The Safekeep(38)

Eva whispered, “You should go back to your bed.”

The words brushed Isabel’s skin. She answered: “No.”

Eva made a sound, a whine. “It’s no good,” she said, and fisted at the collar of Isabel’s robe. “It’s bad, Isa.”

Isabel wasn’t sure what she meant: the two them, or the night, or Louis, or everything. Eva fell asleep like that—in Isabel’s arms, her face to Isabel’s throat. The twist of a hand she’d put to Isabel’s robe loosened in her sleep, but still held.

Isabel stayed awake. Every now and then a shudder began, and she would not let it rise. She remained unmoving, not wanting to stir Eva from her sleep again. She seemed so small, and real in a way she wasn’t always. Her skin was soft and warm, her heartbeat close below. She was rounded at her hip, had the soft give of fat over her ribs. Isabel wanted to dig her fingers into her. Eva shuddered in her slumber, goose bumps rising. Isabel stroked a thumb down the side of her neck. Isabel’s heart went wide, went tight. Went wide and tight again. The morning came with palest of skies. The shadows lifted as though they’d only been glimpsed under the hem of a skirt—the lift on an arm, secrets of the body that only unfolded for the night.



* * *



The bed, when Isabel woke, was empty. It still held Eva’s warmth. She did not know the time. The day was too loud: the sun too loud, the birds too loud, the people outside the hotel and in the hallways and in the far distance—too loud.

The room was hot. Isabel could not get her hair in order. She stood before the bathroom mirror and tried to comb it through with wet fingers and could not get it in order. The skin around her mouth was irritated. She looked as though she’d woken from a sickness.

She found the others at the restaurant, in the same seats as the previous evening—Sebastian leaning back, Hendrik telling some grand story that included gestures and reenactments. Approaching, all Isabel could see of Eva was her back: the slight slouch of her, the press of her spine against the white of her shirt—each bump, all the way up.

Hendrik greeted Isabel with a big hey-ho! He clasped her shoulder, pulled her into the group. Eva was in profile, eyes down, unreadable. Breakfast was brief and Isabel took it at a different table. Hendrik laughed at this, said, Oh, it’s like that! and Isabel could not respond. She held a cup of coffee like a buoy, nose to the rim. Yesterday’s dress was creased, still held some damp.

On the way out Eva walked ahead as if in a greater hurry than they were. She held the picnic basket at her side, short legs going fast. At the car, she waited for Hendrik to unlock the doors, and when he did she claimed the passenger seat quickly, which made Hendrik laugh, and made Sebastian pause and look and say, “All yours, then.”

Isabel closed her eyes in the back seat and did not open them until they were already driving. All the windows were down. The wind pushed through, a hot breath, a bright warm palm of sky to her face. Sebastian quietly asked her, once, “Are you all right?” And Isabel said, “Of course,” sternly. The storm had left its marks on the landscape: trees felled, branches tumbled down dikes. In reply, nature screeched into the day: insects rubbing noise out of wings, blackbirds running and cawing, flying and cawing.

The journey back was quiet, a tense and reserved mood settling between them. Sebastian and Hendrik had half-spoken conversations about picking up their stuff at the house and immediately continuing on to Den Haag. Do we have time to stay for tea? We don’t have time to stay for tea. Isabel realized she’d put a hand to her throat and was holding herself like that. She put her hand back in her lap with a jerk.

At the house there was a car parked up the long driveway. Isabel recognized it quickly. She knew, in that moment, whom they’d find waiting for them, and she was right: Johan, over by the hedge, smoking a cigarette and looking like he was kicking the root of the plant—shoving his foot into it. He looked like he’d been there for a while.

Hendrik slowed to a stop, a good distance away. Everyone in the car was silent a moment, and then Hendrik said, “Oh, Isabel. What have you done to him?”

“I,” Isabel began, and then stopped. A blush rose quick and true, a bodily thing, hot up into her face. Johan noticed them. Isabel said, “Hendrik. Hendrik, go to him. I can’t—I don’t want to.”

“Go to him? And say what! He’s here for you, obviously, what do you want me to—”

“I don’t care! Go, please, he’s almost here, please just—”

Hendrik went—with an incredulous huff, a laugh. A quiet I guess I must! and he got out of the car. He stopped Johan up the path by blocking his way, saying, “Neighbor Johan!”

Isabel couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation from the car, only the cadence of talk—of voice, of bass. Isabel put two hands on her knees and waited for it to be over. She glanced up once, caught Eva’s eye in the rearview mirror, realized the gaze had been on her for a while—and looked away.

Ahead, Johan nodded and nodded at something Hendrik said. Then he smiled and shook Hendrik’s hand, and then waved at her—at the three of them. No one waved back. He left, went back to his own car. Drove by them slowly, window down to say: “See you then!”

Hendrik wandered back at a leisurely pace. He began to unload their luggage from the trunk. He’d lit himself a cigarette. They all got out of the car and Isabel said, “What did you say, what happened?” And Hendrik said, “Oh, he was adamant, he was adamant.”