Part 18 (2/2)

There are two ways to regard this matter: The Pessimist: ”If one cannot come out of depression before the time is ripe, there is nothing I can do about it.”

The Optimist: ”If one cannot come out of depression before the time is ripe, there is nothing depression can do to me.”

If you are leaning toward the Pessimist's approach, then chances are you are in the first stages of postpartum depression. If you are leaning toward the Optimist's, then congratulations, you are nearing the exit. Every woman requires a varying amount of time to complete the cycle. For some it takes a few weeks, for others more than a year. But no matter how complex or dizzying it seems to be, every labyrinth has a way out.

All you have to do is walk toward it.

Lord Poton: There is something different about you this morning. A sparkle in your eyes that wasn't there before.

Me: Really? Could be. I had a strange dream last night.

Lord Poton: I hope it was a nightmare! Sorry, I have to say that. After all, I am a dastardly djinni. I can't wish you anything good, it's against the rules.

Me: That's okay. It was as intense as a nightmare anyway.

Lord Poton (more interested now): Oh, really? Tell me!

Me: Well, we were standing by a harbor, you and I. It turns out you were leaving on a s.h.i.+p that transports djinn from this realm into the next. It was a mammoth s.h.i.+p with lots of lights. The port was so crowded, hundreds of pregnant women were gathered there with their big bellies. Then you embarked and I sadly waved good-bye to you.

Lord Poton (confused): You were sad to see me go? Are you sure? You must have been jumping for joy. Why, I've destroyed your life.

Me: No, you haven't. It was me who has done this to myself.

Lord Poton (even more confused): Are you trying to tell me you're not mad or angry with me?

Me: I am not, actually. I think I needed to live through this depression to better rea.s.semble the pieces. When I look at it this way, I owe you thanks.

As if I have smacked him in his face, Lord Poton flushes scarlet up to his ears and takes a step back.

Lord Poton (his voice shaking): No one has spoken to me like this before. I don't know what to say. (His eyes fill with tears.) Women hate me. Doctors, therapists, too. Oh, the terrible things they write about me! You have no idea how it feels to be insulted in brochures, books and Web sites.

Me: Listen, that s.h.i.+p in my dream had a name: Aurora. It means ”dawn” in Spanish, safak in Turkish.

Widening his slanting eyes, he looks at me blankly.

Me: Don't you understand? I am that s.h.i.+p. I was the one who brought you into the port of my life.

Lord Poton (scratching his head): Let's accept what you are saying for a moment. Why would you do such a thing?

Me: Because I thought I couldn't deal with my contradictory voices anymore. I've always found it hard to handle the Thumbelinas. If I agreed with one, I could never make it up to the others. If I loved one a little more, the others would begin to complain. It was always that way. I had been making do by leaning a little bit on one and then a little bit on another. But after I gave birth the system stopped functioning. I couldn't bear the plurality inside of me. Motherhood required oneness, steadiness and completeness, while I was split into six voices, if not more. I cracked under the pressure. That was when I called you.

That is when the strangest thing happens. There, in front of my eyes, Lord Poton starts to dissolve, like fog in the sunlight.

Lord Poton (taking out his silk napkin and dabbing at his eyes): I guess it is time for me to leave, then. I never thought I would get so emotional. (He wipes his nose.) I'm sorry-you took me by surprise is all.

Me: That's all right.

Lord Poton (sniffling): I guess I'll miss you. Will you write to me?

Me: I'll write about you. I'll write a book.

Lord Poton (clapping his hands): How exciting! I'm going to be famous!

A heavy silence descends, rus.h.i.+ng into my ears like the wind through the leaves. I feel light, as if something has held me and lifted me up.

Lord Poton: Well, good-bye. But what will happen to the finger-women?

Me: I will take them out of the box. I'm going to give them each an equal say. The oligarchy has ended, and so have the coup d'etat, monarchy, anarchy and fascism. It is finally time for a full-fledged democracy.

Lord Poton (laughing): Let me warn you, love, democracy is not a bed of roses.

Me: You might be right. But still, I'd prefer it to all other regimes.

PART SEVEN.

Daybreak.

The Calm after the Storm.

One sunny day in August, when the plums in the garden had ripened to purple perfection, Eyup came back from the military, looking thinner and darker. He didn't say a word for a long time, only smiled. Then I heard him in the bathroom, talking lovingly to the shampoo bottles, perfumes and creams.

”You don't say hi to your wife, but you chat with your shaving cream?” I asked.

He laughed. ”In the army one gets to miss even the tiniest luxuries in life and learns to be grateful for what he has on hand.”

”Perhaps depression teaches us the same thing, too,” I said. ”I've learned to look around with new, appreciative eyes.”

”I'm sorry I couldn't be with you,” he murmured, pulling me toward him. Then he added pensively, ”We could have handled this better.”

”What do you mean?”

”Why didn't we ask for help from our families or friends while you were going through that turbulence? Why didn't we hire a nanny to help you? You tried to do everything alone. Why?”

I nodded. ”I thought I could manage. I thought I could rock the baby to sleep, feed her healthy food and write my novels. It never occurred to me I wouldn't be able to do this alone. That was my strength and my weakness at the same time.”

”From now on, we will do it together,” he said tenderly.

”Good,” I exclaimed. ”Are you going to take care of the baby while I write?”

He paused, a trace of panic flickering in his eyes. ”Let's start looking for a nanny.”

We did. In ten days we found a nanny from Azerbaijan, a woman larger than life-huge b.r.e.a.s.t.s, teeth capped with gold, a loud voice and a hearty laugh. A bewildering combination of Mary Poppins, Xena the Warrior Princess and Impedimenta-the stout, matriarchal wife of Chief Vitalstatistix and the first lady of the village in Asterix the Gaul. A woman who could say the sweetest words in Turkish, talk a blue streak in Russian, and believed the main problem with Stalin was that he hadn't had a good nanny as a child. She taught us the basics about babies-how to burp them, rock them to sleep, feed them, and still have time for ourselves. She helped us greatly. We all helped one another.

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