by Jaap Robben
“All right,” the woman said after a few seconds. “It’s all right.”
The corridors that led to the exit all smelled of soup.
I looked up at Dad. “Is Lucien really coming home again?” I asked, trying not to let on that I didn’t want him to.
“Lucien is fine where he is.”
“But didn’t Mum say …?”
“Your mum says a lot of things. Always wants the opposite of what she’s got.”
I had to do my best to work that one out. “So he’s going to get the medicine after all?”
“Your mum is …” A shrug finished the sentence for him. “She wants people to think she’s a good mum.” He held his lighter in his fist and ground the little wheel under his thumb. Lucien used to love to watch the sparks.
“Of course he has to go on the medicine. But when there’s a difficult choice to be made your mum needs someone to blame. As long as it’s not her fault.”
I couldn’t bring myself to ask if I was that someone now. When we reached the car park, Mum was nowhere in sight. I was allowed to sit in her seat up front. Dad didn’t look around once, barely seemed to notice she wasn’t there. We drove back, just the two of us. I have no idea how Mum got home that night.
In the days that followed, I let all the kids at school take a look under my plaster. That started the wound bleeding again. The plaster got grubby, the stitches began to throb. It even hurt when I chewed.
Eventually I ended up with three earlobes. No one at school believed I had been attacked by my dinosaur brother.
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29
All the strips are still full of pills.
I twist the lid on every bottle. None of them have been opened either. “Shit.”
The table says Lucien should be taking twelve pills a day. I collect boxes and bottles from the plastic bag, one of each sort. All this rustling arouses Lucien’s curiosity. Two long pills. Four of the blue-brown capsules. Four white oval ones that melt and leave chalky marks on my sweaty palms. I’ve already fed him all the applesauce we had, so I have to find some other way of getting him to swallow them.
“Open wide.” Lucien turns his face away. With my fingers in his hair, I tilt his head back in the hope that his mouth will open all by itself. It does! “Here you go.” I pop the long pills in whole, though you’re supposed to break them down the middle. “Go on, crunch them to bits,” I tell him. He chews for a moment then sticks out his tongue to get rid of them. “Don’t … You have to bite them.” The half-chewed gunk is stuck to his chin. I grab the other pills, shovel them in, and hold my hand over his mouth like a lid. His tongue twists and tickles my palm. He breathes hard through his nose and gags, but slowly his teeth begin to grind.
“And now this one.” I clamp the bottle awkwardly against my hip and try to screw the top off. Rita has sneaked into the room. A couple of pills fall to the floor and she’s on them in a flash. I jump and the bottle slips from my hand. Pills roll and scatter in all directions. Rita chases them down, grunting and smacking her lips. “Leave them alone!” I roar and try to scoop them up, but she’s too fast for me.
Lucien stamps his feet against the foot of the bed. I can’t tell which one of us he’s rooting for. Rita sneezes and shakes her head. “Shit.” I’ve managed to recover three pills and there are two still left in the bottle.
Now Rico’s found his way into the bedroom, too, and swabs his tongue over the places Rita has already licked clean. “Stupid fucking mutt.” I drag her through the caravan by her collar. Her claws skitter across the lino and she braces her legs against every doorpost. Once we’re outside I yank open her jaws. “Sick them up!” I order her. Grains of white are stuck to her gums and the roof of her mouth. The rest has disappeared down her wet, panting gullet.
“You’ve got to sick them up.” I pluck a handful of tall grass and hold it to her mouth. She sniffs but she won’t touch it. “Sick ’em up!” I shove the grass between her teeth but she shakes her head and growls softly.
As a punishment, I lock Rita in the cage, then pluck more grass and toss it through the bars. If we don’t feed her anything else, she’ll have to eat it.
Not long after, there’s a timid knock at the door. In a flash, I picture Selma standing there. It turns out to be Emile.
“Hi there.”
“Hello.”
“I didn’t see your brother outside on the bed. And with your father’s car gone, I wondered …”
“What?”
“If you needed some help lifting him.” Before I can say anything, he’s breezed past me into the caravan. “Are you managing okay?” He remembers the way to my room. The file is still open at the medicines page. Emile takes a look.
“It’s a list of all the pills I’m supposed to give Lucien.”
“Do you give him his medicine?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s quite a responsibility.”
“Do you know about this kind of stuff?”
Emile picks up the file. “Hmmm …” he says, studying the table. “From what I can gather, this is to protect his stomach lining.” He points at the third row down. “It’s the same one Louise used to take.”
“What’s wrong with Lucien’s stomach?”
“No idea.”
“So he might not have to take it?”
“Oh, he probably does. Drugs often have a harmful effect on the stomach. This one’s probably to counter the side effects of the other pills he’s taking.”
“And this one?” I point to the pills that Rita’s just gobbled down.
Emile shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean anything to me. But then I’m not exactly an expert on this kind of terminology.” He hands me the file and our hands touch briefly.
“But … uh … Do you think it would be a problem if he took a few too many?”
