by Sarah Hall
She does not understand. Only later will she understand.
What? Lawrence, no. You are a fantastic uncle. Charlie loves you. I –
He is weeping now, muffled, and she feels her eyes sting. Someone passes him on the road, makes some comment that she cannot hear, asking him if he is alright perhaps, or calling him a name.
Lawrence, she says, as firmly as she can. I’ll see you tomorrow.
He arrives the following night, by taxi, with one small bag. Emily must have kept the Audi, she thinks, as well as the house. Any relief she had anticipated in seeing him quickly ebbs. He looks extremely run down, thin, ten years older. His face is greyish and furtive. There’s a small black scab near his upper lip. He follows her into the kitchen, puts down his bag.
Sorry it’s late. The trains were fucked up.
That’s OK.
The baby has already been put to bed. He shakes his head when she offers to get him up. She gives him a beer and starts to make supper. Her plan was to gently investigate the situation, enquire about the possibilities of patching things up with Emily. But he is in no fit state. Terrible, lasting damage seems to have occurred. Lawrence cuts onions listlessly, standing next to her at the counter. He finishes the beer and opens another. There’s an odd smell to him, not unwashed, not unsanitary, but slightly sick, metallic – bad breath, or the tinge of blood.
Small enough? he asks.
Great. Could you do the garlic?
She passes him a bulb. She tries not to watch him. The skin on his arms looks dull, and there are more picked sores. The unspoken weighs heavily, and she begins to feel out of her depth, his depression seems much more serious than she anticipated. Lawrence dices a couple of cloves, puts the knife down on the board. He sits and drinks the beer while she finishes the meal. At the table the conversation never gets going. Lawrence makes little effort, and she does not push him. He eats mechanically, looking at his plate, taking no enjoyment in the food. He is very pale. He drinks two more beers – too many for the tempo of the evening. At one point she catches his eye, not confrontationally, but with intent. You can tell me. He looks away. He stands and clears the plates.
Don’t worry; just leave them on the counter. I’ll load them up later.
He sets them down. The knives and forks skitter off and clatter on the countertop. She sees him wince.
Do you want some coffee?
She is tired but willing to stay up, if it means helping him, or just being companionable.
No, that’s OK.
They move to the lounge, sit by the fire. Her brother sits uncomfortably in the armchair, leaning awkwardly to the side and staring hard into the flames, as if he would, if he knew how, consume their lustre. The evening wastes away without television, talk, or progress. Soon, Lawrence excuses himself and goes to bed, and Rachel follows his lead.
In the early hours she hears him get up, move around the room, and use the bathroom. He goes downstairs. The front door opens and shuts. She listens for a car engine, in case he has called a taxi and is leaving surreptitiously, but it is quiet. She checks on the baby, goes downstairs, and opens the front door. A black wall of night – beyond which she cannot see him. Cool, after-rain dampness. The trees rustle invisibly. Even this far inland, she can smell traces of the sea: briney, ionic. She peers down the lane, waits for her eyes to adjust. The trees begin to loom, shouldering out of the darkness. There is no sign of him. He must simply be restless – why should he not be? – and needs some air. She closes the door, leaves it unlocked, and goes back to bed. She is dozing when she hears the stairs creak.
In the morning Charlie starts up, loud enough to wake their guest, but Lawrence stays in his room, and half an hour later, after the baby is fed, she cracks open the spare-bedroom door. He is asleep, still has his shirt on and the covers are knotted about his waist. The penalty of insomnia – mornings surrendered to late-arriving rest. Downstairs she calls Huib and says she is going to work from home today.
If there’s anything urgent, call me.
Sure, he says. Gregor is due back today.
Oh shit. I completely forgot.
Hey, listen, that’s OK. I’ll meet him and take him inside.
Thanks. Is there anything else?
Not really, he says. But you should know – Lena is not doing so well. She’s in hospital again, having tests.
I’m sorry to hear that.
I’ll pass it on.
