Summer Brother

by Jaap Robben

  “Kithy, kithy.” She tries to press the season ticket to my lips, but her hand is too slow and I dodge it. She keeps on trying. My movements slice through air, while hers seem to push through water.

  With another sigh she starts stuffing all the papers back into her bag, followed by the bits and pieces she hid under her pillow. There seems to be more of it now it all has to fit back in. “Do you want me to help you?” She doesn’t let me.

  “I’m thirteen,” I say to the back of her head.

  “I know that.”

  “How?”

  “By looking.” All at once, I feel exposed. I thought it was only me looking at her, that she looked back without really knowing what she was seeing.

  “But how did you know?”

  “Cause I know.”

  She leans so far forward that from where I’m sitting it looks like her head’s gone missing. When she tugs the belt bag round to her hip, a stripe of her back is bared and her bum crack peeps above the waistband of her skirt. She sits up without straightening her top.

  Selma doesn’t jump when I touch her. The skin feels warmer than I expected. My pinkie bumps over the red ripples left by the elastic waistband.

  Closer to her hip, the skin is colder. Selma’s hands slide from her thighs and fall onto the bed, palms open. I try to read her face to see if this is allowed. “Selma?” I whisper. Her eyes stay closed.

  I trace a triangle of downy blond hair, run my finger down a little further to stroke the hollow that becomes the cleft between her buttocks. My whole body has poured itself into the tip of my pinkie.

  “My leg tingles.”

  “What?” I pull back my hand and tug down the hem of her top. Luckily there’s still no one in the corridor. “What’s the matter?”

  “It tingles.” She points, as if it’s something to do with the people downstairs.

  “Your leg has gone to sleep,” I say, louder, as if we’ve been chatting. I didn’t touch her. I was just straightening her top.

  “My leg is napping.” Selma giggles.

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  I ease back to the edge of the bed.

  “Ow,” she groans, and turns away from her sleeping leg in the hope it won’t prickle as much.

  “Just wait,” I reassure her. “It’ll be better in a minute.”

  Her pained face softens and the corners of her mouth curl up again.

  Selma slides off the bed and walks to the window, limping slightly. She takes a snow globe from the windowsill and sits back down beside me. “Look!” She shakes it. “For my birthday.” Two tiny figures on a frozen pond kiss. “From Nino.”

  “Who’s Nino?”

  “My friend.”

  “Your friend?”

  Her firm nod looks more like she’s whacking something with her chin.

  “What kind of friend?”

  “My friend.”

  “Like Lucien?”

  “My friend too.”

  “What am I then?”

  Selma puts her hands on her hips. She studies my face, then my hands and my bare knees below my shorts. Her lips move as if to answer a few times, then settle on a smile. And just when I think she won’t say anything, she says, “You’re Lucien’s brother.”

  “Is that all?”

  Selma jiggles her snow globe again.

  Without even thinking, I press my mouth to hers. Eyes tight shut. Her lips shape themselves to mine. I stick out my tongue. Inside our kiss it’s wet and tastes of energy drink. I feel her teeth, warm emptiness behind them. Then we’re apart again. Selma pants a little, as if she’s been held underwater.

  “Sorry,” I stammer.

  I stand up and smooth the wrinkles from the sheet. Selma doesn’t look like a girl who’s been kissed. More like someone who has smacked her head off a window. I grab my half-empty can and take a swig. A few birthday cards are pinned to the noticeboard.

  “I promise I’ll give you a present too.”

  “Present?”

  “Next time I come. Would you like that?”

  Selma nods.

  “Here,” I say, taking her can from the bedside cabinet and holding it out to her. She takes a sip, then wipes her mouth.

  “When’s my present?”

  “Next time.”

  -

  26

  Way down in my insides, there’s a glow I’ve never felt. I French-kissed once before, with Nathalie. After a game of tag in the school playground. Kissing me was the booby prize. It didn’t have to be a long one, but everyone stood in a circle and cheered, because it had to be with tongues. Afterwards it felt like someone had tried to knot my lips together.

  On my way out, I nip in to see Henkelmann. His door is ajar and the blinds are closed. “Are you asleep?” The top end of his bed has been lowered and a blanket covers the shape of him. Nothing moves. Another bed has been parked under Lucien’s paper birds, but it’s still wrapped in see-through plastic.

  “Got the place to yourself again. Did you scare everyone off?” The only sounds in the room come from outside. “Selma isn’t mad at me anymore,” I whisper. “We kissed. Tongues and everything.” Henkelmann doesn’t care what I say. “Do you know Nino?”

  His eyes glimmer in the half-dark.

  “Do you want to play our game? Henkelmann?”

  His mouth is a round, dark hole.

  “Don’t jump. I’m going to switch on your bedside lamp.” His eyes barely respond to the light. I notice his bed rail is down and step back instinctively. “You’re a sly one. Trying to lure me in, Henkelmann? Get me to take one step closer and then … waarrgh.” My laughter falls flat against the walls. His chest swells and sinks inside his shirt.

  “Henkelmann?”

  His wrists are free of velcro. Hands loose on the sheet, palms open.

