The Safekeep(69)

When she left, she wished them both a safe trip—wished it tersely, wanted to mean it more than she did. Wanted to be softer than she was. Hendrik was quick with his hug, still sore over their falling-out, but said: “You can come visit. You should. I’ve told you.”

“Hm,” she said, and her throat was tight, and the hallway blurry. She went down the stairs. Sebastian came after her then, quickly, and stopped her right as she was out the door—a hand to her arm. He seemed to want to say something. He opened his mouth, closed it. He was in his socks.

“What?” she said.

“You resent him. For coming with me.”

“No.”

“You don’t approve.”

“I—” He was still holding on to her. She was tired. She didn’t want to cry in front of Sebastian. “You’re lucky to have him, that’s all. You should know that. That it’s lucky, to have someone with you. Please let me go.”

He let her go. She knew there was something about that word, and how she said it—lucky. He stood on the bottom rung of the stairs, a little taller like this. They were both in the shadow, in the dark. “You seem to think you have so little in the world.” She could see the twist of his mouth. “But you have so much. Much more than most of us.”

She took a breath to argue and found that nothing came out: that her throat had closed up, that only a sound like a sob would leave her. She’d not heard him like this before—harsh. Almost reprimanding.

“He has regrets, you know,” Sebastian added. “You could be kinder with him.”

“He left,” Isabel said. The word was wet.

“I know. But he regrets it. So do you, I imagine. It is what it is. It’s done. Tomorrow we leave, what can you do. I am scared, what can I do.”

He breathed in the dark of the hallway. Then she left, almost left, turned—reached out. His hand met hers halfway, a quick squeeze. His palm was warm. The house smelled like the two of them—Hendrik and Sebastian, the soap they used, the cologne they used, and Hendrik’s habit of always opening one window and also a note of something else. Something that happens between bodies, close together, four walls and a roof.

Isabel took the train back home. She was rocked on the tracks. Her belly was hollow. There was a light on in the kitchen as she approached the house. A warm orange, and someone moving inside: the blur of a silhouette; shoulders, hair up in a tail. Isabel was arrested by it—stopped, heart tripping, a dull headache turning sharp. Her body had decided what was happening before the rest of her caught up. She walked, then ran, then pushed through the kitchen door. It overlapped, the scene of it: smell memory of something cooked, of the evening, of the fire in the hearth, the radio on, and a woman’s body leaning over the table—a cloth in hand, cleaning the surface.

Neelke startled. Recovered, said hello. She seemed unsure of what to do next. Isabel had come in midbreath, midrun. Her pulse was in her teeth still. Neelke looked lovely in the low light, looked young and flushed and tired. Isabel recalled the evening she had come home and found Eva and Neelke here, here exactly, a bottle of wine and Eva laughing and touching Neelke’s hair. They were having a conversation about how Neelke might cut it. Isabel had got so angry. She had sent Neelke away. Eva had called her a tyrant. Isabel had grabbed her, had grabbed her arm—had been reluctant to let go.

“I didn’t—” Neelke started, stopped. She held the cloth in two hands before her. “I meant—to be done. I ran late.”

Isabel didn’t reply. She went to her. It was a dazed moment. Neelke shifted, stood differently—stood to attention. Stiff. Her blouse was red, tiny purple flowers, and was missing one little button: between her chest and her navel. She was wearing a white shirt underneath. Isabel, close and blurry-eyed and dizzy, held Neelke’s face in her hands. It was such a small face. Her skin was soft, and warm. Eva would tilt up open-mouthed when held like this.

The fire crackled. Neelke breathed fast and audible. Isabel looked at her, and looked at her. She let her go. She sat down at the table and ran a hand over her face and dug her nails into her cheekbones.

Neelke said nothing. She moved quietly and washed the cloth. Wrung it out, hung it over the oven door. She made to leave. She was in her coat, at the door, when Isabel spoke up.

“Neelke—” she said. It came out like gravel. Neelke had been so quiet the week Isabel had fallen ill. She had occasionally sat by the bed as Isabel slowly ate her soup. She had asked about Eva once and had received no answer, and had not asked again. “Do you—” Isabel cleared her throat. “Are you alone? Do you have someone?”

Neelke didn’t seem to catch the question at first. She worked a breath, confused, then said: “A boyfriend?” Her voice was so small.

Isabel looked at her. “A boyfriend.”

Neelke blushed quickly. Her jacket was a dark green. “I do,” she said.

“You do.”

“Bas. Bas van der Laan.” His full name, as if making sure he was real.

“Is he nice to you?”

“He—Yes.”

Isabel took a breath. “You will not be here forever,” she said.

Neelke looked out of her depth. Isabel said, “I’m not firing you. I’m only saying. You will go one day.”

“I don’t,” Neelke said. “I don’t know what—”