They hang up. She moves from room to room, listens for movement upstairs. The baby senses her anxiety and acts up, squalling and shouting, tossing his toys away. His wail is loud and penetrative. She keeps expecting Lawrence to emerge and brighten at the sight of his nephew. She is sure the baby will act as a tonic, if not a cure. She answers emails, speaks briefly with Huib again, checks that Gregor is safely in the enclosure. She eats lunch. In the early afternoon she hears Lawrence stir and go to the bathroom; he spends a long time in there. She stands at the bottom of the stairs eavesdropping, feeling like a spy. She hears coughing. A flush. The lock on the door opening. She waits for him to come down, but he crosses the landing and returns to the spare room.
She puts the baby down for a nap, thinks about taking her brother up some tea, but does not want to disturb him – he clearly needs to recover his strength. On a spur, she decides to call Emily, find out her side. Emily is curt, not rude, but neither is she glad to hear from Rachel as Lawrence proposed she would be.
I haven’t spoken to him in days, she says. Look, I’ve got to go into a meeting in a few minutes. I really don’t want to talk about it.
It’s just that I’m worried, Rachel says. He doesn’t seem himself at all. He seems depressed. I mean, properly depressed.
No. He’s not depressed.
No?
No.
So, what is it? What’s going on?
There’s a pause. Emily sighs.
Look, it’s great he’s up there with you. I’m glad, and maybe it’ll help him. But I’m done with it all. I don’t care any more. You’ll have to talk to him. It’s not my place.
What do you mean?
Rachel, please. I’m so tired of it all. It’s been years. I can’t do it any more.
Rachel does not understand the sudden void of care. Only a few months ago Emily was standing by him, loyally trying to fix the relationship. She must still love him. The coldness, the blockade of feelings must be to protect herself.
Is he having an affair again? she asks. If so, he’s an idiot.
Another sigh, deeper. She can feel Emily’s exasperation mounting.
No. You know what the problem is? He admires you. He doesn’t want you to think badly of him. But it’s not up to me to tell you. I have to go. I hope it works out.
The line goes dead. Rachel sits for a moment, thinking, scenarios flashing through her mind. Other men. Schoolgirls. Sex workers. Nothing makes sense. What is this unspeakable thing her brother is keeping from her? She checks on the baby. He’s asleep in his victory pose, arms flung up, fists resting either side of his head. She crosses the landing and goes into the bathroom. There’s the smell of digestive upset; the toilet bowl is cloudy with unflushed matter. She opens the door of the spare room. The curtains are drawn, but the window is open and it’s very cold. The sour, ironish smell is there again, like rusting metal and dirt, somehow agricultural, like the aroma around the decrepit farms in her old village. Lawrence is in the same position, but his breathing is quicker, shallower. She steps into the room. His shirt is patched with sweat, and he is shivering.
Lawrence? Are you awake?
He turns a fraction towards her, then rolls back and faces the wall.
Don’t come in.
Are you sick?
He makes a noise, either in agreement or convulsively.
Is it the flu?
I’ll be alright. Just leave me be.
Do you need anything? Some water? I’ve got painkillers.
No.
I can bring you some soup.
> No!
His declination is emphatic. She is aware she is playing the part of nurse; she feels it, foolishly, knowing there is falseness to the whole situation, some unexplained charade. She cannot maintain the act.
I think we need to talk.
He folds tighter, draws his legs in. The blankets and sheet slip from the bed, and his shirt rides up a little. He is naked from the waist down, his leg muscles clenched, a dark gulley running between his buttocks. He reaches a hand back, gropes for the covers, but they are gone. At the base of his spine is a pronounced, risen notch of bone.
Lawrence? Did you hear what I said? Can we talk?
Silence. Her patience begins to dwindle. Rather, the desire to know the truth, to confront him, rises, flu or no flu. He says nothing. His feet are rubbing together, paddling, working against each other, a child-like motion of discomfort or anxiety. She moves to the window, draws back the curtains. He puts his arm over his face, shielding it from the light. She stands at the foot of the bed and looks down at her brother.
I just called Emily. We talked about you.
