No Greater Love (6 page)

She nodded slowly. “I haven’t heard my brother’s name in twenty years. Yes, marbles,” she said, holding back tears.

“Tomas had a wooden box of beautiful tiger-eye marbles.” She paused and then said pensively, “They were old and most were chipped but we loved them.”

“I had a box of oxblood marbles,” he offered. “They were worn and a little uneven. I think they had been my grandfather’s.”

“Do you still have the marbles?” She opened her hand under his so that they were palm to palm.

He laced his fingers through hers. “Yes. In the right-hand corner of my bottom dresser drawer, in a wooden box with a top that slides open.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Marbles should be treasured by one generation for the next.” After a moment of silence, she said with a slight frown, “Of course when I turned eight and a half, I could only play with girls.”

“So young?” He tried to conceal his astonishment.

“The customs of Eastern Turkey are different from Western Turkey, the European part of Turkey.” She hesitated and then murmured, “Much more conservative.”

A girl is considered to be a woman when she is eight years and eight months old. There are century-old customs, rules, that control every aspect of a girl’s life.” Her words held a note of bitter resignation.

He lifted their clasped hand to his chest. “Tell me about the rules.”

“A well-brought up girl is expected to be quiet, demure, and always obedient. She must obey her father and, if there is no father, her brother, even a younger brother.” She stopped and then in response to a tightening of his hand continued. “A well-brought-up girl never climbs into her brother’s tree house,” she said with an impish smile that was quickly replaced by a frown. “A well-brought-up girl does not wear bright colors, and,” she added wistfully, “never red.”

“Red’s not your color,” he said definitively. “You should wear regal colors—green the color of emeralds, gold the color of orange-blossom honey, and the most royal color of all, purple—aubergine so intense that it is almost black, violet, and amethyst.”

He moved his hand to her shoulder. “A violet dress of heavy silk with tight sleeves.” His hand slid down her arm. “The sleeves should end about two inches above your wrist.” He circled her wrist with his hand. “You have very delicate wrists and long slender fingers.” He studied them for a moment. “No heavy cuffs, just a narrow band of braid with a single button and loop closing.” He moved his hand back to her shoulder. “The neckline,” he began as his fingers traced the image that he had in his mind, “should be low, but not too low.” His fingers stopped at the third button of her cotton shirt. “There should be a cloud of mauve silk chiffon around your shoulders, and”—his fingers had drifted down to rest lightly on her waist—“a fitted waist.” His hand slid lightly over the black wool pants covering her hip. “A full skirt with tiny pleats that will float when you walk.” His hand moved firmly down her thigh to rest a few inches below her knee. “A skirt, no pants.” He nodded, pleased with his choices, and took her hand in his again. “Go on. What other customs?

Janan struggled to regain control of her breathing. No man had ever touched her like that. She had felt an unfamiliar throbbing everywhere his hand had travelled. Her voice was unsteady as she answered, “Girls have to learn how to make oya, lace edgings, to decorate the things that would be part of their trousseaus.” She groaned. “I was so clumsy. My poor mother tried and tried to teach me.”

“Lace must be difficult to make. I think I’ve read that it takes a long time to master the art,” he said in a soft voice.

“In Anatolia, the lace edgings are a secret language of the women. A girl in love would wear a lace edging with purple hyacinths on her head scarf. A happy wife might wear a hot chili lace edging but an unhappy wife would wear a black pepper lace edging.” She looked down at his hand clasping hers and her voice became more serious. “Of course we could never be in a room when men not part of the family were there, and we would never touch any man except for those in the family.” She hurried on, “Mostly, we worked with our mothers and sometimes we visited other girls and played games.”

“What did you play?” He wanted the soft voice with the captivating accent to go on forever.

Her voice was low and musical. “You probably don’t know the game but we played Bes Tas. It’s called Jacks in English, I think.”

“Ah,
Bikkelspel
in Dutch. I’ve seen children play it with a ball, but in the refugee camps, the children play it with pebbles.”

She stilled. “You work with children in refugee camps?”

He answered hesitantly, “A few hours a week.” He settled against the pillow and, still holding her hand, closed his eyes. “Tell me about Erzincan.”

