Gamze

By Christopher Fryer

*

“She is asking where is your family,” said the doctor, checking John’s temperature with the back of his dark freckled hand against John’s sweaty forehead. “Do you speak any Turkish?”

“Not much,” he admitted, wiping away the sweat. Turkey was a much warmer country than he expected. “But I brought a guidebook.”

The doctor wrote something down on his notepad. He said, with impressively fluent English, “Your temperature feels better. Seems like whatever bug you caught yesterday is basically gone, but the blood tests should be back later this afternoon, so we can be sure.” Then they both looked at the young girl in the bed to the left of John’s, who was waiting for a reply.

“Tell her I’ve got no family. It’s just me.”

In elegant Turkish, the doctor relayed the message. Sadness fell across the girl’s round face and she looked down at her pink cotton blanket. Her wavy brown hair tumbled down to her hazel eyes. She looked like the princess of an old Disney movie he couldn’t remember the name of. Still a princess, even with the missing arm.

In a whisper, she replied, and John caught the word for sorry.

“She says she is sorry she assumed because you look like a grandfather.”

John laughed. “How do I say don’t worry?”

“Üzülme.”

John tried out his Turkish accent and the girl smiled, bringing dimples to her plump cheeks. Her teeth, white as bowling pins, were slightly crooked, and he could tell they embarrassed her because she hid her smile quickly. She pulled a yellow notebook out from under her pillow and freed a pencil from its spine, then flipped through a dozen used pages to find a blank one to sketch on.

“I’ll be back to check on you both in a little while,” said the doctor, taking one last look at the level of clear liquid in the girl’s IV pouch. He was a handsome bearded man who spoke and moved quickly, with a voice like caramel that was thick with accent but sweet with compassion. When he left the room, he took much of the energy with him.

This corner of the hospital was submerged in a comforting seawater glow from the blue tiled walls, juxtaposed by sterile metallic furniture and a cement floor. It was admittedly the least presentable hospital John had ever been in, but what did he expect from a small village in Eastern Turkey? You never get to choose when and where you get sick. A trembling ceiling fan spun lazily over John’s lumpy bed, giving some relief from the hot summer swelter. There was a window to the left of the girl’s bed that looked across the empty parking lot, and in the distance he could see the Kaçkar Mountain peaks, purple and hazy in the early afternoon.

The girl was irritated, scribbling over her sketch. She put away her notebook with a huff, then noticed that John was looking outside. She motioned to the mountains with a nod and said, “Çok güzel dağlar.”

John smiled and gave a shrug.

“Mountains,” said the girl, struggling to think of the word.

“Mountains? Yes. Do you like them?”

She giggled nervously and shook her head. “Pretty,” she said. She pointed at the window with her left hand with an uncertainty that showed that she’d been right-handed before losing the arm. He couldn’t help but look at the bandaged bit below her shoulder blade. She caught him looking and lost the smile immediately.

“Sorry,” he said, then, in a butchered Turkish accent, “Üzgünüm.”

“Üzülme.”

John figured he might as well ask now, so he pointed to his own right arm and gave her a quizzical expression. “What happened?” he asked, simultaneously reaching for his backpack on the floor. He pulled out the Turkey guidebook from the front pocket and opened it to the vocabulary section.

“Örümcek,” she said, biting her lip. That was a word John didn’t know. She looked up to the ceiling while trying to think of the English word, then noticed the guidebook and motioned for him to give it to her.

He still felt weak after last night’s episode and his stomach lurched when he rolled off the squeaky mattress. At the hotel, he thought he’d been about to pass a kidney stone, but this was not nearly as bad. Just an after-shock. Pausing for a moment, he waited until his head stopped swimming, then reached out and dropped the guidebook on the girl’s bed.

She turned to the brief dictionary section at the back of the book, struggling to keep the book open one-handed, then gave a little grunt and shook her head. “Hayır,” she said, handing the book back to him. Biting her lip, she tried to think of another way to explain, and on the wall she placed her hand and imitated a bug-like crawling motion with her fingers.

“A bug?” John asked.

She shrugged, then with two fingers, made fangs in front of her mouth.

“A spider?”

“Spider!” she replied excitedly. “Örümcek.”