He moans softly, almost whimpering. She bends and picks up the blanket and is about to lay it over him, when he turns abruptly, sits up, and puts his head in his hands. He moans again, as if fighting the impulse to vomit. Between his legs, from a dark nest of hair, his genitals hang, limp and small, hooded. The skin around them is rashed, and on the left side of his groin there’s an angry red swelling – some kind of abscess. Nearby, on the floor, a bandage stained yellow and pink.
Christ! Lawrence! What have you done?
He does not try to shield himself. He scratches his scalp.
I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
He breaks, and starts to weep, his shoulders lifting and falling, with gathering power and sound. She looks down at him, at the raw thing on his upper leg, next to his crotch. The smell of rot is strong. Horror begins to fill her brain, disbelief. A site infection. Rigors. He is in withdrawal. He is not sick, though he is suffering badly. His distress gathers force, becomes unbearable. His body convulses as he cries, and he retches, saliva spooling from his mouth in a glistening stream. She cannot speak, she tries to say something but stops. He shakes his head and holds himself tightly.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
It’s OK. It’s OK, Lawrence.
What else can she say? He looks up. His pupils are massive, collapsing through the pale blue irises, strangely, wrongly beautiful. She sits down on the bed, and puts her hand on his leg, which is hot and clammy. The smell is very bad. The patch in his groin is glistening and clearly needs medical attention, though he must have been doctoring it himself. How long? she wonders. How long has her brother’s life been like this? How long has Emily known? It seems an impossible secret to have kept. She thinks of him at Christmas, marching the toy lion across the floor. Anxious to get home. Disappearing into the bathroom. Lawrence shakes and cries and apologises, and his saliva drools onto the sheet. He turns again, lies down, faces the wall. She puts her hand on his quaking back, and he winces. She picks up the sheet and the blanket and gently covers him, as she would the baby.
It’s going to be OK, she says.
She sits with him, tries to think about what to do. Call an ambulance? Let him go through what he must? She is not equipped for any of this, even though she’s seen it – the margins, at least. She thinks of Kyle’s brother – the awful descriptions he gave her, the lack of medical insurance, the forced detoxes, locked doors. A kind of loving brutality. She thinks of the addicts on the Reservation, kids five generations down and old unemployed men, milling at the relief road bars, desperate for money, standing in the dock at the tribal courts where the punishments meted out were often harsher than American ones. She knows enough about the consuming power of it, the slyness, the requirements. It is perfectly possible to lie to your wife. To not tell your sister. To function outwardly and at the same time be hidden. How could you be so stupid? she thinks. How did you let this happen? But then, he is here. Even against his will, and in this anticipated state, he came; he must have known it would be a confession. And is that not a positive decision of sorts?
It’s going to be OK, she says again, firmer, surer, though this too is a partial act.
He is still weeping, tremors running through his body. He clutches his stomach as it cramps, gets up, pushes past her, and goes to the bathroom, his walk crabbed and fast. The bathroom door shuts. She hears his bowels empty violently. After a while the toilet flushes. He comes back into the room, looking waxy and weak. He gets into bed, and she puts the covers back over him.
Across the hall, the baby wakes and starts crying. She stands and crosses the room, then stops at the door. She turns and walks back to the bed, sits, and puts her arms round her brother as best she can, while he shivers and Charlie shouts louder and louder.
Alexander arrives later that afternoon, carrying a small tarpaulin satchel, his workbag. He has cut short his appointments. He hugs her, keeps her held for a moment. She feels like crying in his arms.
I’m sorry to drag you here. I didn’t know what to do.
Don’t worry. How is he?
I don’t know. Can you just have a look at him? I think maybe he should be in hospital, but he doesn’t want to go.
OK.
She shows him upstairs, into Lawrence’s room, and shuts the door behind him. She lingers outside for a moment, hears Alexander’s voice, friendly, confident, as he greets and approaches her brother. Then she goes downstairs and gives them privacy. She plays with Charlie, building a tower out of blocks, which he topples and she builds again. He can sit unsupported, though he often topples himself. She tries to give her son her full attention – after leaving him to cry for so long, she feels guilty – but she’s too distracted. After twenty minutes she hears the bedroom door open and Alexander comes downstairs.
