The Wolf Border(84)

In the morning Charlie starts up, loud enough to wake their guest, but Lawrence stays in his room, and half an hour later, after the baby is fed, she cracks open the spare-bedroom door. He is asleep, still has his shirt on and the covers are knotted about his waist. The penalty of insomnia – mornings surrendered to late-arriving rest. Downstairs she calls Huib and says she is going to work from home today.

If there’s anything urgent, call me.

Sure, he says. Gregor is due back today.

Oh shit. I completely forgot.

Hey, listen, that’s OK. I’ll meet him and take him inside.

Thanks. Is there anything else?

Not really, he says. But you should know – Lena is not doing so well. She’s in hospital again, having tests.

I’m sorry to hear that.

I’ll pass it on.

They hang up. She moves from room to room, listens for movement upstairs. The baby senses her anxiety and acts up, squalling and shouting, tossing his toys away. His wail is loud and penetrative. She keeps expecting Lawrence to emerge and brighten at the sight of his nephew. She is sure the baby will act as a tonic, if not a cure. She answers emails, speaks briefly with Huib again, checks that Gregor is safely in the enclosure. She eats lunch. In the early afternoon she hears Lawrence stir and go to the bathroom; he spends a long time in there. She stands at the bottom of the stairs eavesdropping, feeling like a spy. She hears coughing. A flush. The lock on the door opening. She waits for him to come down, but he crosses the landing and returns to the spare room.

She puts the baby down for a nap, thinks about taking her brother up some tea, but does not want to disturb him – he clearly needs to recover his strength. On a spur, she decides to call Emily, find out her side. Emily is curt, not rude, but neither is she glad to hear from Rachel as Lawrence proposed she would be.

I haven’t spoken to him in days, she says. Look, I’ve got to go into a meeting in a few minutes. I really don’t want to talk about it.

It’s just that I’m worried, Rachel says. He doesn’t seem himself at all. He seems depressed. I mean, properly depressed.

No. He’s not depressed.

No?

No.

So, what is it? What’s going on?

There’s a pause. Emily sighs.

Look, it’s great he’s up there with you. I’m glad, and maybe it’ll help him. But I’m done with it all. I don’t care any more. You’ll have to talk to him. It’s not my place.

What do you mean?

Rachel, please. I’m so tired of it all. It’s been years. I can’t do it any more.

Rachel does not understand the sudden void of care. Only a few months ago Emily was standing by him, loyally trying to fix the relationship. She must still love him. The coldness, the blockade of feelings must be to protect herself.

Is he having an affair again? she asks. If so, he’s an idiot.

Another sigh, deeper. She can feel Emily’s exasperation mounting.

No. You know what the problem is? He admires you. He doesn’t want you to think badly of him. But it’s not up to me to tell you. I have to go. I hope it works out.

The line goes dead. Rachel sits for a moment, thinking, scenarios flashing through her mind. Other men. Schoolgirls. Sex workers. Nothing makes sense. What is this unspeakable thing her brother is keeping from her? She checks on the baby. He’s asleep in his victory pose, arms flung up, fists resting either side of his head. She crosses the landing and goes into the bathroom. There’s the smell of digestive upset; the toilet bowl is cloudy with unflushed matter. She opens the door of the spare room. The curtains are drawn, but the window is open and it’s very cold. The sour, ironish smell is there again, like rusting metal and dirt, somehow agricultural, like the aroma around the decrepit farms in her old village. Lawrence is in the same position, but his breathing is quicker, shallower. She steps into the room. His shirt is patched with sweat, and he is shivering.

Lawrence? Are you awake?

He turns a fraction towards her, then rolls back and faces the wall.

Don’t come in.

Are you sick?

He makes a noise, either in agreement or convulsively.

Is it the flu?

I’ll be alright. Just leave me be.

Do you need anything? Some water? I’ve got painkillers.

No.

I can bring you some soup.

No!

His declination is emphatic. She is aware she is playing the part of nurse; she feels it, foolishly, knowing there is falseness to the whole situation, some unexplained charade. She cannot maintain the act.

I think we need to talk.

He folds tighter, draws his legs in. The blankets and sheet slip from the bed, and his shirt rides up a little. He is naked from the waist down, his leg muscles clenched, a dark gulley running between his buttocks. He reaches a hand back, gropes for the covers, but they are gone. At the base of his spine is a pronounced, risen notch of bone.

Lawrence? Did you hear what I said? Can we talk?

Silence. Her patience begins to dwindle. Rather, the desire to know the truth, to confront him, rises, flu or no flu. He says nothing. His feet are rubbing together, paddling, working against each other, a child-like motion of discomfort or anxiety. She moves to the window, draws back the curtains. He puts his arm over his face, shielding it from the light. She stands at the foot of the bed and looks down at her brother.

I just called Emily. We talked about you.