change he wanted her to take more shells for her money. She pointed to one that more clearly resembled a sand dollar, and he nodded in approval. He knelt and, using a checkered cloth napkin, cleaned the sand from the shell before handing it to her.
“Thank you,” she said. “Tea and sugar.”
Yvonne returned to her beach towel, and as she sat down she again noticed the roughness of its texture. She closed her eyes to the sun, and her mind wandered to a fight she had had with Aurelia when Aurelia was a teenager. Aurelia had claimed that Yvonne loved her like any of her students,that she would have loved her if she had been bubbly or even dumb.
“Exactly,” Yvonne said. “That’s what being a parent is.”
“But I want you to love me specifically for who I am,” Aurelia said.
“Well, who are you, specifically?” Yvonne asked.
“See! You don’t even know!”
Tears were forming in the corners of Yvonne’s eyes. She wiped them away with her damp and sandy hands.
She heard laughter, and opened her eyes. The boy. He was standing in front of her, his shells wrapped in his towel and tossed over his shoulder. It appeared he had been walking past Yvonne and then stopped when something she had done amused him.
“What?” she said.
The boy pointed to her face. Then he dug down until he reached the darker patch of sand a few inches below the surface of the beach. He dipped his index finger and raised it and, with the wet sand, drew stripes on his face that started at his eyes and extended downward.
Yvonne understood. She took the edge of her towel and wiped away the sand on her cheeks. “All gone?” she said. “Better?”
The boy nodded. She was fine.
“Thank you,” Yvonne said. The boy switched his grip on his towel and lifted the makeshift sack to the other shoulder. He waved to Yvonne and continued walking. Don’t leave , she thought. She stared at his back, his small, narrow shoulders,and wished he would turn around. But he continued walking, and Yvonne was left alone.
She pressed a finger to the skin of her arms. Pink, like the inside of a shell. It had been a long time since she had exposed herself like this, and for so long. After taking a final dip in the ocean to cool her skin, she dried off carefully and completely, and made her way toward the parking lot.
A waiter at the restaurant gave her what seemed to be an unkind look as she walked past. Was that possible? No , she told herself. She drove back through Yakaköy, and this time stopped at the side of the road where an old woman sat on a low stool, hammering nuts on a small tree trunk. Yvonne rolled down the window and the woman stood and held out a large plastic bag of almonds. Their hands met as they made the exchange, and then they each nodded before Yvonne drove off. She bit into a large almond and could taste sun and dust. She ate another, and another, and vowed that each day she returned to Knidos—for she already knew she would spend the remaining days of her vacation in Knidos, her nights in Datça—she would buy almonds from a different woman standing by the side of the road.
Soon there was no one on the road, and the mountains around her seemed both taller and farther away. She felt loneliness seeping into her stomach, her chest, and she tried to stop it from spreading. It wouldn’t be long before she saw Özlem and Deniz again, she told herself, and she was promptly rewarded with the small thrill that came with nascent friendship, with sharing life stories. Peter had beenthe one who got to tell the good stories and now, suddenly, Yvonne longed for the opportunity to tell them herself. Or rather, she longed for the opportunity to see if she would tell them differently.
“Yvonne and I fell in love through the Italian postal service,” Peter would say to anyone who asked. And, for the first fifteen years of their marriage, people asked all the time. How did you meet? They wanted to believe the secret to a happy marriage could be
“Thank you,” she said. “Tea and sugar.”
Yvonne returned to her beach towel, and as she sat down she again noticed the roughness of its texture. She closed her eyes to the sun, and her mind wandered to a fight she had had with Aurelia when Aurelia was a teenager. Aurelia had claimed that Yvonne loved her like any of her students,that she would have loved her if she had been bubbly or even dumb.
“Exactly,” Yvonne said. “That’s what being a parent is.”
“But I want you to love me specifically for who I am,” Aurelia said.
“Well, who are you, specifically?” Yvonne asked.
“See! You don’t even know!”
Tears were forming in the corners of Yvonne’s eyes. She wiped them away with her damp and sandy hands.
She heard laughter, and opened her eyes. The boy. He was standing in front of her, his shells wrapped in his towel and tossed over his shoulder. It appeared he had been walking past Yvonne and then stopped when something she had done amused him.
“What?” she said.
The boy pointed to her face. Then he dug down until he reached the darker patch of sand a few inches below the surface of the beach. He dipped his index finger and raised it and, with the wet sand, drew stripes on his face that started at his eyes and extended downward.
Yvonne understood. She took the edge of her towel and wiped away the sand on her cheeks. “All gone?” she said. “Better?”
The boy nodded. She was fine.
“Thank you,” Yvonne said. The boy switched his grip on his towel and lifted the makeshift sack to the other shoulder. He waved to Yvonne and continued walking. Don’t leave , she thought. She stared at his back, his small, narrow shoulders,and wished he would turn around. But he continued walking, and Yvonne was left alone.
She pressed a finger to the skin of her arms. Pink, like the inside of a shell. It had been a long time since she had exposed herself like this, and for so long. After taking a final dip in the ocean to cool her skin, she dried off carefully and completely, and made her way toward the parking lot.
A waiter at the restaurant gave her what seemed to be an unkind look as she walked past. Was that possible? No , she told herself. She drove back through Yakaköy, and this time stopped at the side of the road where an old woman sat on a low stool, hammering nuts on a small tree trunk. Yvonne rolled down the window and the woman stood and held out a large plastic bag of almonds. Their hands met as they made the exchange, and then they each nodded before Yvonne drove off. She bit into a large almond and could taste sun and dust. She ate another, and another, and vowed that each day she returned to Knidos—for she already knew she would spend the remaining days of her vacation in Knidos, her nights in Datça—she would buy almonds from a different woman standing by the side of the road.
Soon there was no one on the road, and the mountains around her seemed both taller and farther away. She felt loneliness seeping into her stomach, her chest, and she tried to stop it from spreading. It wouldn’t be long before she saw Özlem and Deniz again, she told herself, and she was promptly rewarded with the small thrill that came with nascent friendship, with sharing life stories. Peter had beenthe one who got to tell the good stories and now, suddenly, Yvonne longed for the opportunity to tell them herself. Or rather, she longed for the opportunity to see if she would tell them differently.
“Yvonne and I fell in love through the Italian postal service,” Peter would say to anyone who asked. And, for the first fifteen years of their marriage, people asked all the time. How did you meet? They wanted to believe the secret to a happy marriage could be
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