The Visitors

The granddaughter used to love breakfast. As a child she would glide down the staircase, face unwashed and thin hairs a tangled mess, her black toy poodle Zeytin racing by her side. The mother, a light sleeper, would be on her feet at least an hour before. Green and black olives, white cheese, cut tomatoes and cucumbers, marmalades and jams, and peanut butter would already be on the table when the granddaughter came running into the dining room. Weekday or weekend, school day or holiday, the table looked the same, an inviolable ritual, the mother's daily effort to remain connected to her homeland. The granddaughter would help with the final touches by peeling hardboiled eggs. By the time the grandmother's bedroom door, immediately adjacent to the dining room and kitchen, opened, the double tea pot on the stove would be in a rage of hot bubbles and steam, and the granddaughter would have to scream the morning greeting for the grandmother to hear: Günaydın!

The grandmother, petite then and now even smaller, would stride to her seat at the table as one of her descendants presented her a tulip-shaped glass of black tea. She'd take a prolonged first sip before announcing she had a dream the night before. She had had a dream every night since she was about the granddaughter's age. Placing her own tulip-shaped glass and the granddaughter's mug of tea on the table, the mother would offer a small prayer: Hayırdır inşallah—"I hope it's good." The mother knew not to take the nightly phenomenon for granted.

The grandmother's memory of her dreams was never hazy. Every detail—the color of the leaves on a plane tree in the background, the smell of fresh pastries on the table, the mewing and barking of stray cats and dogs that entered the Turkish consciousness even in sleep—was absorbed and analyzed by her enthralled audience

"Anneanne, does the pistachio baklava in front of İhsan amca mean he feels better now?"

"Anneanne, the kitten on Gözde abla's lap might mean she's pregnant!"

For the happy dreams, the mother would leave the interpretive guesswork to the granddaughter before the grandmother shared her final conclusion. For the visions of crying, bewildered, bleeding visitors, the mother would get up from the breakfast table to retrieve their home phone. "Anne, we should call Rukiye teyze right away."

The grandmother's visitors were living relatives. The mother insisted that no visit was too insignificant for a brief phone call, and the grandmother enjoyed having a reason to speak frequently with family in Izmir. She didn't mind the incredulous gasps or shower of thank-you's either. A few hours after their phone call, İhsan, one of the grandmother's nephews, passed the kidney stone that had left him twisting in pain for over a week. Gözde, the daughter of one of the grandmother's nieces, went to the pharmacy after speaking with the grandmother and confirmed the granddaughter's suspicion. Rukiye, the widow of one of the grandmother's brothers, made an appointment with her doctor after the grandmother saw her gulping down glass after glass of water without stopping for a breath. Rukiye called the next morning, jarred but appreciative: she was pre-diabetic, perhaps months from progressing to Type 2, but an overhaul of her diet would give her a chance to turn her health around.

The family revered the grandmother as a protector with a gift from the Almighty. The grandmother had come to expect the attention and praise, but nevertheless insisted that the subjects of her dreams were most essential. Although they didn't remember it, they had made the decision to visit her, to trust her to help excavate what their own minds and bodies weren't ready to expose to the bright light of consciousness.

Munching on a piece of simit she'd painted with a thick layer of peanut butter, the grand-daughter was grateful this magical woman was her grandmother. She and her mother were the first to hear...