“Örümcek,” John repeated. “A spider did that to you?”

The girl frowned, slumping against the wall as if trying to communicate had tired her out. He could see now, though her face was plump, the rest of her body was quite frail and thin. He knew little of spiders, save for the name of a few North American varieties, and knew even less about the effect of their bites. Obviously this girl had come across one of the deadlier breeds.

She pointed to her chest, to her heart, specifically. “Sorun var,” she said.

“Sorun var?”

The girl nodded. “Problem,” she translated.

John could tell she wanted someone to comfort her. Where were her parents during all of this? He tried to give her a smile, but his muscles betrayed him and all he could pull was a frown. Here he was with a weak stomach and this poor girl had been poisoned and disfigured by a spider bite. Unsure what else to do, he looked through his guidebook for something comforting to say, but all he could find was how to say how are you, “Nasılsın?”

“Ben iyiyim,” she sighed, flashing a smile.

John knew that meant I’m good, but he didn’t believe her. She looked ill and was now massaging the bandage where her arm used to attach, and a tear rolled down his face—which wasn’t plump, but swollen. He wanted to ask about her family and figure out why she was way out in a tiny hospital in the middle of Eastern Turkey by herself. Then again, he could ask the same thing about himself. What was a sixty-two year old man doing out here in the middle of the summer?

Instead of bringing up her family, he asked, “Adın ne?”

“Adım Gamze,” she said.

“Gamze. That’s a pretty name,” he replied, and then pointed to himself. “Ben adım John.”

“Memnum oldum.” Gamze closed her eyes and seemed to focus on her breathing.

John did the same, feeling another wave of nausea pass through him and they lay quietly for a while in their lumpy hospital beds. He thought about how far away he was from home, his little house in California, his pathetic little garden and the redwood trees that blocked out the sun. It was his birthday today. He’d come to Turkey to celebrate and came down with a stomach bug instead.

When the doctor returned later, he went first to Gamze and they had a long talk while the doctor checked her pulse, her eyes, and her throat. She yelped in pain when he pressed into her stomach. She started to cry, repeating, “Hayır,” and swatted the doctor away. He gave here a stern look and demanded her in Turkish to let him do his job—or so it sounded to John. Then she turned her head and let the doctor examine her body, and John could not help but sneak glances at the poor girl’s weakened, bruised shape. The doctor switched one pouch of clear liquid with another on her IV stand and checked the needle in her wrist.

“Is she going to be okay?” John asked.

“It’s unclear. Her blood is poisoned.”

“What does she need?”

The doctor smiled at Gamze, then said to John, “A miracle.” He patted her hair and left her to stand at John’s side, “As for you, your results came back healthy. You’ve caught a bad cold, but nothing more. I would imagine the change of diet and environment was a little trying for a man your age. You can rest here until you feel better, but the good news is that you’re fine.”

John exhaled with a grin. “Thank goodness.”

“Do you have a way back to your hotel?”

“I think I’ll stay a little longer,” said John, looking at Gamze. “If that’s okay.”

“Of course. Gamze would love the company.”

In Turkish, the doctor explained to her that John would be staying, and Gamze gave him a big smile of relief. The poor girl probably didn’t want to be alone.

He asked the doctor, “Where is her family?”

“They’re working in Erzurum, she says. I haven’t seen them in a few days.”

“How long has she been in here?”

“Almost two weeks. The spider bit her a dozen times, numbing her, so she didn’t even feel it until it was too late. The poison took her arm last Saturday and it’s been slowly moving through her body ever since. It’s destroying her red blood cells.” Gamze was listening but it was obvious she didn’t know what they were saying. She seemed to be falling asleep. The doctor made some marks on a notepad and added, “There’s not a whole lot we can do for her. We can’t transfer her to a bigger hospital because they won’t take her without insurance. I know her family, sweet people, but they’re not legal residents.”

“What does she need?” asked John.

“A blood transfusion.” The doctor was on his way out of the room when he looked back and said, “I know what you’re thinking, John, and even though you both have the same blood type, I can’t recommend it. One, you’ve got a cold. Not supposed to donate blood with a cold. Two, she’s an illegal. It’s foolish enough that we took care of her arm, but I did that because I know her parents are good people. A transfusion is a different thing.” He shook his head, restless from the discussion, and he said, “We can’t do those for free. We’d be shut down for sure. And even if we did, the procedure itself could kill her.”

