A Promise to Break
Yola M. Caecenary
I felt the acid of my stomach rising and got nausea every time I thought about the remorseful promise I’d made. My mother used to say that I shouldn’t make any promises that I couldn’t keep, and I grew up with that value. I’m known as a person who rarely makes promises in life. People sometimes asked me to promise to come to a party, to attend their wedding, promise not to stay late, to anything. My answer was always, "I can’t promise you,” in a more diplomatic way; every time I was pretty sure that I’d not be able to keep it.
For me, breaking a promise equals breaking trust. Breaking trust means breaking one of the core values of my life. I always tried hard to respect them, and I did. I have honoured my life value for thirty years. Now, I am forced to twist my own beliefs after the vow I made before God and His congregations.
"Divorce him! You're not a Catholic," said Kenan, my best friend after I told him that my husband had laid his hand on me just because I had refused to cook dinner that night. After the week of endless deadlines at work, I finally was exhausted, taking a bath and snuggling under a blanket was the only thing I needed and wanted.
"I'll pretend that I didn't hear that from you," I said abruptly. I know that my best friend didn't mean harm to me. But asking me to break my marriage vow was outrageous. "I said 'yes' to his proposal, chose to marry him, willingly. How could you ask me to do that?"
“Dilara, look, how far are you going to let Mert do this to you? Are you waiting until you wake up in a hospital bed?”
“Saçmalama! Abartıyorsun. He only did it once,” I said again with an unwilled defence.
“If you let it happen once, he'll do it again." Kenan pushed me to leave the man to whom I'd been married to for three years. We had brunch around Pierre Loti Hill on one sunny Sunday. The sky was beautifully blue with thin clouds. We had a place on the terrace in the corner with a clear view of the Haliç. With my fork, I played with my food. Kenan sipped his coffee. Words were going out from our minds and nesting in the trees shading the tables. The leaves were giggling and playing around with the wind. A bunch of words leapt from one table to another as people interacted with each other. Something was telling me that Kenan was watching me, so I raised my head to meet his eyes. Kenan and I have always had each other's back. I looked at him with baffled eyes. He looked at me straight and sharp. I felt breathless and was about to leave the table for a moment when Kenan stopped me. The words backed into our minds. Kenan held my hands with the same expression. I looked at him impatiently. I was going to protest when Kenan opened his mouth.
“Have you forgotten your mother? Your father had a first time too.”
I let go of Kenan's hands tempestuously and struck the knife and the fork on the sides, made them wham into the wooden floor. The wind and the leaves ceased their play. The voices from other tables silenced and without looking at the people around, we knew most of the eyes were watching us. Kenan asked for new eating utensils from the waiter. I gazed at him with fires while my hands gripped the edge of the table. I felt my heart pumping fast, and my chest moving up and down. The soreness related to my late mother disturbed me. Kenan looked at me, calmly. I cursed him in my heart for being that calm. Soon after the waiter brought the new knife and fork, two teardrops fell from my eyes.
“You hurt me,” I said slowly, deeply, and painfully.
"I'm truly sorry, Dilara. I realised I would hurt you, but to open your eyes to the fact that this won't only happen once."
I didn't let the next tears drop. Inhaling the air, I wiped the residual tears from my face.
*
I was seven when my father hit my mother for the first time. I remembered how I begged my father to stop laying his hands on my mother. I cried and pulled my father away. I saw blood coming from my mother's lips and, with my little fingers, I tried to clean the wound. I remembered how my mother tried to calm me by hugging me. I slept with her that night. In the morning, I saw my father crying. He laid his head on my mother's lap expecting forgiveness. My mother was just stiff, sitting on the chair. Her arms were hanging beside her. After thousands of words of remorse, my mother started to move her arms and stroked her husband's hair. I understood how my parents had restored their relationships that day and that my mother had forgiven the kind of man that later I'd promise not to marry myself.
*
I completely lost my appetite and decided to leave the restaurant. Kenan tried to stop me. Wordless, I looked at him. Kenan understood that there’s no point in hindering me. After asking for the bill, he followed me. He gave me some space by walking two steps behind.
