Turkish Coffee

Originally published in The Promethean Literary Journal 2024

I didn’t mean to walk into the restaurant. I even turned around and walked a few steps before changing my mind. It wasn’t my fault. It was raining. I was hungry. I had left my umbrella in the emergency room. I didn’t want to wait in the hospital lobby like all the other times before.

When I stepped inside, I immediately regretted it. But a man came to greet me, and I froze.

“Do you have soup?” I asked as I looked around. Shades of burgundy warmed me. The Turkish music silenced the sounds of rain and filled the room with familial energy. A film was playing on an exposed brick wall. I couldn’t hear the words, but I wouldn’t have understood them anyway. I had seen many movies like it before—girl and boy are in love, but outside forces are against them.

The man seated me near the windows, where I could see the raindrops on the glass. I ordered a red lentil soup, a Turkish coffee, and two chicken vegetable soups to go. Mama and I had been watching Spanish-dubbed Turkish novelas, and the protagonists always drank Turkish coffee. They would read the empty cups, furthering the plot, and most importantly, the drama. I used my cellphone to quickly research the proper way of interpreting empty coffee cups.

A woman placed olive oil and hot bread on the small table in front of me. An older couple came in, sitting two tables across from mine. They wanted to wait out the rain with warm food too. I wondered why my parents couldn’t have that kind of life. Instead, Mama was in a hospital bed, and Papa was working to pay for her medical expenses.

For us, the rain would never stop.

As I waited for the soup to be served, I thought about my sister: how she came to our aid so quickly.

When Mama and I were outside the emergency room, I had to get her a wheelchair because she was too weak to walk on her own. I wheeled her in, but the moment her blood pressure was determined to be too low, nurses quickly wheeled her away from me. They placed my mom in a large room full of machines. She winced in pain as they hoisted her up onto the hospital bed. A symphonic swarm of doctors and nurses worked on every part of her body. It was always difficult to find her veins, but the nurses immediately extracted multiple vials of blood from both arms in under a minute. Her shoes were removed. Her shirt was raised to search for the cause of the stomach pain. Ultrasounds were done. X-rays of her chest too. They ordered multiple IV bags and antibiotics. The doctors spoke to me.

The red lentil soup was smooth and creamy. Mama had always left the lentils as is, but I would have to try blending them the next time we made it. I tore the sourdough bread gently, watching each fiber of bread-fluff split apart. The bread had a warm interior and a crunchy exterior. The Turkish coffee tasted bitter and powdery. No matter how much I stirred, the grounds settled at the bottom once more.

I tried to focus on the doctor’s questions, but all I could do was look at Mama struggling and moaning in pain. I blinked away the tears and tried to calm my breathing. The doctors were so systematic and businesslike that I almost felt embarrassed by my tears. But I had to be Mama’s eyes and ears. I had to be her advocate. I had to be strong and remain collected.

“My mom has lung problems from COVID-related issues, which she had in March 2021. She had a right breast lumpectomy and left axila excisional biopsy in March 2022. She’s on her 16th session of chemotherapy. Carboplatin and Abraxane. Two weeks ago, she started losing her appetite and has had diarrhea or vomiting every time she did manage to eat. The first week we told the oncology nurses, and they said it was because of the chemo. But today, I had to increase her oxygen intake because she was bedridden and unresponsive.”

They nodded and turned back to my mother.

I sent messages to my sister. She had already missed so many workdays, but I knew I couldn’t be alone. The weight of my mother’s life was too heavy to carry on my own. Within five minutes, my sister was in the lobby. Did she leave work early when she heard what happened? There was only one visitor allowed per patient. Mama insisted I wait outside to let my sister in. I quickly exited because the thought of Mama being alone for even a second terrified me.

I gave my sister my visitor’s pass, and we switched places. The emergency waiting room was filled with people. I left my umbrella with Mama because it was supposed to rain all day and she would need it later on. I didn’t know then that she would be hospitalized in the ICU. Or that the soup I bought her would spoil a week later in the fridge because I was so sure that she would be home by then.

Now, in the cafe, I stared at the bottom of my soup bowl. It was ceramic, the color of ivory. My damp clothing felt warmer now. For the moment, my sister was bearing the weight I could no longer carry. She would give it back soon, but when it really mattered, I knew she would be there to help me lift the heavy horrors of Mama’s illnesses. Shame weighed on my shoulders, so much that I shuddered. I was eating at a Turkish restaurant while the doctors were examining her blood samples, trying to figure out what she had. My sister was watching over my mother’s fragile body, and I was having lunch.

I would be sitting in the lobby starving had I not decided to look for food. I tried to rationalize it, but maybe I couldn’t. I should’ve starved in the lobby. But I was here, at the restaurant. For now, all I could do was read our future.

As I continued reading on my phone to understand how cup reading worked, I only comprehended half of it, but decided I was ready. First tip given: Don’t read your own cup.

I sipped and stirred it again. The bitterness became more prominent and the sips, smaller and smaller. At the last sip, I made a wish. I flipped over the tiny teacup and let it sit undisturbed. Hesitant to read the cup, I bit into the tiny Turkish Delight. Although the treat was sickly sweet, it wasn’t strong enough to get rid of the bitter taste in my mouth.

I looked out the window; the rain had begun to lessen. I thought about going back to the hospital and letting my fortune wash away at the bottom of the restaurant’s sink. But I couldn’t leave without knowing. I considered asking the servers for help, but I quickly dismissed the idea. I decided it would be better to be wrong and hopeful than know the trembling truth.

I didn’t wait much longer before flipping it over again.