“But she’ll die either way.”

The doctor sighed. “I’ll need to speak with the parents.”

When he was gone, John turned to face Gamze, but the girl had fallen asleep. He observed her for a while, noticing that the swelling in her face had gone down. In fact, her whole body seemed to be deflating, withering away. She shivered in her sleep and groaned. John picked up his guidebook and began studying the vocabulary section to pass the time.

She woke up about an hour later and continued sketching in her notebook, but grew frustrated with her left hand. Gamze tore out a page and threw it crumpled to the floor. One of the nurses had pulled a television cart in from the waiting room and tuned it to a Turkish soap opera and John was engrossed in the plot when Gamze spoke his name.

“Su istiyorum,” she said, grumpy.

He looked at his guidebook vocabulary, but it didn’t help. She mimicked picking up a cup and drinking it. “Su,” she repeated.

“You’re thirsty,” he said with a nod. “I’ll go get you some water.”

John pushed himself off the bed and followed the hall to the front desk where two female nurses were clacking away on their old computers. They looked at him, then whispered something to each other. It was probably rare to see a foreigner. He was captivated by their inquisitive, alluring eyes. “Excuse me,” he said, trying to remember the vocabulary. “Uh, afa… afedersiniz. The girl in my room, Gamze. She…” He imitated drinking a glass of water. “She’s thirsty.”

“Gamze su istiyor?”

“Yes. I think.”

One of the women stood and poured him a tall plastic cup of water from a nearby dispenser. Water in Turkey had been tricky to come by with most of the plumbing so old it was advised not to drink from the tap, though that bit of information reached his ears after he’d already drank a few glasses from the hotel room sink. Was that what sent him to the doctor? Maybe. He wasn’t so concerned about that now as he hurried back to Gamze’s room with the cold water.

She drank it, wincing with each sip.

He reclined on his bed.

“Teşekkür ederim,” she said, thanking him.

“Bir şey değil,” he replied, proudly, probably pronouncing it all wrong.

“Çok güzel Türkçe.” She smiled, setting down the cup on her lap between her legs. “Pretty Turkish,” she translated. Gamze stared at the water in the cup the way a fortune teller might look into a crystal ball.

John didn’t know what to say.

He tried, “Aile,” which meant family and, “nerede?” which meant where.

She frowned and looked at him. “Erzurum. Ah, um… They work.”

“Ev nerede?” he asked, meaning, literally, house where?

“Tortum.”

That was the name of the town they were in now. So she lived around here, in this secluded little place. John had only wound up here because he’d been taking a bus from Erzurum to Rize and it broke down. Today he was supposed to catch the replacement bus outside of his hotel, but obviously plans had changed.

“They work. In otel,” said Gamze with a sulk. “Çok pahalı.” She moaned, gesturing toward herself and the room, then added, “Para yok. Para ihtiyacımız.”

“Very expensive. No money,” John translated. She was talking about her treatment. He faced the Turkish soap opera for a moment, where, oddly, the characters were also in a hospital, then he felt compelled to say, “I don’t know why it always ends up that way. Guess that’s a problem all over the world. People won’t just help each other anymore, not without money. People die all the time because they can’t afford to get better.” He knew she didn’t know what he was saying, but she still listened and pretended. “My sister got cancer about ten years ago, and it killed her. Not because she couldn’t have fought it, but because she couldn’t afford the treatment soon enough. That kind of stuff just boggles my mind.”

Gamze shrugged and gave him a clueless half-smile.

“She was the last family I had,” said John.

“You work?” she asked.

He nodded. “I did. I was an officer.”

“Polis?”

John said, “Yes, police.”

“Ah, evet. Very good,” she said, smiling. “Why come Turkey?”

“I don’t know.” He laughed, and said, “Different.”

“You like?”

“Very beautiful.”

She smiled, then asked, “Kaç yaşındasın?”

He checked the guidebook to translate.

“On beş yaşındayım,” she said, holding her left hand to her chest.

“Fifteen? Oh. How old am I?” He laughed, then held up fingers to show her six and two. “How do you say that?”