While we were waiting for the cable car taking us back downhill, I said “You take the next cable one,” said to Kenan without emotion.
“I won’t leave you.”
“I mean it.”
“Dilara, you can yell at me. You can hit me. But I won’t leave you.”
I looked at Kenan. “Hit you? Can’t you understand that laying hands on someone is an issue for me now?”
“Dilara …”
I made sure Kenan was not in the same cable car as me. Kenan unwillingly agreed. He took the next one. He tried to call and text me to make sure I’m all right. After ignoring them for quite some time, in the taxi that drove me back to Levent, I responded with a mere answer telling him I’m okay. I threw my sight to the traffic of İstanbul and rewound some parts of the film of my life.
*
I didn’t know how hard my father hit my mother at that time. But for sure, it was the last time my father put his hand on my mother. I was in Tarsus for my research when Kenan called and asked me to come back to İstanbul immediately. I asked him what was going on, but he didn't give an answer. I knew for sure that he would never call me and insist on me returning if it wasn't crucial. I kept all the questions inside and packed my things as fast as I could. Kenan picked me up at Sabiha Gökçen that day. All the questions held, burst out. I demanded that he tells me the matter, but he hid all the emotions and kept driving. The pressed feelings protruded from my heart when the car entered the entrance of a hospital at Acıbadem. I couldn't ask more questions and let Kenan hold my hand and lead me through the stairs and halls of the hospital. Stepping out from the lift and reading ICU numbed my limbs. He halted his steps as I stopped. I befuddled. He approached me, took my hand, and laid it around his arm. Tenderly, he led me to step. When I heard Kenan address me as the daughter to the nurse, I felt my world collapse. I walked towards the bed where my mother was lying heavily. As if a prisoner with a ball and chain attached to their legs.
Pain, anger, fear, and confusion took over my body and soul as I tried to reach my mother. Quivering, I held my mother's hand. My tears broke the dam that I unconsciously had built. I saw bruises on her face and a stitch around her lips. She couldn't breathe by herself. A ventilator helped her take in and release the O2 and CO2. She took a breath shortly as if something was restraining her. Her eyes closed tiredly. I looked thoroughly at her weak body, and I saw bruises all over her arms. My breath started to choke in my throat as if I felt the suffering. A doctor came and expressed his sympathy and explained my mother's condition; I couldn't accept and believe it. All I could remember was that my mother suffered a severe injury and they could do nothing.
"Your father is at the police station, and he has confessed to what he did," Kenan said, almost whispered, behind me.
“He’s not my father,” I said, quick and sharp. I felt a blade coming out from an iceberg, which grew in my heart just a second after I said that. I never visited my father in prison, not even after his lawyer repeatedly tried to reach me.
My mother never opened her eyes again. I didn’t have the chance to say goodbye to her. The only hope I had that she could see and hear me from her realm.
*
Entering my bedroom, I found a silver silk dress laying on the bed. I stood for a second and then walked to the edge of the bed. I touched the silky texture of the dress and felt the smoothness on my skin. Beside the dress, a velvet-textured black box was placed. I reached out for it and read the note written on it. Sevgilim, lütfen akşam saat 8’de hazır ol. I opened the box and saw a necklace and a pair of diamond earrings in it. I gazed at them and touched them. I put the box down and sighed. I went to the bathroom, lit the Bourbon vanilla scented candle and immersed myself into the warmth of the bath-salted water with my reverie along with Debussy played from my room and tripped deep to my realm.
My hair was still wrapped in a towel. I was wearing my bathrobe when I reached for the gown, putting it in front of me and looking at myself in the mirror. I put it on. It showed my neckline beautifully. I French twisted my hair and secured it with a silver barrette. I sat at my dresser and applied the evening scent and make-up. I looked at myself in the mirror, then I took the necklace and the earrings and put them on. I regarded the person in front of me who imitated all my expression and body language perfectly, and I realised with my flawless look that something was missing. I smiled. The emulator started to stretch my face muscles up that brought my eyes shining until someone opened the front door.