“Is that what’s happened?”
“No.” And when Emile keeps looking at me, “No, honest. But what if Dad already gave Lucien his pills this morning? I could end up giving him a double dose.”
“In that case I’d wait till your father gets back. And you can always ask the staff at the home for advice.”
Lucien has turned our way. “Nga-nga-nga.”
“What’s he trying to say?”
“He wants something to drink.”
“Do you want me to …?” Emile is already holding the spout of the beaker to his mouth. But that’s something between Lucien and me.
“No, don’t. He needs to take his pills first. Otherwise he won’t be thirsty.”
“Sorry.” Lucien has already bitten down on the plastic.
“Oh well, leave it now or you’ll make him angry. I’ll give him his pills later.”
“Sorry,” Emile repeats. He runs his hand over Lucien’s forearm and sees the bruises that the cable tie left on his wrist. Before he can ask, I slide my arm under Lucien’s knees.
“Can you grab his shoulders?”
“Of course.”
Carrying him is easier than last time. I already cleared away anything he might want to grab on his way past.
“Don’t lay him on the bed,” I say. “We’re going to take a walk first.”
Lucien has to get used to the sun’s glare. While I shove the shoes onto his feet and velcro them tight, Emile asks out of the blue, “Do you think you might have left Lucien on his own too long the other day?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I heard you drive off on your scooter. And since there was no one else around, I went in to check on him.” He looks so friendly that I can’t quite bring myself to lie.
“I had to go somewhere.”
“Does your father know?”
“No! And he mustn’t find out.”
“Did you go to see that girl?”
“How do you know?”
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Emile laughs. “Your eyes gave you away.” I look away, worried he might read all kinds of other stuff in my eyes too.
“Is it serious between the two of you?”
I shrug. “We kissed. Tongues and that.”
“Hmm, that does sound serious.”
I wonder if he knows what comes after tongues.
“How old is this girl of yours?”
“Selma? She’s nineteen.”
“Oh,” he says. “Nineteen, eh? That’s quite an age difference.” He looks around for something else to talk about. “When will you see her again?”
“Soon. Maybe.”
“If you go off again, I’d like you to let me know. So there will be someone to keep an eye on your brother. Strictly between us, you understand.”
“And what if you have to go away, too?”
“Then I’ll let you know.”
“Don’t you go to the shops or anything?”
“Since I arrived, I’ve been living off the tins and jars I brought with me.” He rubs his forehead, ruffles the hair behind his ear. “I know this sounds ridiculous …” He looks at me sideways. “But I don’t like leaving the yard. It gives me the shakes.”
“Like you’re scared?”
“Yes, scared.”
“But all you have to do is start your car and drive. Straight up the track. Keep right till you reach the petrol station and then follow the signs for Saint Arnaque.”
“If only it were that simple.”
Rita is yawning away on her usual spot in the cage. She hasn’t touched the grass I tossed in. I got all worked up about nothing.
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30
Chipped stones crunch beneath the soft tyre. Wasps zigzag all around us. Lucien kept grinding to a halt every few steps and trying to pull me in another direction, so I sat him in the wheelbarrow. The further up the rutted track I push him, the heavier he seems to get. Thank goodness we’re almost at the top. Then all we have to do is cross the road and from there it’s only a little way down the slope. You can almost hear the stream from here. Suddenly Lucien gets all antsy. “Feffe!” he shouts.
“We’re almost there,” I say. “Keep still.”
He’s wobbling so much I can barely keep the wheelbarrow steady.
“Did you get stung?” I set the barrow down, but Lucien is rocking so much he tips the whole thing over. Clang goes the metal tub and he’s face down in the dirt. Motionless, like he’s listening to moles tunnelling below. “Are you okay?” I kneel down beside him, try to look into his eyes. For a moment I’m afraid he’s broken something, or even that he’s dying. I brush a few chippings from his cheek. “Feffe!” he croaks.
I pull him up by his arm.
“Feffe!”
“You have to sit still in the barrow. Or this is what happens.”
“Feffe! Feffe! Feffe!”
Luckily, he’s not bleeding. Maybe I should make a kind of seat belt for the wheelbarrow, or strap him in with a bungee cord.
Lucien rocks from side to side, his nappy is a kind of cushion beneath him. “Feffe! Feffe!” It’s the bottle bank that’s got him excited.
“Come on!” I try to get him to his feet and hold the wheelbarrow steady with my other hand. Lucien shuffles away from me. “No! Don’t!” I yell. “Come and sit down. Here …” I kick the tub, so he knows where he’s supposed to go. “I’m going to show you the stream.” Lucien’s feet keep moving and the only way to stop him falling is to walk with him over the prickly grass.
“Leave that alone! It’s dirty.” Lucien bends to pick up an empty bottle. I tug at his arm but he jerks my hand away with so much force that I stagger forward. “Fuckin’ hell.” We lie next to each other. Lucien’s limbs flatten the grass around him and he presses the bottle to his chest. “Come on,” I sigh. “Let’s get you back to bed.” Lucien sinks his teeth into the blue bottle top. “Yee-uch, don’t put that in your mouth.” I try to take the bottle off him. He resists with cold, dark eyes.