“Altmış iki.”

“Altmış iki,” John repeated. He didn’t sound so old in another language. He couldn’t believe she was only fifteen. Yes, she looked young, but the severity of her situation made that age all the more unfitting. A fifteen year old was not supposed to be lying on her deathbed. Here he was, a single elderly bachelor, a retired cop, vacationing in Turkey for no reason other than curiosity, and this poor girl was never going to leave this hospital. With complete sincerity he knew that he would trade places with her in a heartbeat.

In the afternoon, when John woke for a brief nap, he found a sheet of paper folded under his arm. It was a sketch of two people in a hospital room. Gamze was on the bed by the window, with both her arms intact, and John was on the other bed, an astonishingly accurate depiction. She’d signed her name in the corner and added sevi seviyorum beneath her curling signature.

She was asleep, otherwise John would’ve given her a big hug.

That night the nurse brought dinner on a rolling cart and left it between their beds. She kissed Gamze on the forehead and they shared a few words in Turkish, laughing, and John was pretty sure they were talking about him. The nurse came to John next and said something sweet to him, putting a hand on his shoulder, and then removed the television on her way out.

It wasn’t the best meal, simple microwave stuff. The girl ate the pasta dish, which she called mantı, and John went for the meatballs, which she called köfte, and they split the ring of sesame bread, which she called a simit.

“Thank you,” he said, showing her the sketch she’d given him.

She blushed and gave a little shrug.

“It’s very sweet.”

They finished their meals.

“Why no family?” Gamze asked.

John shrugged. “No time,” he said, looking up time in the guidebook. “Zaman,” he clarified with a shake of his head.

“Tamam,” she said, resigning into her pillow.

He watched her lay there, knowing he could’ve left this hospital at any moment, yet he had absolutely no interest in leaving her. Her legs twitched under the thin blanket. Her inability to stay awake for more than an hour or so at a time was probably a bad sign. She was getting weaker. Purple veins were emerging like once-buried cables along her paling skin.

Around midnight, the parents arrived. They were a traditional Turkish couple: the woman wore a black burqa covering all but her eyes, the man came in a loose-fitting gray suit. The doctor led them inside and let them sit with their daughter while he spoke with John in a near-whisper.

“Of course they want to save their daughter,” he said, taking a seat in a black desk chair. “I told them the risks of the transfusion. The father wants to try it. The mother is afraid. They won’t be able to afford the procedure, regardless. They will likely take Gamze tomorrow and let her finish her days at home.”

“You’ll let them do that?” John asked, unable to hide his disgust.

“It is their choice.”

“They won’t even try?”

“They cannot afford it, John.”

Without hesitation, he blurted, “I’ll pay. Goddamnit, I’ll pay.”

The doctor leaned back in the chair, rubbing his chin, looking tired. On the other end of the room, Gamze’s parents were crying and whispering prayers. After a long breath and exhale, the doctor said, “That’s very generous of you.”

“Whatever the cost. I’ll take care of it.” John had plenty of excess money saved up, never having any family to spend it on. He’d used the money for nothing but these annual birthday vacations, and if his choice to go somewhere a little more remote this year had led him here for any reason, than this was it. “I couldn’t live with myself, knowing I could’ve helped that girl and didn’t.”

“I’ll talk to the parents,” said the doctor.

John watched the ensuing conversation, giving a nod to the parents when they looked at him with wide, curious eyes. They were probably wondering who this random old American was and why he cared so much. He wished he could speak to them directly, sans the language barrier, but it seemed like the doctor was explaining the situation clearly. The mother and father nodded. John noticed that Gamze was awake, staring up at them, with her left hand gripping her father’s.

From body language alone it was apparent that the parents were exhausted, driving all the way up here from Erzurum where they’d been working all day, trying to make extra money for their daughter’s recovery. John had seen worn-down families like this before as a cop making frequent visits to the crime-laden poor neighborhoods were kids joined gangs while parents pulled double-shifts to make ends meet. He knew the look of someone about to give up.

The father approached John’s bed and reached out and took John’s hand in both of his, and with a big toothy smile he said, “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Please. It’s the least I can do.”

