The Safekeep(77)

A small, hapless sound left Eva. “Have you,” she repeated quietly. “And you?”

“I—”

“You’ll have me? Send me away again? I can’t—”

“I won’t,” Isabel said.

“You will.”

“No,” Isabel said, and took Eva’s hand and pressed it—over her chest, pressed it flat, held it there. She wanted to say, It is done. She wanted to convey, translate it, how there was nothing else for her now. She didn’t know how to, and so she stayed like that: pressing Eva’s hand harder against herself.

“Is that the promise you give me?” Eva said. “Is that the guarantee I have?”

Isabel closed her eyes so she would not have to see whatever came next. She did not think she could witness it.

“This fleeting thing?” She meant the beating under her hand; Isabel’s heart. “This changeable thing?”

“Yes.”

“Look at me.”

Isabel looked at her. Eva kissed her. It was a hard press of lips over teeth, angry and then soft. Eva’s breath was hot. She was still weeping. “I’ll never leave,” she said. It sounded like a promise. “If you are mine then I am yours. Do you understand? If I stay, if I’m yours then you must keep me, and I can never—”

The chair scraped and Eva was on her knees, too, and Isabel held Eva under the fall of her hair and they swayed. Isabel spoke, muffled and lost between their mouths, said Eva’s name and asked to be had and said, “Love, my love, my love.” And, “Let me,” she said. “Let me. My love. Let me try.”



* * *



Morning rose in the quiet chord of winter’s pink. The snow had silenced the world: the two evergreens in silhouette, the vegetable garden only a relief of a fence. Remembering the house when it snowed, Eva had written in her diary. The sound of snow falling from the branches like a muffled word. Hmph! The sun in the mornings and the shadows of the trees on the curtain.

Isabel knew the scene like from a dream; knew it from childhood, knew it from every winter she had spent in the house. And now she knew it through Eva’s eyes, too, an echo of the same story. A new key for an old tune.

Isabel stood by the window and looked out. Eva’s touch was a soft one, first, two fingers to the dip of her spine in hello: I’m here, it said, don’t startle. Isabel did not startle. She knew Eva was there, knew she had approached. She would never not know. She would never leave a room again and not leave half of her behind.

She turned her face to the side and Eva stepped in closer, her body warm to Isabel’s back—hands sleep-soft over Isabel’s belly. Eva had to go to her toes to kiss the hinge of Isabel’s jaw. Isabel could only see the blur of her hair from here; the slope of her nose, the rise of her cheek. It was not enough. Isabel turned in her arms to have more of her.

Eva tilted her face up. Isabel bent toward her, bent to what was offered—a gift.



Isaiah 56:7





Acknowledgments


In 2021, my grandfather passed away very suddenly, and then my grandmother—two days later, across the world—not so suddenly. It was a terror of a week. In a car on the way to one of the funerals the idea for this book came to me like a shudder. It felt, still feels, like a parting gift. Opa, the kindest of us all. Safta, the brightest. From my deepest, thank you.

To the brilliant Anna Stein: you called my book rare, which I then told my therapist, who made me write the word on a Post-it and stick it to my mirror. How embarrassing, it’s still up there, I read it every day. Thank you for changing my life. To my UK agent, Karolina Sutton, who I adore: what a dream to be chosen by you. To Lauren Wein, my US editor: I can’t imagine kinder or more capable hands. Sorry for the beats, thank you for absolutely everything. Isabel Wall, my UK editor: you have achieved an impressive feat, that is—making me believe that everything is going to be all right. More than that, that it’s going to be great. How clever are you? To everyone at Viking and Avid Reader, for their faith. Especially: Jofie Ferrari-Adler and Amy Guay. Big thanks to Jessica Chin and Jane Elias for copyediting. God bless copyeditors, where would we be without you. A massive round of applause to the team that has sent this book all around the world and also answered my endless barrage of emails: Claire Nozieres, Zoe Willis, Julie Flanagan, and Will Watkins.

To my Dutch literary home, Uitgeverij Chaos, that I once helped build and to which I now get to return. To Sayonara, who I met for the first time at nineteen at a laser-game party, and then again, ten years later, at a bookstore. The second time bound us for life. My eternal cheerleader, thank you, just try and get rid of me now. And Thalia, my rock: it wasn’t real until I got you on the phone. You said, “It’s happening,” and only then it was happening. You make things feel true. To Dani?l, Marscha, Frank, Isabel, and Bowi: what a gift you are.

I owe the greatest debt to all those who read this book in its various stages of completion and weighed in: Yumi, my very first reader; you sat on this couch and I sat on the floor and I told you, “And then Eva says: ‘It’s not yours to give.’?” And you showed me your goose bumps. I will never forget that moment. To Alice Winn: I owe you several life-debts. How did I find you! What are the odds! Thank you for St. Augustine and the pears. People won’t stop talking about the pears, they’re a great hit. You’re a genius but I’m trying to be cool about it. To Mikaella Clements: Oh, you know why. You made this book come alive; thank you for Hendrik and Sebastian, thank you for being sure of this when I wasn’t. To Rebecca Kantor, for your good heart and your sharp eye—if only we lived in the same city! To Onjuli Datta: You were the first to say, “it’s done, just send it,” and it was terrifying and thrilling. I don’t think you know how much I look up to you, and it meant the world! To Steven and Michelle, for your generosity and time and expertise. To Amarantha, my love, my best girl, may you have this one. To Anna, I still see you through the kitchen window, reading, basking in the sun. Estrella, for Ezra, for all that came before this. To Siobhon: There’s no reader like you. May I pass everything I ever write through you first? And Francis, oh Francis: you fixed things I didn’t know needed fixing. To Emory, too, for everything I didn’t get to read in the group chat. To Blue, z”l: I think you would’ve liked this one. To Judy, z”l: my loyal librarian, you are missed.