Into My Arms Page 19
‘This is it?’ John panted. Ben sat down on the steps of their small hotel, his head in his hands, groaning softly to himself. He was going to feel like shit in the morning.
‘Yep.’ Arran paused for a moment to get his breath back, then grabbed Ben beneath the armpits, which were dank with sweat. ‘Up you come, mate,’ he said. ‘Let’s get you to bed.’
But Ben simply slumped down further on the marble stairs, his head lolling back. Without being asked, John moved around and took hold of his feet, then nodded at Arran for them to lift together. They hauled Ben up the stairs and to their room, which held two double beds side by side.
‘I need another drink after that,’ said John, wiping a forearm across his face. Ben lay on his bed, face against the pillow, eyes closed and shoes still on. ‘Coming? There’ll be a bar around here somewhere.’
As Arran bent to drape a sheet over him, Ben stirred. ‘Stay here, Arran,’ he slurred. ‘Don’t you leave me too.’
Arran glanced across at John, disappointed. ‘Maybe tomorrow?’ he suggested. There was still so much he wanted to ask John—about Syria, yes, but about himself too. How old he was, for a start. He looked as if he was in his mid-thirties, but you could never tell with the Brits. That fair skin aged quickly. Did he have a partner? Where did he live? And children, Arran found himself wondering. John loved his nephews, but did he want kids of his own?
‘Tomorrow’s no good,’ John said, then looked at him quizzically, as if weighing something up. ‘But tonight still is. Give me your key. I’ll go get us a bottle and bring it back here.’ A strange sense of relief washed through Arran, and without stopping to examine it he handed the key to John.
The next morning Arran was awoken by something chirping nearby. He lay there for a few seconds, sleep-heavy and disoriented. The sun was well up outside. What time was it? He rolled over to look for his watch and found John asleep next to him, though on top of the covers. Arran smiled, then winced. His lips were bruised, he realised, bruised and slightly swollen. He brought his fingers up to feel them, touching them gently to rekindle the pain, then heard the electronic cheep again. My phone, he thought. It was in his jeans, puddled next to the bed. He fished it out and brought up his messages, suddenly frightened that it might be bad news about Skye. But it wasn’t.
I live with Habib, the message read. He would like 2 talk 2 u. Pls call.
Arran scrambled out of bed and rushed to wake Ben.
27
Nell snapped on the studio light and pulled the dust cloth to the floor. The picture thrilled her again, as it did each time she saw it. She’d nailed it. For once she’d got it right.
‘Ta dah!’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
Arran’s expression was doubtful, though he quickly rearranged his features into something more neutral. ‘It’s striking . . .’ he began, but then gave up. ‘I don’t understand art, Nell. You know that. What is it?’
‘It’s Charlie’s mind, just before he died. That’s what I’ve called it: Charlie’s Mind. I thought about Dementia, but that was too stark. Impersonal. This is actually him. The illness is different for everyone.’
Nell stepped back to get a better view of the painting. The canvas was predominantly deep crimson, but with black leaching through at the edges, the darker patches gradually amassing into a central vortex. Between the two extremes lurked several smaller images: a ladle, a heart, a child, and a crotchet, its stem at a slant, as if being sucked into the void. Charlie’s totems, Nell thought. The things that had made him him.
‘Yeah, it’s good,’ Arran said unconvincingly. ‘You should have shown Skye.’
Nell stooped to retrieve the dust cloth and threw it back over the picture. She’d wanted to but hadn’t had a chance. When they’d arrived that evening for dinner Molly had been fretful, and it seemed that when Skye wasn’t nursing she was walking her up and down, trying to stop her crying. Hamish had taken over while Skye bolted her dinner, but that hardly seemed like the moment for Nell to grab her daughter by the hand and lead her out to the shed.
‘Skye was busy,’ she said simply.
Arran grunted. ‘God, I’ll say. And what about all that stuff they brought? When they arrived I thought they must be moving in with you, not just coming for dinner. I’d never leave home if it was always that much bloody effort.’