The mother came to mirror his sentiment, and John could see in her majestic tear-moistened eyes enough gratitude to melt his heart. He had always been a generous man, but it had come naturally, and John was never good at reacting to the thanks. The parents had apparently decided to go ahead with the transfusion.

“When do we get started?” John asked.

“In the morning,” said the doctor. “You can both rest.”

“Will they stay?”

“They cannot. They work early in the morning.”

The parents asked for a translation and the doctor explained. The mother took John’s hand and kissed it. Then they spent another half hour with Gamze, kneeling at her side, stroking her hair and kissing her face. The girl began to sob when it came time for them to leave. “Anna! Baba!” She cried, refusing to let her father’s hand go. John and the doctor observed from the sidelines, though the doctor was able to keep a somber detachment while John felt his own eyes watering at the spectacle. Her parents and the doctor left the room and Gamze wailed, then rolled onto her side and sobbed herself to sleep.

He flipped through his guidebook, using the dim light coming in from the hallway to read, and said, “İyi geceler. Goodnight.”

“İyi geceler,” she repeated, with a sniffle.

John could not sleep. He stared at the ceiling and watched a spider crawl along the light fixture, feeling a newfound hatred for the eight-legged creatures. It scurried to the far corner and began to spin a web over the window. He looked outside at the sliver of a moon over the Kaçkar Mountains, which were looking alien and cold, stamped there against the stars.

He thought about the women he’d dated, wondering which of them would’ve made a good wife, a good mother. He thought about a lot of things that night.

In the morning, the nurse brought breakfast.

“This,” said Gamze. “Su böreği. Çok lezzetli.”

Whatever lezzetli meant, it was probably a synonym of delectable, and John ate his serving of su böreği in an instant. It was a flaky, chewy pastry with feta cheese melted in the middle. They each were given a glass of pulpy orange juice. John lifted his glass toward her and she did the same.

“Cheers,” he said.

“Şerafe,” she replied, smiling.

They drank.

“Do you know what’s happening today?” he asked.

Gamze shrugged.

“Today…” He looked up the word. “Bugün.”

“Evet.”

“I will give you my blood. Some of it,” he said, trying to play charades. He pointed to the veins in his arm, to the needle in her wrist, and then made a motion that he hoped translated to sharing. “Mine is yours.”

“Kan,” she said, pointing to the needle.

“Blood.”

“Blood,” she repeated with a nod. “Good blood.” Gamze seemed to understand. Probably her parents explained to her what the situation last night.

The doctor came in and saw that they were both drinking orange juice and their breakfast plates were clear. “Good,” he said. “Eat and drink. You’ll probably want to drink a bit more water, John. It’ll make the blood flow faster.” While the doctor was setting up the stage for the donation, John went out into the waiting room and poured himself a glass of water. The nurses out there watched him with smiles and admiration. He came back and the doctor immediately went to work scrubbing John’s inner elbow with cold iodine.

“Have you ever donated before?”

“Not in a long time.”

“Don’t be nervous.”

“I’m not nervous about me,” said John.

The doctor nodded, then stuck him with the needle. He taped it into place with some sticky gauze and put a round weight in John’s hand. “Roll this around. It’ll ease tension and relax the muscles. Look, you’re already filling up the first bag quickly. This one should only take a few minutes.”

“How many do you need?”

“We’re going to take two pints. It’s the most I can take without risking your life,” said the doctor with a not-so-comforting smile. “Now relax, John.”

John did as he was told. He relaxed into his pillow and stared up at the ceiling light. It didn’t feel like much, physically, the blood leaving his body. It was a much more emotional sensation than he expected, as if he were parting with an irreplaceable friend. His heart raced. Time seemed to slow down and the light over his head fluctuated between obnoxiously bright and oddly dim and it took a lot of effort to roll his head to the left, to look at Gamze.

“Nasılsın?” she asked.

How are you, was the question, but John’s mouth had gone dry and his response was caught in his throat. Finally he said, “Good, good. I think.”

The doctor came back in and noticed John was slipping from the waking world, so he gave him a gentle slap on the cheek and told him to keep rolling the weight around. “Stay with us, John. The first one’s almost full.”

“It’s making me really tired.”

“That happens. One more minute, John.”

“Okay.”

Gamze asked him something in Turkish, and he answered.

