“Are you sure you have to . . . .” The question, unformed, died, but she caught his
lips just as they curled to form words. They kissed deeply, almost immediately,
embarrassment fading behind generous, sucking mouths. Elian held on to both her
ears as though he was steering a yacht, or as someone might carefully maneuver a
periscope from within the confines of a submarine to see—incredibly—what’s above
water.
When she moved her hand downwards, fumbling with his zipper, he grabbed it and
shoved it away, reaching again for her ears, clinging, steering them back on course.
* * *
The hospital horrifies her. The strong smell of sickness and its futile antiseptic cures
hang heavily around the information desk. Pipes are visible outside of concrete
walls—nuts and bolts rusting—things not meant to be seen. And everywhere the
blue and red pipes lie exposed.
When Elizabeth reaches the 4th floor, she sees them all sitting on a wooden bench
in a small corridor. Katerina, Juan, Michali, Diana, her husband, and their baby. Elian
is closest to her; his arms are folded on his knees and his head is buried there. He
doesn't see her walk towards them; he sees nothing. When she reaches him she
gives him an awkward pat on the top of his head. He looks up briefly with red-raw
eyes, then cushions his head once again between his elbows..
She realizes when she talks to the rest of them that she is no good at consoling.
She is sharply aware of the importance of looking concerned, but feels completely
outside of their grief, as if they have wrapped a makeshift shelter around
themselves, and there is no room for her. Her brain quickly conjures up the bodily
speech for worry: it wills eyebrows to knot together, lips to purse and curl down.
She looks hard at Elian’s sister, Diana, trying to gauge how bad things are with
Carla, and with them all. Diana’s features point towards some strange place at the
centre of her face. From her Elizabeth discovers that they don't really believe their
mother is going to be all right. This astounds her, because she knows—she knows—
that Carla isn't going to die. But for now she enters their emotion, keeps pace with
the fear running in visible lines around their bodies. She tisks and shakes her head
slowly, mimicking the movements of many grieving Cypriot grandmothers in scenes
on TV, old, bent women who lost their sons in the Turkish invasion of 1974. She
asks about Carla and hears that she almost died twice in the Larnaca hospital, that
she's already undergone two surgeries, and that the third surgery here is an effort
to stabilize her and get her out of critical condition. At the Larnaca hospital, there
weren't any specialists who could breathe air back into lungs, sew together
ruptured spleens, re-build rib cages, or fix damaged livers.
She asks about Carla, but she is more worried about Elian now, especially because
she can feel that she’s already missed out on so much; they've already almost lost
her twice, as a group, up all night, and she wasn't there—didn't see him bang his
head against the wall when they brought out his mother's light green shirt with
blood on the frills.
* * *
Carla and Juan were shouting at each other outside of Elian's room. Elizabeth
listened to them, catching her breath. She felt her heart squeeze tightly with each
beat, leaving her shoulders raised almost to her ears with the strain. Elian sat
beside her on the bed and they stared forward, faces strained towards the back of
the white door. The shine on it reflected the bright afternoon sun which flared and
waned with the intonation of the voices just outside. She couldn't understand the
Spanish, so she listened instead to the sounds.
Carla was high-pitched and wailing. “Aiyee! Aiyee! Aiyee!” Her voice held and
contained Juan's outbursts, his screams flooding, rushing through the cracks
underneath the door. Elizabeth tried to process his rage. It oiled the sides of his
throat, letting the untapped sounds within him rush out in a stream of accusations.
A furious ache unleashed. Den eisai mamma! He was speaking Greek. You're not a
mother!
And then Elizabeth heard another voice. For a second she thought that their
stepfather, Michali, had joined in. The voice was deep and guttural, resonating with
a raw, unreal echo, as though they were hiding a synthesizer somewhere in the
hallway. It was impossibly deep. But this voice was speaking Spanish—it was their
mother. Elian had been smoking a cigarette and nervously pacing. Now he stubbed
it out and came to kneel by Elizabeth's legs, wrapping his arms around her calves.
