The Safekeep(11)

Neelke was eighteen. She wore sundresses, had a tight, plump mouth that she often picked at when nervous or in thought. She was the youngest sister of a girl called Silke whom Isabel had gone to school with. Isabel had liked Silke once, because Silke was quieter than the other girls and usually had a book with her—and Isabel could forgive that they were only ever novels, only ever romantic ones. For a little while in year three they biked home together after school, mostly in silence. Silke’s high ponytail would whip in the wind, eyes squinting against the gales. One time, Isabel asked her whether she wanted to come over: they could read in her room together. Silke said yes. But Louis had been at home that day, listening to some radio play in the kitchen, and Silke kept making up reasons to linger: Could she have a glass of water, and would he be having tea, and could she have some, too, and did Louis always listen to this radio show, and did he know much of radios? He must be so smart. Did he know her brother? Her brother, too, had graduated last year.

Louis answered the questions without looking at Silke straight on, only from the corner of his eye.

Eventually, up in Isabel’s room, all Silke wanted to talk about was Louis. And when Isabel said, It’s really boring to talk about my brother, Silke then proceeded to talk about every single boy in their class instead: the one with the good hair, the one with the soft eyes, the one who looked like he’d grow to be taller than the rest. She seemed to like them all, even the ones who Isabel had decided with flat certainty were ugly or obtuse. Silke had a nice, sighing thing to say about every single one.

It ended in a fight. Isabel snapped, said, Are boys really the only thing you can think to talk about, to which Silke went red and gave a breathless speech of: Well, at least I talk about anything at all, at least I’m not weird and boring! And when Silke stormed downstairs, Isabel followed her. And when Silke reached past her to get her coat, Isabel bit her. Her arm was just—right there, sleeve pushed up to her elbow. Her skin looked smooth, like the flesh of an almond. No freckles, only the grain of golden hairs. She had been so rude to Isabel. She’d called her weird. She had said Louis’s name so many times up in Isabel’s room, so many times. Silke screamed when Isabel bit her. She screamed even when Isabel let her go, she screamed like she would die. Isabel’s mouth left behind a spit mark.

Isabel still had two years left at school after that. They were long and boring. Silke had told everyone about what had happened. Some of the boys barked at Isabel during lunch breaks; the girls avoided her with pointed distaste.

When Neelke came by to interview for the job, she wore a knitted cardigan over her dress, held her sleeve ends over her wrists, arms covered. She smiled with her mouth closed. Before she left, she lingered in the doorway, eyes down. She said: You were in Silke’s year, right? She used the honorific you: a deference, a humbling. She looked so much like Silke had back then.

Isabel had confirmed with a single yes and had nothing further to say. Isabel gave her the job with a heady satisfaction—like she’d won something. It didn’t last long. By the end of Neelke’s first week Isabel was checking the windows for missed spots. She rewashed the dishes where she thought a stain had been left, locked her jewelry box, counted her mother’s rings.

Eva woke up earlier than usual. It was still very late. Her habits seemed to Isabel a natural extension of her personality: she was loud in the night, talked in her sleep and then slept in, ate in small bites throughout the day, never in one meal, often didn’t finish her plate. She left her things carelessly behind and then forgot where she’d put them, would stomp through the house trying to find them. Sometimes she’d disappear for a while. Sometimes she’d be everywhere all at once. Her perfume bullied itself around the house.

Isabel was still finishing her breakfast when Eva came in. She had her hair wrapped in a scarf. Her eyes were puffed with sleep, skin dry around the mouth. She was in her houserobe. She put out a plate for herself, poured some coffee. Isabel said, “You’re early,” and Eva said, “Hmm?”

Upstairs, Neelke was washing the windows.

“You’re early,” Isabel repeated. It was a judgment now.

Eva arranged herself a few slices of cheese. Cucumber, tomato. “It got too bright in the room. Someone was—stomping around. I couldn’t sleep.” Her voice was rough.

“Neelke came to change the sheets today.” And then, tapping the crumbs from her fingers, Isabel said: “I suggest now will be a good moment to move your stuff.”

Eva looked up at her. “Move my—”

“You won’t be staying in Mother’s room.”

“Your mother’s—”

“There’s a guest room on the third floor. I’ve left the windows open so it’s aired. Neelke will show you where to—”

“I’m sorry.” Eva hitched a breath in the shape of an apology. “Why would I be moving?”

Isabel had decided not to explain herself. “As I’ve said. You won’t be staying in Mother’s room.”

“It’s where Louis said I could stay.”

“Well, Louis is not here, and does not live here.”

“But it’s his house.” And then, purposefully kind: “As much as it’s yours.”

Isabel kept her gaze steady. She arranged her fork on her plate, put her hands neatly in her lap. Eva looked back at her, a questioning smile, eyebrows up. They were a dark brown.