Nell laughed. ‘You do, because after a while you start to go mad staring at the walls of your own house. Plus somebody else was cooking the meal. That’s a big deal when everyone’s tired.’
Charlie had always cooked, she remembered. She’d been so grateful for that. He couldn’t breastfeed, of course, and he was no help with nappies or baths, but she’d never had to worry about dinner. After days spent seemingly anchored to the couch with one baby tugging at her nipple and the other one wailing while it waited its turn, even just working out what to cook would have broken her.
‘Molly’s looking good though, isn’t she?’ she continued, shutting the studio door behind her. ‘She’s lost that skinned rat look.’
‘Skye too,’ Arran agreed. ‘She’s all better now?’
‘I believe so. Hamish said her last kidney function test was normal. Or almost back to normal anyway, thank goodness. That was all so frightening. But it made me think . . .’ She paused. They were standing on the path between the shed and the house. Nell could see her breath. It was almost winter. Maybe there would be a frost tonight. ‘It made me think that I want to see Ben,’ she went on in a rush.
Arran snorted. ‘Shit. What’s brought that on?’
‘Lots of things. Skye nearly dying. Molly. Those photos you showed me from your trip.’ She hesitated. ‘Ben’s been on my mind ever since he and Skye broke up,’ she admitted. ‘I kept thinking that we’d see him again, hear from him. I never thought he’d just disappear like that . . .’ She wrapped her arms around herself to suppress a shiver. Those terrible months. Skye’s collapse, Skye in hospital, then shuffling around the house like a sleepwalker, alert only when the phone rang.
‘What did you expect—that he was still going to turn up for dinner that week?’ Arran reached into his top pocket for his cigarettes.
Nell felt a flash of anger, as much at his question as at the fact that he’d started smoking again. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ she snapped as he lit up and calmly inhaled. ‘Of course not. They couldn’t be together, I know that. They shouldn’t be together.’ They were brother and sister, it was all wrong—hadn’t she been the first to point that out to Skye? Their relationship was impossible, and if they’d remained lovers she would have been appalled. The fact that they hadn’t should have pleased her, brought her relief, but instead as she watched Skye mourn she’d just felt sad, sorry for both of them, Ben and Skye, and what they’d lost. What they’d all lost. She tried to explain herself. ‘It’s just that I can’t help feeling that Ben’s one of us—isn’t he? Technically, anyway. I mean, I know he didn’t grow up in our family, but he’s still part of it. How can we just let that go?’
Arran turned to her, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the night air. She suddenly remembered how he and Skye used to do that on chilly mornings on their way to school, pretending that unlit twigs were cigarettes, giggly and high at their own sophistication.
‘You hardly know him, Nell.’
‘I do know him,’ she protested. ‘He came to dinner every week for a while there. That was at least two months. And Skye talked about him all the time. Lately you have too. I was so pleased when you told me he was going to Syria with you.’
Arran shook his head. ‘That was because he’s involved with Zia. Don’t get me wrong, Ben’s great. But we just went away together. It doesn’t mean we should have him round for Christmas lunch.’
‘He’s family, Arran,’ Nell insisted, a little surprised at her own vehemence. She forced herself to lower her voice. ‘Look, if I’d never met him, never known he existed, I wouldn’t have cared. But I did meet him. He’s connected to us. I can’t ignore that.’
‘I’m not trying to!’ Nell cried, stung. Arran had always liked to play devil’s advocate, but was what he said true? Naturally she missed Charlie. Anyone in her position would, but that was different. That was about what she had lost, while Ben—Ben was . . . found. When Arran didn’t respond she went on, more determined now. ‘I want to see him. I want to be able to have him round, call him up occasionally, but I can’t do that with this whole mess with Skye hanging over all our heads. We need to sort it out, clear the air. He needs to see her, and Molly too. She’s his niece, for God’s sake. Can you talk to him?’