  “Wait!” I see Zoubida passing the open door. “Henkelmann is lying in bed with nothing to hold him down,” I shout. “The rail’s not up. His hands aren’t strapped.”

  “There’s no need anymore.”

  “Is he on stronger medicine?”

  “No, no,” she says. “It’s only a matter of days now, for Mathieu. A week at most.”

  “Until what?”

  “We found him like this a few mornings ago. Since then, it’s all been downhill.”

  “What happened?”

  “We’re not sure. Something in his sleep.”

  “Just like that?”

  She nods.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “It’s hard to know with a guy like Mathieu. He can’t tell us. We’re giving him painkillers just in case.”

  “Is he going to die?”

  “We think so,” she whispers, as if it’s something she’s not supposed to say.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, we’re sure.” Zoubida rubs my arm. “It’s just a question of when.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hmm.”

  Henkelmann looks more alone than ever, the way he’s lying there.

  “Does he have family?”

  “I think an aunt came to visit him once.”

  The bedside lamp casts strange shadows across Henkelmann’s face. “Shall we go over and stand beside him?” Zoubida asks. “Together?”

  I nod.

  His toothless mouth is an endless yawn.

  “But if no one else comes, who’s going to remember him after?”

  “After?”

  “When he’s dead.”

  She doesn’t seem to hear me. Her hand glides gently over the crocodile skin on his forearm. “We will,” she says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We can remember him. You and me.”

  In a greenish vein on one of his eyelids, I see the beating of his heart.
/>
  “Deal?” she asks quietly, as if we’re not allowed to disturb Henkelmann while he’s dying. I nod, and it’s only then I notice her hand held out to me. It’s warm and dry. She doesn’t seem to mind that my palm is sweaty.

  “He’s lived longer than we ever thought he would.”

  She checks a bag of dark yellow piss hanging beside his bed. “Mathieu is a tough cookie.”

  “What age is he?”

  “I can’t tell you off the top of my head. But he was one of our first residents. He was here when the monks were still running the place.” She places one hand on his neck and looks at her watch. “Come,” she says to me once she’s finished counting. “Shall I get you something to drink?”

  “I’d like to stay a little longer.”

  “Okay.”

  Zoubida puts her hand on the back of my head and ruffles my hair.

  “I used to play the biting game with him.”

  “That was nice of you.”

  Now that we’re alone, it feels like death is hiding under his bed. Or behind the door. Or in the folds of the curtains you can pull round all the beds in this place.

  “Henkelmann?” I tap his fingers and bring my hand to my chest. “I didn’t know your name was Mathieu.”

  His dull eyes stare holes in the ceiling. “You’re maybe going to die.” When I brush his eyelashes with my pinkie, they flicker in slow motion.

  “I’m sorry I was scared of you.”

  I bring my finger to his face, trace the ridge of his nose. Touch his top lip. “Bite me, if you want. Bite, it’s okay.” There is only the quiet heat of his breath on my palm.

  When I’m leaving, I run into Zoubida again.

  “What are you doing here anyway? Isn’t Lucien at home with you now?”

  “I had to pick something up. Medicine.”

  Zoubida looks at me for a moment, then nods. “Okay.” Has she really not noticed my hands are empty?

  “Are you coping all right? With Lucien at home?”

  “Yeah, it’s all going really well.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

  -

  27

  Whew! Dad’s not back yet. I don’t take the time to kick down the stand, but let my scooter fall. The Astroturf hisses against the exhaust pipe as I leap into the caravan. “I’m back.” Lucien is lying calmly on my bed.

  I hug him so tight that his breath squeaks. “You’re not going to die on us.” My forehead pressed to his, I try to look him in the eye. “Promise?” He doesn’t seem to notice the tears, probably thinks pressing foreheads is our new game.

  “Selma’s not angry anymore. That’s something at least.”

  Lucien starts to rock again. “Selma,” I repeat. He shudders so fiercely that I have to let go of him. I decide to keep quiet about Nino. He has managed to wrench one foot free, the other is still fastened. “We kissed,” I whisper. “Tongues and everything.”

  His wrist is scored and bruised, despite the sock I tied around it. “Shit.” I hunt around for a pair of pliers. “Selma is nineteen now,” I say. “She let me feel her bum.”

  I grab the wrong end of the cable tie and accidentally pull it tighter. Quick as I can, I clip through the plastic.

  Rico and Rita start barking and seconds later the pickup appears. “Shit … your foot.” Lucien strains to reach the spout of his beaker. “I’ll get you a drink in a minute.” Fumbling for the cord, I free his ankle and rub the red skin underneath. His foot lies slack and heavy. For a second I worry it might have gone dead, but a quick tickle on the soles of his feet jolts his legs back to life and I stuff the cord down the side of the mattress. “Here you go.” I stick the beaker in his mouth, upside down.

  “Billy goats gruff!” Dad calls out to us. Rita and Rico follow him in, drooling. A plastic bag from The Snack Palace is dangling in front of their noses. “Grub’s up! Get it while it’s hot.”

  “Hang on a sec.”

  “Is Lucien dozing off again?”