“What did she say?”

“She wanted to make sure you were okay. You’re fine.”

“I’m fine,” John said to Gamze.

“She knows. Okay… And… Perfect.” With practiced precision, the doctor unclipped the cord leading to one bag and attached another tube for the second, and without skipping a beat the blood continued to flow out of John’s arm. “Okay, this one might take a little longer. Keep spinning that weight.”

The second bag was torturous to fill. Within a minute, John felt weak and shaky and thought he might need to throw up. His eyes rolled back into his head but he caught himself before the darkness took him. The doctor stayed with him and sent in a nurse when he had to leave the room. The nurse put a cold rag on his forehead and said sweet things in Turkish that he didn’t understand, but it helped. He felt dizzy and nauseas, but then he heard Gamze’s voice and she was singing a lullaby of some kind. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard, like the fragile strings of a violin. Soon enough the doctor returned, cheerful, carrying a plate of snacks, and he told John the second bag was full. The needle was removed, a bandage was applied, and that part was done.

“Now eat something, please. And drink. Replenish yourself,” he said, and he motioned to the snacks. Cookies, juices, fruits, and crackers. John was barely able to lift his head, let alone consume anything, but after a few minutes he’d unwrapped a package of chocolate cookies and taken a few bites. The doctor turned to Gamze and said, first in Turkish, then to John, “We’ll be ready in just a little while. We have to separate out the red blood cells before continuing. Shouldn’t take long.”

“Tamam,” said Gamze.

“Okay,” said John.

The doctor left them with the tray of treats. John offered her some of the cookies in the pack he’d opened and she accepted.

“Teşekkür ederim.”

“Bir şey değil.”

They ate quietly together. She took one of the juices, then a banana. He scarfed down a pack of salted crackers and two bottles of water. At last, John felt like he was coming back to the surface of the real world, clawing his way out of gloom. His arm was a bit sore, especially around where the needle had been. He laughed, wishing he hadn’t felt so weak, worried he’d scared Gamze.

“Nasılsın?” he asked her.

“İyiyim. Sen nasılsın?”

“İyiyim.”

They both knew they were lying, but I’m good was the most they knew how to share. What John really felt was complicated. He had to swallow the urge to vomit, still shaky after departing with so much blood. He was sweating and nervous. The girl, likely, was twice as nervous. At least the hard part was over for John. Her big transfusion was just around the corner. Did her parents tell her the risks? He wondered if she knew that this procedure might kill her.

John looked through his guidebook again for conversation ideas. “İngilizce konuşuyor musunuz?” he tried, aiming for do you speak English?

“Little,” she said.

“Where did you learn?”

Gamze shrugged.

“School?” John asked.

“Yes. School.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“No,” she said.

“Can I see your drawings?” he asked.

She reluctantly shared, once he’d pointed to the yellow notebook on her bed. He turned to the first page and looked at each sketch. Mostly flowers and landscapes, with some faces and animals. All of them were fabulous, increasing in quality with each page. The more recent sketches, done with her left hand, were a bit messy, but still much better than anything John could’ve done.

“These are really good,” he said. “Çok güzel.” He lifted up a page with a drawing of her parents. “Very nice.” Then he passed the book back to Gamze, who hugged it proudly for a moment and set it down on the bed.

John couldn’t think of anything else to say, nothing that wouldn’t require a translator. All he really wanted was to wrap his arms around her and tell her that everything would be okay, that she was too young to die and tomorrow she’d feel right as rain. But he was too weak to move. He could only nod and fight back tears.

“Thank you,” said Gamze, biting her quivering lip.

“You’re welcome.”

“I live because you.” She wiped a tear from her cheek.

John looked up at the ceiling and prayed that this transfusion would work, that it wasn’t too late, that nothing went wrong, that Gamze would walk out of here with her family. He looked at her again and she smiled and he smiled back, and they waited patiently for the doctor to return.

Gamze had a lot of questions for the doctor when he and the nurse came to start the procedure. They took her pulse, temperature, and other vital signs and the nurse wrote everything down. They hung up the dark red pouch of John’s blood from an IV stand, then readied the needle.

“John,” said Gamze.

“Yes?”

“Do not worry.”

He nodded.

