The Island of Missing Trees(35)
Kostas, listening carefully, nodded. He was about to say something but held back, wanting to give Ada the chance to bond with her aunt.
Meryem slapped her forehead. ‘Oh, yes, butterflies! Now I remember. Where’s my mind? I forgot to give you something important. Come with me. It’s in my room – somewhere!’
But Ada had already lost interest in the conversation, having seen another cruel comment posted under her video. It took her a few seconds to understand what her aunt was asking.
‘Go on, love.’ Kostas gestured with his chin, encouraging.
Reluctantly, Ada stood up. By now her video had been shared so many times it had gone viral. Complete strangers were commenting on her behaviour as if they had always known her. Memes, cartoons. Not all were bad, though. There were messages of support too, many of them, in fact. A woman in Iceland had recorded herself against a magnificent landscape, screaming at the top of her voice as a geyser went off in the background. Underneath was a hashtag that Ada noticed many others had also been using: #doyouhearmenow.
Not knowing what to make of any of this, but sorely in need of a break from her own trammelled thoughts, Ada tucked the mobile into her pocket and followed her aunt.
When she walked into the guest room, Ada almost didn’t recognize the place. Against the lilac-painted walls and pastel-green furniture that her mother had carefully chosen, her aunt’s suitcases lay open like gored, bleeding animals, clothes, shoes and accessories scattered everywhere.
‘Sorry for the mess, canim,’ said Meryem.
‘It’s okay.’
‘I blame the menopause. All my life I’ve tidied up after my sister, my husband, my parents. Even when I’d go to a restaurant, I’d clean up the table so the waiter wouldn’t think badly of us. Because it’s ayip. Are you familiar with that word? It means “shame”. It’s the word of my life. Don’t wear short skirts. Sit with your legs together. Don’t laugh out loud. Girls don’t do that. Girls don’t do this. It’s ayip. I was always tidy and organized but lately something happened. I don’t want to clean up any more. I’m just not going to bother.’
Startled by the soliloquy, Ada gave a half-shrug. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘Good. Come, sit.’
Shoving aside a pile of necklaces, Meryem cleared a small patch on the bed. Ada perched there, staring in wonder at the jumble of objects on every side.
‘Oh, look what I found,’ said Meryem as she pulled out a box of Turkish delight from under a pile of clothes and opened it. ‘I’ve been wondering where they were. I brought five of these. Here, take it.’
‘No, thanks. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,’ Ada said, slightly disappointed that the important thing her aunt had meant to give her turned out to be confectionery.
‘Really? I thought everyone had a sweet tooth.’ Meryem popped a lokum into her mouth and sucked on it thoughtfully. ‘You are so skinny. You don’t need to diet.’
‘I’m not on a diet!’
‘Okay, just saying.’
Sighing, Ada leaned forward and selected a lokum. It had been some time since she had tasted one. The smell of rosewater and the gummy, sticky texture reminded her of things from way back, things she thought she had long forgotten.
When Ada was seven years old, she had seen a velvet box just like this one next to her mother’s bed. Expecting to find a treat, she had opened it without a thought. Inside, in various colours and sizes, there were only pills. It had seemed wrong somehow, all those tablets and capsules hiding in such a pretty container. She had felt a sudden clench, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. From that day on, every now and then she had checked the box, noticing its contents dwindle fast, only to be renewed. At no point had she found the courage to ask her mother why she kept the box on her bedside table or why she was taking so much medicine every day.
Swallowing down her lokum, Ada eyed the clothes heaped on the carpet. A coral beaded jacket, an electric-blue dress with puffy organza sleeves, a leopard-print ruffled blouse, a pistachio-green skirt out of a fabric so shiny you could see your reflection …
‘Wow, you really go for colour!’
‘I want to,’ Meryem said, glancing down at the dress she had put on today – charcoal, plain, loose-fitting. ‘All my life I have worn blacks, browns and greys. Your mum would make fun of my taste. She’d say I must be the only teenage girl who dressed like a widow. I don’t think I was the only one, but she had a point.’
‘What about all these clothes, then, aren’t they yours?’
‘They are! I’ve been buying them ever since I signed the divorce papers. But I’ve never worn them. I just kept them in the wardrobe with their tags on. When I decided to come to London, I said to myself, “This is your chance, Meryem. No one knows you in England, no one is going to say it’s ayip. If you won’t do it now, when will you ever do it?” So I brought them all with me.’
‘But then why aren’t you wearing them?’
Meryem’s cheeks flushed pink. ‘I can’t. They are too over the top for my age, don’t you think? People would laugh at me. You know what they say: eat according to your own taste, dress according to others’.’
‘There is a storm outside, we are stuck in the house! Who’s going to laugh at you? And besides, who cares?’