  “Just woken up.” I slip the cable ties and pliers under the covers.

  “Quiet afternoon?”

  “Yeah, no worries.”

  “I got an extra sausage for your brother. Do you think he’s up for that?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  Once Lucien has emptied his beaker, Dad and I heave him to his feet and clamp his hands around our shoulders. Leaning heavily, he trails along behind us out of the bedroom. His nails sink into my skin. We lower him into the deep leather chair opposite the TV, the one he’s least likely to fall out of. “Dig in,” Dad says. “Or your chips will get cold. I’ve already pinched a few out of the bag.”

  “Don’t you want any more?”

  “Yeah, but let me feed your brother first. You’ve been keeping him entertained all afternoon.”

  Dad carves up the sausage with the side of his fork. Then he shifts the coffee table closer to the chair, sits on one corner and stabs the first chunk. “Fancy a bite?” Lucien’s mouth opens wide.

  “Do you think Lucien might die, just like that?”

  “What’s brought this on?”

  “It happens, right?”

  “No one dies just like that.”

  “They do,” I say. “Boys like him do. They can’t even tell you if something hurts.”

  “Don’t start worrying about stuff like that.” Dad puts down the sausage, grabs Lucien by the elbows and shakes him roughly, as if to make sure all his parts are still attached. A laugh gurgles deep in Lucien’s throat. “Your brother here can take a knock or two.”

  “You really think so?”

  “No question,” Dad promises. “If there’s anything wrong with him, we’ll notice soon enough.”

  I drag a couple of chips through the mayo and ferry them over to Dad’s mouth. “Here,” I say. “For you.”

  “Nice one.” He chomps them from my hand.

  “We’re a regular feeding machine.”

  “Indeed we are.” Looking at Lucien, you’d never know I left him alone all afternoon.

  “How’s it going with his pills?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, did you manage to work out that schedule?” Dad nods at the file on top of the TV.

  I don’t know what to answer.

  “That was your job, wasn’t it?” Dad asks.

  “The pills, yeah.”

  “Brian, look at me.”

  “What?”

  “Do you mean to say you haven’t been giving him any?”

  “Yeah, it’s all fine.”

  Lucien lolls blissfully in his chair while Rico sits beside him, licking at his fingers.

  “Was there any work going today?”

  “Sure.” His tongue flicks across his lips as he feeds Lucien the tail end of the sausage. “I’m making things happen. We’re doing just fine, the three of us. If your mother could see us now, eh?”

  -

  28

  We never missed a single Sunday. The closer we got to Lucien, the more Mum sped up, until she was half a car park ahead of me and Dad. At the electric doors, she would turn and wave at us to get a move on. We all had to walk in together.

  “Ah, there’s my little love!” Mum shouted when we saw my brother sitting there in the rec room. As always, he hid his face in his armpit when he heard her voice. “Not shy around your own mum, now, are you?” She tried to twist his mouth round to meet hers. “Now give me a kiss.” He whacked the back of his head with the ball of his hand, trying to knock the words from his brain to his mouth. Zoubida held up the little tub of applesauce, almost empty. “I wasn’t sure you were coming, so I started already.”

  “Well Zoubida didn’t need to do that,” Mum said to Lucien. “Mummy always comes, now, doesn’t she?” She took the tub and the spoon from Zoubida and began to
scrape together what was left.

  “It was my birthday,” I said to Zoubida.

  “Was it?”

  I turned my head so that she could see my earring. “My present.” I was supposed to keep the stud in for another week, but Mum had already put in the ring by the time we found out.

  “Well then, belated happy birthday,” Zoubida said, and briefly patted the back of my head.

  “I’m seven now.”

  “Wow, your little brother’s getting big. Isn’t he, Lucien?” My brother had never answered a question, but everyone always left a pause to give him the chance.

  Dad toddled around the room looking at no one, and ferreted among the magazines to see if there was anything new. I was relieved to see Henkelmann hadn’t shown up yet. All the tables were islands where parents and the odd grandma sat with a child in a wheelchair or lying on a bed with wheels. The residents no one came to see were parked around a table by the window. Sometimes they were allowed to join in someone else’s visit.

  Lucien’s wobbly walk took him along at a fair old pace but only half as quick as me. He knew which door was his without Mum having to point.

  Lizzy was sleeping with her mouth open. Her mother was thumbing through a magazine. As Mum passed they squeezed hands for a moment.

  Dad lifted Lucien into bed; I helped with one of his legs. Mum took a close look at the skin on the inside of his elbows, so pale you could see all the veins. Then she felt the backs of his knees. If she found even one red dot she would go straight to the nurse in charge and demand to know who had given him an injection. And why.

  “Can I give him his present now?”

  “Oh yes,” Mum said. “Fetch it from my bag, will you?” Whenever it was my birthday, Lucien always got something too. He growled at a corner of the ceiling, still a bit miffed that his walk was over. I placed the present on his lap and when he didn’t react I was allowed to unwrap it for him. I picked at the bits of sticky tape one by one to make it more exciting. “For you!” I said, and walked the cuddly dinosaur up his cheek to his forehead and down the other side.