“It is one of the oldest places in Anatolia. It dates back to the Hittites. At one time it had caravansaries, hans or inns, that welcomed the caravans that travelled the Silk Road from China to the Mediterranean.”

“Go on.”

“Think of a beautiful plateau that is enclosed on all sides by snowcapped mountains.” She closed her eyes and said dreamily, “There are trees of all kinds. When a boy is born, the father plants a poplar or pine tree so that he can use the wood when he is grown. When a girl is born, the father plants an apple tree or a mulberry tree.” She opened her eyes and smiled sadly. “Tomas’ was a tall straight poplar and mine was a Persian mulberry.” She sighed. “It had dark-green heart-shaped leaves and the most delicious berries.” She added after a moment of silence, “The berries stained our fingers and lips a bright red that my mother did not appreciate.”

“Mulberry trees,” he murmured as he imagined kissing those perfectly curved lips stained red with berry juice. “Shakespeare wrote about them. They live for years, you know.”

Janan paused studying the face of the man lying beside her—the broad forehead, sharply defined cheekbones, and the square chin with its slight cleft. His eyes were closed but he seemed tense, and as she felt the pressure of his fingers, she continued, “The winters are harsh but,
oh
, the summers. Warm sun, crisp air, and the aromas of different spices floating on the breeze. There are the most delicious smells. There is the smoky scent of eggplant and peppers grilling and the spicy whiff of skewered kebobs dripping their juice onto the charcoal.” She closed her eyes. “Best of all is the smell of buttery borek and the faintest smell of salty, melting cheese.”

“And you want to go back more than anything in the world,” he said without opening his eyes.

“It was my home.” She placed her other hand over their clasped hands and after a long pause said, “Now it’s not so much that I want to go back, to go home, as it is that I want to be home.” She tightened her grasp and hurried on before he could say anything, “And you? What do you want more than anything?”

He answered in a low voice, “My own house. Not my mother’s house. Not my brother’s. Mine.” His voice was faint barely above a whisper. “A house with children.” He opened his eyes, no longer drowsy but now a gleaming black, as he took her hand and pressed a burning kiss to her palm. “I dream the impossible dream. Yes?”

Chapter 5

Janan prowled around the small living room. “It’s getting dark out,” she said for the second time.

“It always gets dark early during these last weeks of March, but it’s only 3:30,” Carl said soothingly from his chair by the fireplace.”

“I should have driven him.” She drew back the curtains so that she could see further down the street.

“He said that he was meeting with his friend at 1 p.m. and these things take time.” Carl thought of the many times he had been faced with delivering bad news to a patient.
At least for Pieter it would be a friend telling him what his future held.
“He and Alan are very close, like brothers.”

“I didn’t realize,” Janan said in a faltering voice. “He said that they had trained together but I did not realize that they were close friends.”

“I think he is closer to Alan than to his own brothers. They went through medical school and much of their training together.” Carl added a small log to the smoldering ones and stirred them with the poker. “About four years ago, Alan’s wife and baby were killed in a car accident. A drunk driver sped through a stop sign and killed them instantly.”

“How awful!” Janan stared at Carl who had resumed his seat. “To find love, to have a child, and then lose it all. How could anyone bear the pain?”

“It was a terribly difficult time for Alan. He had been called in to see a patient. By the time the police reached him, his wife and baby had died. He blamed himself for not being there, for not saving them.” Carl sighed deeply. “He couldn’t work, couldn’t do anything. Pieter came and stayed a month with him, dragging him back from the black edge of nothingness.”

“I should have insisted on driving Pieter,” she said through clenched teeth, remembering the touch of his hand as he described the neckline of the dress he was designing in his mind. “He doesn’t know the thruway. If anything happens to him, I will never be able to forgive myself.”

“I know, but Pieter had to do this himself.” Carl faced her, unable to conceal the worry in his eyes. “He came here for privacy. To find out by himself before he has to face his colleagues in Amsterdam.”

“Yes, but then what?” She voiced the fear that had been with her since Pieter had arrived.

“He will decide what he wants to do,” Carl said quietly.

“What is there to decide?” she snapped. “There must be cutting-edge treatment protocols for whatever they find.”