“Okay, you win,” I concede. “Keep it if you want.” I prop him up against the bottle bank and go over to fetch the wheelbarrow. I turn to see that Lucien has taken a step or two, close enough to latch onto the filthy opening. A wasp flies out of the hole, spoiling for trouble. “Watch yourself.”
Lucien doesn’t let go, but tries to peer down the hole. I can almost taste the sour, musty smell.
“Feffe!” His shout echoes inside the metal shell. He’s got the bottle by the neck and bangs it on the side. I steer his hand toward the opening. “Go on, chuck it in.” With all his strength, he slams the bottle into the hole. It smashes and shock takes hold for a second. Then he doubles up laughing, whacks the back of his head, and stamps the grass flat.
I can’t help laughing too. Someone has dumped a bag full of empty jars and wine bottles in the long grass. “Do you want another go?” I grab the first jar to hand and hold it out to him. “Feffe?” I ask. His mouth twists in concentration. All he can see is the jar I’m holding out, a clump of mould floating on the dregs at the bottom. I help him clamp his fingers around the lid, and guide his hand to the rubber flaps at the opening. Clang! Shock. Then a fit of laughter that turns to coughing.
“Here you go.” An empty ketchup bottle. No lid this time and a wasp inside, ticking against the glass. I want to swap the bottle for another one, but Lucien won’t let go. “Careful.”
He blinks and looks away.
Slam.
Clang.
Silence.
Hiccupping with laughter until he starts to splutter.
A car grinds up the track. It’s Emile. I hand Lucien a new bottle. Behind us I hear the creak of a handbrake as the engine dies. “Thank you!” Emile shouts, brighter than I’ve ever heard him.
“For what?”
“I’m off to the supermarket. When you gave me directions, all of a sudden I couldn’t understand what was holding me back.” Is it all some kind of joke? I still can’t believe he was too scared to leave the yard.
“What are you two up to?”
“Throwing bottles.”
“Oh.”
“Watch.” Lucien is already blinking like mad and wallops in another bottle. It smashes into pieces.
“Looks like your brother’s found his vocation.” Emile’s elbow is resting in the open window. His hand pats the car door.
“Do you know if they sell prepaid cards at the supermarket? I’m nearly out of credit on the phone.”
“Was it my fault?”
“You only called for a minute or two. No, don’t worry about it.”
“Maybe at the cash desk. If not, you could try the petrol station. Or the tabac opposite the church.” I could buy two phones and give one to Selma. We could call each other without anyone knowing.
“How much does a phone like that cost?”
The thrum of an engine. Our pickup turns onto the track.
“You have to go!” I shout.
“What?” Emile makes as if to get out of the car.
“No, get going! Now!”
Emile turns the key in the ignition and his car rolls a little way down the slope when he takes off the handbrake. Dad advances toward him, painfully slowly. Emile’s car finally starts and he has to step on the gas to make it up to the road. His tyres don’t find their grip straight away.
I wonder if Dad has even noticed us by the bottle bank. He only seems to have eyes for Emile, who shoots uphill in a cloud of dust. Dad turns to watch him go, before the pickup bumps its way down the track.
“Come on,” I say to Lucien. “Time to head home.”
Back in the yard, I can’t find Dad straight off. Lucien cooperates for once and I have no trouble getting him out of the barrow and into his wheelchair. I buckle the strap around his chest. His knees are supple and it’s easier to wedge his feet onto the
footrests.
“What did he want?” Dad asks, appearing from behind the caravan.
“Who?”
“Didn’t I just see you talking to the tenant?”
“He wanted to know if you were around.”
“And?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Dad picks at something stuck between his teeth.
“Just that you weren’t home.” My lies sound better when I’m doing something else, so I go and get a rabbit for Rita. She is still dozing on the same spot in the cage. Dad follows me round to the side of the caravan.
“What did he want with me?”
“How should I know?” A cold mist rises from the freezer. “I didn’t talk to him.” I grab a rabbit, let the lid fall shut. “Just like you told me.”
“Bry, Bry. You did good. But …”
“What?”
“It’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”
“What is?”
“The guy talks to you, but never to me.”
“I can’t help that, can I?”
Dad tags along behind me to the cage. I stick the frozen rabbit between the bars. Rico sinks his teeth into the frosty ears and pulls the rest of the steaming coat inside. Rita doesn’t move. I click my tongue to get her interested.
“Has he been over here?”
When I don’t answer right away, he makes me look at him.
“No!” I shout. “He was asking for you. I keep telling you that.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dad says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If our gentleman lodger needs to speak to me that bad, why would he race off as soon as I get back home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well I do.”
“Then tell me.”
He shakes his head. “Call it fatherly instinct.”
“Rita?” I try to rouse her again. She lifts her head at last.
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