Arran bent down to stub out his cigarette against the concrete pavers. ‘Not a chance. I’m keeping right out of that one. You should too.’ He stood up. ‘Ben’s not even speaking to his real parents,’ he said, with deliberate emphasis. ‘What makes you think he wants to talk to you?’
‘Maybe he doesn’t, but I want him to know that I do,’ she said stubbornly. ‘Stay out of it, if you like, but give me his number. I know you’ve got it, and I’ll keep bothering you at work until you do.’
Arran laughed. ‘You probably would, you crazy lady. My phone’s in the kitchen. Let’s go inside.’
He bent to throw his butt into the fern, but Nell slapped his hand. ‘Put it in the bin. Didn’t I bring you up better than that?’
Chastened, he held the door open for her. Once she had her back to him he made a request. ‘Dinner next week—can I bring a guest? There’s someone I want you to meet. His name’s John.’
Nell watched the taillights of Arran’s car disappear down the street, then returned to the house, locked the door behind her and picked up the phone. Now or never, she thought, blood thumping in her ears. If she put it off until tomorrow she might lose her nerve altogether. Arran had written Ben’s number on a scrap of paper, and as she squinted to read it she noticed her hands were shaking. Don’t be silly, she told herself. The worst he can do is say no. Besides, she reasoned as she dialled the number, he probably wouldn’t even answer and she could just leave a message.
‘Hello?’ came a voice on the other end of the line. Ben’s voice. She felt something well up in her; a curiosity, a tenderness. This person was part of her.
‘Ben, it-it’s Nell,’ she stammered. ‘Skye and Arran’s mother. Sorry to ring you so late.’
‘It’s not late,’ he said. She glanced at the clock, surprised to find it wasn’t yet nine pm. She had been thinking about this all day, all week. Dinner felt like decades ago.
‘I got your number from Arran. He showed me the pictures from your trip. It looks like a beautiful place—I loved the shots of the mosque. And how wonderful that you made contact with Zia’s brother!’ She was prattling, she realised, catching sight of her reflection in the glass door of the oven. Her mouth was opening and closing like a fish pulled up from the sea.
‘It was great. I was glad Arran invited me,’ Ben replied cautiously.
Nell stared at her fingernails, bracing herself. There was paint under all but one of them. Crimson, like blood. She had blood on her hands. Like it or not, it was her observation that had set this in train. Maybe it was her job to try to fix it, too.
‘Ben, I want to see you. Regularly, I mean, as one of the family. I want to be able to have you over for lunch or pick up the phone and talk to you. I don’t want you to disappear and never be heard from again.’
In the hush that followed she could hear her own breathing, ragged, afraid.
‘I’ve been thinking about it ever since Molly was born,’ she hurried on, ‘how you shouldn’t be left out, that she should grow up knowing both her uncles, not just Arran. I’m sorry that you’ve been hurt, but we were hurt too. It was no one’s fault. We can put it behind us. And I’m also sorry that your parents never told you how you came to them, and I hope you’ll be able to work that out together, but either way it doesn’t mean you can’t be a part of this family as well.’ She pulled up panting, a marathon runner forced into a sprint.
Ben was quiet for a minute before he responded. ‘What does Skye think of this idea?’
‘I haven’t told her,’ she hedged. ‘I will though.’
On the other end of the line Ben snorted, the sound derisory and dismissive. ‘I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. Hamish too. He’ll probably invite me straight round to tea.’
‘Given that you’re Skye’s brother, I’m sure he would,’ Nell snapped, almost believing it herself. ‘Hamish is a good man. So are you. It was eighteen months ago, Ben! Can’t we just get over it? You have two full siblings, a niece, a biological parent. We all care about you. Isn’t that something worth hanging on to?’
Ben said nothing for so long that she feared he’d hung up. Finally he moaned quietly, a long, drawn-out sound. ‘Why can’t you just let me go?’
Nell’s stomach churned. She longed to take him in her arms, to comfort him and stroke his hair. My baby, she thought, stupidly, unaccountably. She wished Charlie had met him—had known of him even, this third child they’d created together.
