gülbahar, the one that Natalia had met when Nazlı had invited her over one day after class, the one that had raised her twin girls on her own after fleeing Turkey for Paris, that Gülbahar, didn’t exist anymore. She’d been buried with her daughter.

“Mrs. Tchaman,” Natalia tried again. “I’m so sorry.”

“Are you?” She looked at her, then raising her voice continued, “because I thought that was your big thing, wasn’t it? How these things only happen with people like us? How you were much more sophisticated, much more evolved.”

“Mom—”

“Zip it, Nazlı,” and just like that, not a peep would come out of Filiz’s mouth. “It’s her fault, you know, that you are gone. She’s the one who introduced that curse from God into our lives! Look at how much better he was than a man from our culture, Nazlı, look! He killed you and left your half-burned body in a dirty ravine!” She blinked for a second too long, and it was as if she was back, Nazlı was gone, Filiz was the one there with her. “Did she tell you, Filiz? Did Nazlı tell you that in your dreams? Did she tell you what the police told me? Did she tell you the torture he subjected her to? The scars, the healed fractures? Did she tell you for how long she had been suffering in silence?”

Filiz only realized that her mother was coming for the flower arrangement when it was too late and the vase had shattered on the floor, the flowers spread around with their pristine whiteness—almost as if laughing at them.

“She made fun of us, Filiz, she told us only our men did what her brother did. She lied to us, she covered for him, and she was her best friend. She is the reason your sister can’t rest in peace!”