But the next instant he was on his feet again and moving towards the door. His
hand reached out to the white door handle. It stayed there.
Elizabeth had read of fury like this. She had read of sounds that goaded, that tore
up a person, trembled and shook bodies; she'd heard of fury that was beast-like,
that had no place in real life. But she didn't recognize the intensity of hatred that
twisted Carla's vocal chords, mutated sounds into a spitting, frothing ooze. When
they heard the banging noises Elian came again to kneel by Elizabeth's. It sounded
as if someone had lifted the couch and thrown it against the wall. Elizabeth watched
the white shine on the door ripple with the vibration. She looked down at Elian's
head in her lap, at the early bald patch forming amid the black tangles, shiny and
porous. She considered asking him if he should go out, at least, to see if they were
okay. Juan's voice was now pleading, his pain cushioned in Spanish vowels. Carla
called on Greek gods and Spanish angels to help her.
Then there was sudden quiet, a slammed door and a ripple, and Elizabeth loosened
fingers that had been clutching the black hair in her lap. She whispered into it, “I'm
sorry.”
She felt his fingers, buried in the backs of her knees, work down her legs and curl
around her feet. “You make me feel safe,” he said to them.
* * *
She is sitting next to Elian on the bench. There isn't much room, and she has to sit
close. She doesn’t know what else to do because he won't look up at her, and
Diana has already pressed her hand meaningfully and thanked her for being there
for her brother. His silence embarrasses her. She looks around and wonders if
anyone can see that they don't look like two people who love each other. Mainly
because she can feel their eyes on her, she leans and whispers into his left ear.
“Eisai kala, are you okay?”
His head moves forward in a noncommittal nod. He keeps looking at the floor. She
places her hand hesitantly on his neck and squeezes, then realises how inadequate
this gesture seems, like football players reassuring themselves before a game. So
she puts her arm around him and kisses his neck. But it's no use. Now Elizabeth can
see only the curl of his shoulders rounded firmly against her, even the hairs on his
neck seem to shift and bristle away from her touch.
next page
lips just as they curled to form words. They kissed deeply, almost immediately,
embarrassment fading behind generous, sucking mouths. Elian held on to both her
ears as though he was steering a yacht, or as someone might carefully maneuver a
periscope from within the confines of a submarine to see—incredibly—what’s above
water.
When she moved her hand downwards, fumbling with his zipper, he grabbed it and
shoved it away, reaching again for her ears, clinging, steering them back on course.
* * *
The hospital horrifies her. The strong smell of sickness and its futile antiseptic cures
hang heavily around the information desk. Pipes are visible outside of concrete
walls—nuts and bolts rusting—things not meant to be seen. And everywhere the
blue and red pipes lie exposed.
When Elizabeth reaches the 4th floor, she sees them all sitting on a wooden bench
in a small corridor. Katerina, Juan, Michali, Diana, her husband, and their baby. Elian
is closest to her; his arms are folded on his knees and his head is buried there. He
doesn't see her walk towards them; he sees nothing. When she reaches him she
gives him an awkward pat on the top of his head. He looks up briefly with red-raw
eyes, then cushions his head once again between his elbows..
She realizes when she talks to the rest of them that she is no good at consoling.
She is sharply aware of the importance of looking concerned, but feels completely
outside of their grief, as if they have wrapped a makeshift shelter around
themselves, and there is no room for her. Her brain quickly conjures up the bodily
speech for worry: it wills eyebrows to knot together, lips to purse and curl down.
She looks hard at Elian’s sister, Diana, trying to gauge how bad things are with
Carla, and with them all. Diana’s features point towards some strange place at the
centre of her face. From her Elizabeth discovers that they don't really believe their
mother is going to be all right. This astounds her, because she knows—she knows—
that Carla isn't going to die. But for now she enters their emotion, keeps pace with
the fear running in visible lines around their bodies. She tisks and shakes her head
slowly, mimicking the movements of many grieving Cypriot grandmothers in scenes
on TV, old, bent women who lost their sons in the Turkish invasion of 1974. She
asks about Carla and hears that she almost died twice in the Larnaca hospital, that
she's already undergone two surgeries, and that the third surgery here is an effort
to stabilize her and get her out of critical condition. At the Larnaca hospital, there
weren't any specialists who could breathe air back into lungs, sew together
ruptured spleens, re-build rib cages, or fix damaged livers.