‘It’s not just me,’ she told him. ‘Arran couldn’t let you go either, or he wouldn’t have asked you to Syria. Then he mentioned it to Skye, and she immediately wanted to know how you were.’ Nell paused. ‘But it’s your call. I’m not going to force you. I can’t, anyway.’
Another long silence. The kitchen clock ticked through its stillness; the tap dripped onto the unwashed plates. Should she give up, Nell wondered, put the phone back in its cradle and just go to bed?
Then Ben cleared his throat. ‘What’s Molly like?’ he asked.
28
It was big, Ben thought, as he hesitated on the veranda. Bigger than he’d expected. Hamish must be doing pretty well. Two storeys, established garden, leafy suburb . . . The windows needed washing though, and the paving in the driveway was cracked. Ben smiled as he noted the flaws. The house wasn’t completely perfect, then. Good.
No one was expecting him. He hadn’t called or sent a note; he’d simply found the address in the phone book and turned up. Would Skye even be home? It was a Tuesday, mid-morning. Maybe she was at playgroup or the health centre, or whatever it was new mothers did. There was no car in the driveway, though of course it could be interred in the vast double garage to the side of the house. Ben wavered. He could leave the gift in the letterbox and she’d know that he’d tried. Surely that would be enough?
Ben shook his head. Nell was right. He needed to see her. Not so they could all engage in some sort of modern-day blended-family charade, as Nell seemed to hope, but so he could get through this, past it, put it behind him. He’d known he needed to since that night in Syria when Arran and that guy they’d met had had to carry him back to the hotel; he’d known it when he woke depleted the next morning—not from the vomiting or the hangover, but because he’d remembered anew that Skye had given birth, that she’d had someone else’s child. Arran had been so excited to hear word about Habib—he’d rung the number and spoken to Habib’s friend, assured him that they were genuine, and then organised a time later that afternoon for them to meet. And yet all day, in spite of Arran’s excitement and Ben’s own relief that they had accomplished what they set out to, he’d felt sick. That evening, he’d made up his mind. Enough. He’d had enough of torturing himself with thoughts of Skye. He had to accept that it was over. He’d returned to Melbourne determined to forget her once and for all, but still she haunted his thoughts. The phone call from Nell had given him an idea. Maybe if he saw Skye and Molly, finally faced the situation head-on instead of getting drunk or denying what he felt, he would be able to accept it, move on. It was eighteen months ago, Ben! Nell had said on the phone, and he’d been surprised. Only eighteen months? It felt like an eternity. It was time to get his life back.
He lifted his hand to the door and knocked hard on it, twice.
‘Ben!’
Skye’
s face was pale when she opened the door. Was she still unwell, he wondered, or was it the shock of seeing him? He felt his own throat contract, his breathing accelerate. Fight or flight, he thought stupidly, the phrase coming back to him from his year of vet studies. The sympathetic nervous system; the body’s response to overwhelming stimuli. Only he didn’t want to do either. Now that she was here, before him, all he wanted to do was put his arms around her.
‘Ben,’ Skye said again, more quietly, still staring at him. There was a baby on her hip. Molly, of course it was Molly. She had dark navy eyes. She must have got them from Hamish.
‘Skye,’ he said dumbly, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. He swallowed and tried again. ‘I heard you had a baby. I wanted to come and congratulate you.’ He held out a pink-wrapped package as if negotiating a treaty.
‘Oh,’ she said, taking it hesitantly. ‘Thank you. Would you like to come in?’
No, he thought. I wouldn’t like to. He had done what he had come to do. He could leave now, walk away and go home, yet somehow his feet were following Skye down a hallway and into the kitchen. Molly gazed at him over her mother’s shoulder. She had Skye’s mouth, he was pleased to note. It made up for the eyes.
Skye waved him towards a seat at the island bench. ‘I’d offer you tea or coffee,’ she said, ‘but I know you don’t drink them.’
Ben nodded. He was shamefully pleased that she remembered. ‘That’s right. Just a water would be fine.’