Mert arrived at eight. He wore a suit and had a bouquet of roses in his hand that he gave to me then admired my look.
“Çok güzelsin.”
I put a little smile on my face. In front of me stood a man that made me say ‘yes’ when he proposed to me a thousand days ago.
The surprises did not end with the evening invitation and the flowers. I knew by heart the road taken and before arrived, the ambience of the restaurant where Mert proposed to me appeared in my mind. And, there was where he exactly stopped the car. I didn't stop posing questions in my heart, yet I wore a poker face all the way there. I relied on what might the evening offer.
The waiter led the way to the table that Mert had reserved; it wasn't a surprise for me that it was the same table at which Mert kneeled and presented the ring, which now remained around my finger. It appeared to me, Mert was trying to reenact the proposal night as the waiter poured wine with the same name and year and later came with the exact appetiser we’d had. Then I noticed two violinists play the same exact music. I viewed my husband, trying to capture the reason behind this—not actually—déjà vu evening.
No, tonight is not the same date as that memorable night. It is not my birthday nor his. The calendar doesn't show the day of our wedding day either. We were not engaged on this day, and I know for sure, it isn't the day of the first time we met or the first date.
I maintained my silence, while my mind kept speculating.
Is he trying to show his ruefulness and to re-declare his love for me? He did apologise the minute after he hit me, but maybe he sensed that I hadn’t forgiven him.
I froze my mind for a second.
Have I forgiven him?
I questioned myself. I never really thought about it. I was hurt and angry that night. After that night, a part of me was numb. I didn't see it as my feelings that were numb. Four and a half years of togetherness, Mert never abused me, not even with words. That shock benumbed me.
Sensing the change of my expression, I backed to focus on the person who sat in front of me, smiling. At first, I was not infected by the smile, but slowly I smiled little by little while my mind played another scenario.
Perhaps something extraordinary happened in his career and he wanted to tell me that he got a chance to be a speaker in an international forum at John Hopkins; I let my mind think anything. Even though it was great news, can't he find another way to celebrate?
I still saw the moment happened three years ago in this restaurant as a special and intimate for me.
“You must have questions in your mind why I brought you here?” asked Mert.
“Isn't it normal?" I answered, augmenting my smile.
Mert smiled, "Because you are special."
My pupils slightly dilated hearing that. I threw my vision across the table for a second, then back to Mert's eyes that were looking at me with the look that reminded me how I felt safe with him.
Am I safe with him? Can I still feel safe?
Before my mind took me to another question, Mert continued with his words. "You are important to me, and we didn't need special reasons to celebrate life with someone important."
I'm important to him. Isn't it supposed to be like that? That your wife is important to you and vice versa? Or did I start to take this for granted? And how can you say that someone is important to you yet you harm that person? Am I supposed to swallow this sentiment?
I gave up on all the questions that consumed my tranquillity and inhaled the air as much as I could. I took my wine glass and was about to take a sip when Mert grabbed his and proposed a toast.
"To the important person in my life," he said, raising his glass.
"To the special me," I replied with a weird feeling, with a flat smile on my face.
I wasn't sure; was it because I was bored of speculating, or because of the wine and the music, or the ambience and the memories, or the numbness of my feeling. I was carried away by the evening. After the delightful dessert, Mert rose from his chair and bowed asking for a dance. I hesitated but how could I ruin the perfect night that already halfway went well. Under the moonlight, the Debussy's Clair De Lune beautifully played from the strings of the violinists. Our eyes met between the notes, and the wind playfully greeted and sent me a glimpse of sandalwood from Mert's aftershave that I always liked. Mert brought me closer, and I laid my head on his chest. I closed my eyes, and the music and the scent sent me bliss.
It was late when we closed the front door. I stood behind the door and glared at Mert who was taking off his coat and hooked it. Mert looked at me. I stood like a statue. Mert stepped forward, but before he approached further, I took steps and kissed him.
