Into My Arms (14 page)

‘Arran, mate, how are you?’

Arran spun around abruptly at the familiar voice. It was Mark. Mark standing there smiling, gorgeous in black jeans and a blue shirt. Mark with another man hovering quietly behind him.

‘Mark—hey,’ Arran said. Longing flooded his gut like nausea. He held out his hand, but Mark had already leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Long time no see,’ he said. ‘What brings you to this neck of the woods?’

‘Just a case I’m following up. The usual stuff.’

Mark turned to the other man. ‘Arran’s a social worker with a charity that looks after asylum seekers. He’s
verrry
dedicated to his job.’ He smiled condescendingly at Arran, and Arran fought the urge to correct him. He was a caseworker, not a social worker, and it was a not-for-profit, not a charity. Mark should have known that.

‘Sounds impressive,’ said the other man, blond and pallid. ‘Helps us capitalists sleep at night, knowing there’s people like you out there. I’m Carl, by the way.’

Arran was saved from responding when the woman behind the counter asked for his order. ‘An extra-strong latte, and one of those muffins,’ he said, pointing, then added, ‘Takeaway, thanks.’ He’d been planning to sit down in the cafe, maybe read the paper or finish writing up his notes, but there was no way he was staying there now. There was an awkward silence. Arran sneaked a glance at Carl. Was he Mark’s lover, or simply a friend? Was he the one Mark had been fucking behind Arran’s back?

‘So you’ve still got a sweet tooth, huh?’ Mark smiled.

‘It’s a big job, keeping you capitalists well rested,’ Arran replied. ‘A man needs his sugar.’ He grabbed at the coffee and nodded at Carl. ‘Nice to have met you. See you, Mark.’

‘See you, sugar,’ Mark said.

By the time Arran got to his car the latte was cold, and left a scum on his lips. He wiped it off and took two deep breaths. Mark. Fuck. He’d been doing so well. He’d been feeling OK, getting on with his life. He thought he’d made progress, but seeing Mark had put him back where he started. How did that happen? How could you
know
someone was wrong for you, yet miss them so much? He’d moved on, or so he’d thought. He’d done all the right things for months, only to have them undone in minutes. Pain thrummed through his body like a bassline.

Arran leaned out of the car and tipped the coffee into the gutter. He was still hungry, but he tore the muffin into pieces and threw those out too. They were contaminated now, tainted by his brush with Mark. If he’d had the room he would have started the car and driven back and forth over the scraps. Instead, he slumped forward in the seat, his forehead on the steering wheel. He was due back at work, but all he wanted to do was go home to bed and lie there staring at the ceiling like Zia’s mother.

The thought made him sit up; gave him an idea. He should try to find Zia’s brothers, get them back in touch with their family. For someone like him, with the contacts and the badge, it shouldn’t be too difficult. One of them was in a refugee camp, apparently—maybe they both were. Those places had records. The Vasseghis might not be able to access them, but he could.

Arran pulled his seatbelt across his body and put the key in the ignition. Maybe the Red Cross worker had already tried, but so what? He wasn’t even going to ask her. These situations were always changing, always fluid. He’d like Zia, who was clearly doing his best to hold his family together. Farid, too, with his quick smile and disarming honesty. It would be good to be able to help them, and Skye would be grateful. Some losses were inevitable in life, but maybe not all of them.

16

Nell closed the book and put it down on the coffee table in front of her, not bothering to mark her place. She’d read the same paragraph four times now and none of it had stuck, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She was only using it to fill the hours until Skye came home and opened the letter. Earlier, she’d tried to paint, but she kept dropping her brush; then she’d resolved to work in the garden. That had seemed like a good idea until she actually picked up her secateurs and went outside, where the sheer abundance of weeds to be pulled and roses to be deadheaded drove her straight back in again. Nell let her head fall back against the couch, allowed her eyelids to sag. She was so tired. She’d hardly slept in weeks—over three weeks now, ever since she and Skye had had that fight. If only Charlie was still alive. He’d know what to do, if she mentioned her fears; and he’d deal with the weeds and the rose bushes. Not just that. She missed sex. The intimacy and the comfort of the act, certainly, but also the physical release. She missed the way lovemaking took her out of her churning mind and threw her back into her body, how it stopped her thinking and simply made her feel. She thought too much lately. She couldn’t stop thinking.

Nell opened her eyes and stretched her arms out in front of her as if she was limbering up. Her armpits were damp, though it wasn’t a hot day. She pushed herself up off the couch and took five measured steps into the hallway where the letter lay on a table near the front door, addressed to Skye. They were definitely the results. They had to be. The envelope bore the hospital logo in its top left corner; the words ‘
Genetic Health Services Victoria
were blurrily stamped on the back flap. Nell’s fingers twitched and she fought the urge to tear at the seal, to eviscerate the envelope, to spread out its entrails and see what they revealed. But Skye would be furious if she did, would never talk to her again. Maybe she could steam it open instead, hold it over the kettle until the glue loosened and the single sheet inside fell into her hands like a baby dropping from its mother . . .