She asks about Carla, but she is more worried about Elian now, especially because
she can feel that she’s already missed out on so much; they've already almost lost
her twice, as a group, up all night, and she wasn't there—didn't see him bang his
head against the wall when they brought out his mother's light green shirt with
blood on the frills.
* * *
Carla and Juan were shouting at each other outside of Elian's room. Elizabeth
listened to them, catching her breath. She felt her heart squeeze tightly with each
beat, leaving her shoulders raised almost to her ears with the strain. Elian sat
beside her on the bed and they stared forward, faces strained towards the back of
the white door. The shine on it reflected the bright afternoon sun which flared and
waned with the intonation of the voices just outside. She couldn't understand the
Spanish, so she listened instead to the sounds.
Carla was high-pitched and wailing. “Aiyee! Aiyee! Aiyee!” Her voice held and
contained Juan's outbursts, his screams flooding, rushing through the cracks
underneath the door. Elizabeth tried to process his rage. It oiled the sides of his
throat, letting the untapped sounds within him rush out in a stream of accusations.
A furious ache unleashed. Den eisai mamma! He was speaking Greek. You're not a
mother!
And then Elizabeth heard another voice. For a second she thought that their
stepfather, Michali, had joined in. The voice was deep and guttural, resonating with
a raw, unreal echo, as though they were hiding a synthesizer somewhere in the
hallway. It was impossibly deep. But this voice was speaking Spanish—it was their
mother. Elian had been smoking a cigarette and nervously pacing. Now he stubbed
it out and came to kneel by Elizabeth's legs, wrapping his arms around her calves.
But the next instant he was on his feet again and moving towards the door. His
hand reached out to the white door handle. It stayed there.
Elizabeth had read of fury like this. She had read of sounds that goaded, that tore
up a person, trembled and shook bodies; she'd heard of fury that was beast-like,
that had no place in real life. But she didn't recognize the intensity of hatred that
twisted Carla's vocal chords, mutated sounds into a spitting, frothing ooze. When
they heard the banging noises Elian came again to kneel by Elizabeth's. It sounded
as if someone had lifted the couch and thrown it against the wall. Elizabeth watched
the white shine on the door ripple with the vibration. She looked down at Elian's
head in her lap, at the early bald patch forming amid the black tangles, shiny and
porous. She considered asking him if he should go out, at least, to see if they were
okay. Juan's voice was now pleading, his pain cushioned in Spanish vowels. Carla
called on Greek gods and Spanish angels to help her.
Then there was sudden quiet, a slammed door and a ripple, and Elizabeth loosened
fingers that had been clutching the black hair in her lap. She whispered into it, “I'm
sorry.”
She felt his fingers, buried in the backs of her knees, work down her legs and curl
around her feet. “You make me feel safe,” he said to them.
* * *
She is sitting next to Elian on the bench. There isn't much room, and she has to sit
close. She doesn’t know what else to do because he won't look up at her, and
Diana has already pressed her hand meaningfully and thanked her for being there
for her brother. His silence embarrasses her. She looks around and wonders if
anyone can see that they don't look like two people who love each other. Mainly
because she can feel their eyes on her, she leans and whispers into his left ear.
“Eisai kala, are you okay?”
His head moves forward in a noncommittal nod. He keeps looking at the floor. She
places her hand hesitantly on his neck and squeezes, then realises how inadequate
this gesture seems, like football players reassuring themselves before a game. So
she puts her arm around him and kisses his neck. But it's no use. Now Elizabeth can
see only the curl of his shoulders rounded firmly against her, even the hairs on his
neck seem to shift and bristle away from her touch.
next page
photo by Louise LeGresley