Freeing myself from Mert's arms, I folded my arms, trying to feel the good sense I'd known. Was I still able to sense it or no? I couldn't decide yet since Mert suddenly caught my waist and placed another kiss. I didn't, couldn't and wouldn't resist. I felt one of his hands loosened my barrette, and in a single moment, my hair fell freely, and the gardenia scent from my shampoo that was previously locked in my hair strips was released. In the spur of the moment, Mert gently osculated my forehead, temples, eyes, nose, cheeks, lips, and neck and I sensed the alternated scents of sandalwood, gardenia, and Bourbon vanilla even stronger.
The moment I opened my eyes, I looked at the digital clock on my nightstand and found 3:27 printed there. I tried to slither but hindered by an arm around my waist. I turned around and found Mert peacefully sleeping beside me. Slowly, I fixed my position to be able to see the face of the man that I was sure to live with for the rest of my life, three years ago. The opened balcony let the wind stay and play with the soft curtain while sending the tiny parts of moonlight into our bedroom. With that little light, I was able to see the silhouette of him. My hand moved to touch his hair. I started to question my feelings but immediately felt tired of being in the same pond of questions and reminisced one of my conversations with my mother instead.
*
“Why don’t you just file for divorce?”
“You want me to divorce your father?”
“I don’t want something bad to happen to you.”
“Dilara, meleğim, kuzum, maybe you see me weak and foolish to endure this marriage. I’m hurt, yes, but I promised God to stay faithful in my marriage.”
“Mum, he hurt you physically and mentally. He broke your heart a billion times.”
“Oh … my dear daughter, I know. You might say it’s ridiculous, and no one should live under that kind of fear. You’re right,” She stroked my hair tenderly. “I can go anytime. But I choose to stay and let God interfere. He will guard me and you, and your father. He will keep this family safe.”
My mouth reopened ready to give another opinion but nothing came out. I couldn't say anything further when my mother already placed God in between. I can't compete with Him. I just wished I could've suggested her to seek help at that time; a counsellor or anyone who might be able to talk with her besides me. Maybe, deep inside me, I had wanted to see my mother being free from my father. I thought of her simple faith and wondered; would I be able to have the same belief if I sail the same boat as my parents' marriage.
*
The ezan called out. Mert turned to the other side, freed me to get up. I put on my night-robe and went to the kitchen. Waiting for the tea soaking in the demlik, I asked another Q and A to my brain and heart. My issue turned to be as eating simalakama fruit; an idiom that my best friend from Indonesia always said when in any options taken, wouldn't give any good outcomes. Now, I felt like walking on a string without a safety over a ravine, while at the two edges of the string, crawled two big venomous spiders. Either I made a jump or not, both were heading to a tragedy.
I gave a thorough sigh and poured a glass of tea. I brought the tea glass to the square table that faced the large window. The dawn started to appear and pushed aside the city lights. I could see the silhouette of my face on the window, and somehow I witnessed some fragments of my life appeared as slides that presented one by one. They started with the moment when I almost lost my trust in men and was about to loathe them when I realised how faithful Kenan was. He consoled me in my grief when the hand of a man whom I had called as baba took my mother’s life away. The slide followed consecutively by the ones of my days spent with Mert; our laughter, arguments, joy, and tears that created a bouquet of love and happiness for me to say ‘yes’ on his proposal.
To divorce Mert or not to divorce Mert, to break my own promise or to keep it; I had promised myself not to prison my soul with any man like my father as well as I promised to be devoted to my marriage for as long as I live. Should I keep one promise, and break the other? As if I am eating simalakama fruit.
I considered many things, questioned a lot of things, readjusted my mind, and glued my broken heart. Thin clouds already wiped off the dark of the sky and made it lighter and brighter but not shining enough to wake Mert up when I went to the bathroom.
I had made calls to two professionals, a marriage counsellor and a lawyer, to arrange an appointment with them sometime today before I dealt with the menemen and sucuk, coffee and tea, and had breakfast with Mert. Mert and I didn’t talk much at the table; we didn’t even bring the last night up in our light conversation, which was relieving for me. Mert dropped me off at my office before heading to the hospital.
I had made my decision and while on the way to the office, amidst the İstanbul's traffic, I texted Kenan.
*