Carl did not reply.
Both he and Pieter knew that the test would likely confirm leukemia. But which type?
Carl ran the information through his mind again.
Everything pointed to acute lymphocytic leukemia.
Carl tried to shake off the image of
a cancer pouring out so many cancerous cells that normal white blood cells and red blood cells could not compete, could not do their job.
“He said that he would come here from the hospital. We will know soon.”

“I’ll make some coffee.” Janan fled to the kitchen. She had only known Pieter for two days and yet she felt such anguish. What if she should lose him? Her hands shook as she arranged the cups on the tray and chided herself.
You can’t lose what you never had.
At the sound of the doorbell, she froze for a moment before hurrying across the room. She opened the door and reached for him. Then, unable to speak, she dropped her hand and stepped back, holding the door open for him.

“I smell coffee,” Pieter said, calmly stepping inside and slipping off his coat. “I’ve been thinking about your coffee on the drive here.”

Silently, Janan followed him into the living room to stand beside Carl.

“Come, sit down my dear boy,” Carl said gently. “We’ll have our coffee first and then you can tell us about your day.”

As Pieter put down his cup, Janan, who had been sitting rigidly in her chair, jumped up. “Perhaps you would prefer to talk with Carl alone?”

“No. You were there with me yesterday and I’d like you to be here now.” He leaned forward in his chair. “This is the situation. They’ve confirmed that I have acute lymphocytic leukemia.”

Carl’s question came quickly. “Did they do a spinal tap or a head scan?”

“No, they said that they didn’t want to do any more tests since I will be flying home tomorrow morning.”

Carl nodded slowly, turning Pieter’s information over in his mind.
The stage of the illness was still to be determined and whether or not the spinal cord and brain were already involved.
“Do they want you to have those tests in Amsterdam?”

“Yes. They did recommend that.” Pieter shrugged. “My red blood cell count must have been lower than I thought. They gave me some blood. ‘One for the road’ according to Alan.”

“The treatment?” Janan asked in a shaky voice.

“Treatment?” Pieter muttered bleakly.

It was Carl who answered. “The first step is chemotherapy.”

“Chemotherapy.” Pieter scoffed. “Months of chemo in an all-or-nothing try for remission.” He shook his head. “Could be a year of my life.” He stared at the floor. “At the end, if it is successful, I may be unable to have children, practically guaranteed if they use radiation.”

“After remission?” Janan asked with her eyes on Carl.

“It used to be a bone marrow transplant, but now it might be a stem cell transplant,” Carl answered steadily. “There have been very good results with stem cell transplants.”

“Carl’s right, of course.” Pieter spoke quickly, not meeting her eyes.

“They have been trying a new treatment at Erasmus Hospital,” Carl said quietly.

“Where is that?” Janan thrust her hands into her pockets to conceal their shaking.

“In Rotterdam, in The Netherlands.” Carl had been speaking softly with his eyes on the floor but suddenly he raised his head and met Pieter’s eyes. “There’s a trial. They are using the patient’s own T-cells to kill the cancer cells. You should ask them to freeze some of your T-cells before you start chemotherapy treatment.”

“But they are using that for acute myelocytic leukemia not for acute lymphocytic leukemia.” Pieter shifted restlessly in his chair.

“They are trying it for both,” Carl said determinedly.

“I’ve read the preliminary reports.” Pieter’s voice was laced with skepticism. “Some people are cured, that is if they survive the infamous
cytokine storm.
”

“What’s that?” Janan asked.

“It’s a reaction that includes a very rapid pulse, temperature of 105 degrees, huge drop in blood pressure, and terrible hallucinations.”

“Freeze the T-cells,” Carl insisted quietly. “Freeze any other cells that you might want to save.”

“Sperm cells?” Pieter asked caustically as his hand instinctively covered the port-wine birthmark. “There is no one who wants my sperm cells.”

“At least consider the options,” Carl urged.

Pieter nodded and added carelessly, “Amsterdam has a state-of-the-art Leukemia Center. I’m sure they’ll know what to do.” He stood up and looked toward the door. “Let’s talk about how to spend my last evening here,” he said firmly. “I would like you and Janan to be my guests for dinner. I have heard that the Inn has a very good selection of venison dishes.”