“Tamam,” she said to the doctor. Okay.

He inserted the needle and John’s blood began to flow, entering her vein through the arm. Gamze closed her eyes and sank into her pillow. The nurse took a few quick notes on her notepad, the doctor flicked the tube leading into the girl’s arm, and then they stood there and observed her. Somewhere, John could hear the Turkish soap opera playing in the hospital. He realized that he was holding his breath. Exhaling, he closed his eyes and sent good vibes across the room, wishing he could fast forward past the waiting.

An hour passed.

Gamze kept saying that she was thirsty. The nurse fetched her water.

The doctor left to tend to other patients and the nurse would come check Gamze’s vitals every fifteen minutes. Some color seemed to be returning to the girl’s face and her eyes glistened in the mid-day sunlight. John hopped out of bed and sat in the chair by her side, holding her hand.

“You look good,” he said, but she didn’t understand.

“Sen iyi bir adam,” she replied, though he didn’t know what that meant.

Another hour passed and the doctor said the procedure would be done soon, that Gamze’s red blood cell count should’ve increased. He, like John, thought there was a noticeable improvement in the color of her skin. Her veins receded. She seemed to be doing just fine.

It all went wrong so fast. First her breathing became labored and her vitals dropped—blood pressure, oxygen levels… Then her eyes rolled back into her head and she began to seizure. The doctor pushed John out of the way to get to Gamze’s IV bag and he ceased the transfusion immediately. They wheeled in an oxygen machine and started pumping air down her throat. John left the room, unable to watch the girl thrash about. He was halfway down the hall toward the front desk when he heard the commotion stop.

John knew it was over.

He fell against the wall, collapsed to the floor, and cried.

One of the nurses eventually came to him and lifted him to his feet. She handed him some water. He thanked her, but could hardly get his body to obey him long enough to swallow anything. It was too soon to see her. John went and sat in the waiting room, hearing Gamze’s last words in his mind.

Sen iyi bir adam.

The doctor came out a few minutes later, looking grim. He shook his head and sat beside John. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you gave her a chance.”

“What happened?”

“It could’ve been many things.”

“Are you sure that she’s…?”

The doctor nodded. “She’s gone.”

John stared at his old hands. How cruel it was that he would be here, still breathing, while a fifteen year old passed away in the other room. It made no sense. It wasn’t fair. He clasped his hands together and let out a long groan, the kind that stuck like a knot in your throat.

The doctor patted him on the knee. “You did a good thing, John.”

“I wish it… I wish I’d done more…”

“We always wish we do a little more. What’s different about you is that you actually did something in the first place. Gamze was a high-risk patient, John. The odds were against her.” The doctor stood up. “I’m going to call her parents. If you want to say anything to Gamze, feel free. The nurse is still in there.”

He couldn’t get himself to face her, couldn’t bear to see the youth wasted. Why hadn’t her body accepted his blood? Was there something wrong with him? The science behind the procedure was beyond him, beyond his control. He sat in the waiting room for much of the afternoon. The nurse brought him a tray of food for lunch and thanked him, then put an arm around his shoulder and kissed his cheek. John hardly looked up from his hands.

The parents came that night.

They hurried past John and went to see their daughter and he heard their cries from down the hall. They were in there for a while. Slowly, they retreated with the doctor to the waiting room with John, and they sat with him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to face them.

The doctor translated.

“Sen iyi bir adam,” said the mother, putting a hand on John’s knee.

That was the same thing Gamze said to him. He looked up at her, seeing only her powerful, watery eyes behind her black burqa. There was no blame in those eyes.

“You are a good man,” the doctor translated. The father said a few things in Turkish and the doctor nodded. “He says you have shown more kindness than anyone he’s ever met. He says do not be sad that Gamze has passed. She knew it would come soon. He says she was suffering and you made her suffer less. She told them, he says, that she was happy Allah brought you to her in her final days.”

John accepted a handshake from the father.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Bir şey değil,” John replied.

She’d known all along that she would not survive, he realized. She’d been so brave to try anyway. He stayed at the hospital until Gamze had been taken away for burial, then the doctor helped him arrange a bus for a ride to Rize. John sat for a while at the bus stop, admiring Gamze’s sketch, then folded it up and moved on.

THE END