Page 78 of Kiwi Sin
It was so strange, standing with him beside the couch that turned into Priya’s and my bed at night, that I couldn’t quite believe it was happening. My mind hadn’t caught up to my body, or something.
He said, “This is nice.”
“It’s just a caravan,” I said, embarrassed. “I tried to make it cozy, though.”
“It is. The way it looks like … like you’d want to stop here, because it’s comfortable, and it looks right, too. Pleasant, that’s what it is. Homey. I’m not sure how you did it. My place doesn’t look anything like it. Did you make this blanket?”
“Yes.” That wasn’t exactly brilliant conversation, so I went on. “The knitting wool came from our alpacas. From the first shearing, actually, which was this year. I know all their names, and which one gave each color, which makes it extra-nice.” The soft, warm checked throw was made of big blocks of cream and brown and gray and black and fawn and white, and was perfect for curling up on the couch, when I had the time to do that. On the weekend, sometimes, when I’d look out the window, my fingers working the pattern automatically by now, and think.
Making plans, and discarding them, because I couldn’t make any of my plans fit my life.
“I heard you named them,” he said, and I couldn’t tell what he thought of that.
“Yes. I felt silly doing it, or maybe … sacrilegious. I know people Outside have animals as pets, and they sleep in their houses and all, but is it all right to love them? I don’t know, but I do anyway. I always have. I love being able to help care for them now. And you know what’s funny? Daisy loves them, too, as much as she hates everything else about Mount Zion. I’ve seen her down there, feeding them by hand after a hard shift, her hand in their fleece, because it’s so soft, like curly strands of silk, and touching it makes everything better.”
He said, “I can understand that. I think I might like a dog, in fact. In the house, even, though I can’t have one in the flat, so it doesn’t matter now.”
“For later, then. When you’re married, like you said.” If I made myself face it, it wouldn’t hurt so much. Or …
Because she thought I liked you.
“Yeh.” He looked at me, and I lost my breath and couldn’t look away. “And I know I shouldn’t ask, but … you share a bed with Priya?”
“Yes.” It felt too intimate, standing here talking about beds, even though we weren’t as close as we had been in the bath. “There’s another little bunk you can use, up on top, but it’s nicer to share. I always feel cold, otherwise, even when it’s warm, without somebody to … to touch.”
“Yeh,” he said. “I know.”
The moment stretched out, and I tried to think of what to say and couldn’t.
“Anyway.” He lifted the chair. “Still OK with cutting the hair? I know I could go to a shop, and I should, but I’d rather you did it.”
I did it, though I’m not sure how. Holding the lengths of golden hair between my fingers as I scissored and combed. Standing before him when it was time to do the front of his hair and seeing him, beautiful and unsmiling and so broad, his shoulders and chest stretching forever. I could tell my face was getting ever pinker, could feel my hands wanting to shake, and my heart was beating so hard, I was surprised he couldn’t hear it. And yet, when I was done and was sweeping up, when he’d run his hands over the neatly trimmed edges of hair and smiled at me, then gone and looked in the bathroom mirror, and had finally said, “I should go, I guess,” I wanted all of it to go on for longer, no matter how uncomfortable it was. Just like that night in his ute, after our evening with Drew and Hannah’s kids.
I didn’t say so, of course. I just walked him to the door, which was about three steps away. He paused on the verge of opening it and asked, “Did you mean it, about dressing my hand?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“It’ll be before seven.”
“I know. And I’ll be here to do it. Come to the yurt, though. I have better supplies there. Besides, Priya’s a bit slow in the morning, so she’ll …”
“Be getting dressed,” he said. “Right, then. The yurt.”
Three days of him appearing every morning, and me opening the door before he could knock. Taking him into the bath and peeling the tape away, exposing the wound, cleaning it, gentle as I could be, slathering it with antibiotic ointment and bandaging it again, and seeing his skin gradually lose the redness, the puffiness.
When he arrived on Thursday morning, though, knocking softly on a door I hadn’t quite got to in time, he didn’t come inside, just stood out there with his hands behind his back.
I said, “What?” Already laughing, because that was the kind of look he had on his face.
He held up his left hand, palm out.
“You got them out!” I took it by the wrist to look better. Boldly, but I’d been holding his hand like this for days now, so that was all right, surely. Even though I loved looking at his hands. They were big, they were calloused, they were strong, and they were everything I wanted. “It looks good.” I smiled up at him, and he was smiling back. “Healed. What a relief.”
“Yeh,” he said. “Everything works, too. I just wanted to stop by and say … well, thanks. And …” He pulled the other hand out from behind his back and handed me what he’d been holding there.
They were flowers, wrapped in green tissue paper. Five blooms, set on short, twiglike stems, surrounded by glossy green leaves. Gabriel said, his voice coming out a bit halting, “I know you have flowers already. I mean, Gray has them growing, so you can have them in the house anytime you like. But I thought maybe …”
“No,” I said. “I love them. They’re beautiful. Thank you.” Startlingly white, the petals waxy, creamy, the pattern they made reminding me of roses, but with the tightly folded interior framed by a collar of outstretched petals. They were the loveliest flower I’d ever seen, and they smelled sweet and deep and rich as custard. “They’re beautiful,” I said again, holding them up to inhale the scent again. “I’ll put them in the glass pitcher by my bed, so I can smell them as I go to sleep. What are they?”