He’s getting dressed, he says. Can you take him to A&E?
Is his leg really bad?
It’s not great. I’ve dressed it but I can’t drain it properly. I wouldn’t want to try. I explained the risks if it’s not treated. He’s not stupid – he knows.
Did he say anything to you about it all?
A little. He’s been using clean needles. He thinks the dose was contaminated – an unlucky batch.
Unlucky?
He went somewhere different for it, apparently.
She shakes her head.
When did it all start?
I don’t know. Seems like a while, though.
I feel terrible. I had no idea – none.
He puts his hand on her shoulder.
Come on. It’s not something you tell your folks. He will have worked very hard keeping it quiet. I know people who’ve gone decades before it came out.
Really?
Really.
She nods, but there’s little consolation in his assurances or such tales. That anyone could wall themselves away from loved ones and be privately, hellishly bound is tragic. She picks Charlie up from the play mat on the floor.
Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? Alexander asks. I can cancel clinic tonight.
No, no, you’ve already given up enough time.
What about Charlie?
I’ll have to take him along. It’ll be alright.
Lawrence comes downstairs, gingerly, his jeans unzipped and gaping, revealing a bulky patch of white gauze. His T-shirt hangs off him. Now that she knows, it seems abundantly obvious. The look of him; echoes over the past year. Charlie makes a sound of recognition. Lawrence glances at his nephew, his eyes watery and blown, and tries to smile, but is clearly struggling. Rachel gets a blanket from the back of the sofa, puts it over his shoulders. He walks barefoot to the car, refusing his boots, and she and Alexander install him in the passenger seat. She finds a couple of old plastic bags in the kitchen and hands them to him. Alexander waits by the car while she gets Charlie’s bag and secures him in the back. She promises to call later.
Go straight to Lancaster if you can, he says quietly across the roof of the car. They’ll just transfer you anyway at Kendal. He might need the ICU.
Thank you, she mouths.
On the drive Lawrence is sick in one of the bags. He apologises and opens the window. He keeps his eyes closed most of the way, lets the cold air blast against his face. Charlie bawls until she hands him a dummy, and then settles and is soon asleep.
The wait in A&E is relatively short – her brother is quickly assessed and taken through. She sits with Charlie in the kids’ toy corner while the examination is conducted. Lawrence is transferred to plastics. She moves to a different part of the hospital and sits in another waiting room. She reads to Charlie. He is getting bored and hungry and unruly. An hour later a junior doctor tells her they are keeping her brother overnight. The procedure will be done the following morning. There is no emergency; his leg is not at risk. She asks to visit him on the ward, but the baby is not allowed. Instead, she sends a message via the house officer. She’ll be back, first thing in the morning. She’ll call him later.
Give him my love, she says.
Leaving the hospital feels like a betrayal, as if she has abandoned him, but there’s nothing more she can do.
Lawrence is discharged and brought back to the cottage. The abscess has been drained and he is given the all-clear. A referral is made to a specialist treatment centre in Workington, where he will meet for counselling, but he has chosen not to sign up for replacement therapy. He will not use methadone as a crutch, he says, he knows it doesn’t work. On the drive back to Annerdale he looks shocked and tender, like someone who has passed through a wall of fire. They decide that he will stay on with Rachel for a few weeks, maybe longer. There are too many triggers in Leeds, too much history. Recuperation and isolation in the countryside is the subtext – the cottage will be a sanatorium. He keeps apologising; she keeps telling him everything is OK. She doesn’t push him on the details of his addiction, but over the next few days he will begin to tell her. Fifteen years on and off, which seems extraordinary. There have been whole periods when he was clean, he says – during law school, when he first met Emily, IVF. Despite the infection and its scarring he is relatively healthy – middle-class living has prevented the worst version of it. At night he sleeps poorly, she can hear his nightmares, then insomnia that has him walking the house.