She made herself put down the letter and go back to the couch. They were Skye’s results, not hers. Skye was the one who had finally made the appointment and somehow talked Ben into joining her at the hospital. Nell shuddered. She couldn’t imagine that conversation; hadn’t, in fact, even seen Ben since she’d raised her fears with Skye. A few times she’d urged Skye to ask him to dinner, but Skye had said it would be ‘too weird’, that Nell would sit there, glancing from one to the other examining them, comparing them. Nell had demurred, but only gently. She was frightened of arguing with Skye again, terrified of resurrecting the whole damn subject. It had taken Skye a week to speak to her again after they’d last fought, and their truce was fragile, uneasy. There was nothing to say until the results were in.

A fly buzzed in the hush of the lounge room; she could hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Nell looked at her watch. It was almost four. School must be over by now, and Skye hadn’t been planning to stay long anyway. It wasn’t her usual day to be there, but she’d wanted to pop in, she said, to check the mosaics, to make sure the grout had dried and then clean off the excess before they were hung in the next day or two. It was the one thing they’d been able to talk normally about, those mosaics; Skye’s face lit up with pride as she described the designs and the way the children had worked together to translate them into tiles. Maybe Skye had gone to fetch Ben, to show him the finished product—maybe that was why she was taking so long . . . Nell thought of them together and her heart contracted. Skye would be grinning and talking too quickly in her excitement: Ben would smile and pull her to him, kiss the top of her head. She shouldn’t have said anything, Nell thought with an ache in her gut, but then just as quickly reminded herself that she’d
had
to say something, that she couldn’t have a doubt like that and not speak out. Just say they got married, had children? Skye had hated Nell for suggesting it, but if she was right, if she was right . . . God, how she hoped she was wrong.

The front door banged and she heard Skye drop her bag and put her keys on the table. There was a pause, and Nell knew she’d seen the letter, was standing there now turning it over, pulling at the flap, her breath, like Nell’s, caught in her throat, her pulse racing, her mouth dry . . . Silence, an eternity of silence, then another sharp thud, like Skye’s bag, only heavier. The couch shook and the fly that had settled there darted away towards the window. Nell jumped up from her seat and ran to the hallway. Skye lay crumpled on the bare brown floorboards, unconsious, the letter still clutched in her hand.

17

Ben felt like whistling as he got out of his car. It had been a good day. The class had behaved—more than behaved, they had paid attention, asked questions, even made him laugh once or twice. His lesson plans were up to date, the end-of-year reports begun. Maybe he was finally getting the hang of teaching . . . And Skye had called in at his classroom just as the bell rang, wanting to show him the finished mosaics before they went up. Seeing her was always wonderful; seeing her when he wasn’t expecting to even more so. He’d asked her to come home with him, but she had a gym class to teach at five o’clock and needed to change. ‘Drop in afterwards,’ he’d suggested, and she’d smiled and leaned in close. ‘I won’t shower,’ she’d whispered. ‘There isn’t any point.’ Giving in to the impulse, Ben pursed his lips and blew three notes, rising brightly and clearly as helium balloons.

It was funny about whistling, Ben thought as he stopped at the letterbox before going inside. No one did it in the city, not even to hail a cab. Maybe it was because of iPods. Why make your own music when you could carry someone else’s? He made a mental note as he sorted through the mail to ask his class if they ever whistled. Bill, bill, credit card offer . . . Maybe it was something they could do in the empty weeks of term once reports were in, have a whistling competition, a whistle-off? He paused as he came to a long white envelope marked with the logo of the Royal Children’s Hospital. The blood test. He’d almost forgotten about that.

It had been Skye’s idea. He’d only gone along with it to humour her, and because she’d ambushed him. She’d told him she was taking him out for breakfast one morning, to a cafe in Parkville that she loved; then, when he had almost finished his bacon and eggs, she’d mentioned that she needed to have a blood test at the hospital nearby. ‘Actually,’ she’d added, setting down her cutlery, ‘it would be good if you did too.’

When she’d explained it to him he’d laughed out loud. ‘Your
brother
? Your mum’s lost her marbles.’

‘I know,’ said Skye glumly. ‘And she was always the sensible parent. Dad would have had us living on a commune in Mongolia, or forming a family dance troupe—she was the only one who could keep him in line, make him see sense.’ She sighed. ‘Now this. It’s because he’s gone, I think. She thought they were going to grow old together. They both did. It’s making her see ghosts . . . And I kind of had a fight with her about it. A big one. I told her I’d prove that she was wrong.’

Ben chuckled. They were unusual, Skye’s family, no doubt about it. ‘You couldn’t have just said sorry?’

Skye shook her head. ‘It wouldn’t have helped, plus she seemed so het up about the whole idea that this felt like the best way to deal with it. I’m sorry,’ she added. ‘I know it must sound stupid.’

Ben had reached for her hand, suddenly thinking of his own mother, Mary, so conventional, predictable, so unlike Skye’s. What different upbringings they’d had. ‘Nell’s been through a rough time, as you say. If you think this will make her feel better . . . You know it’s all rubbish, though, don’t you? I’m just a country boy. I was probably conceived in a haystack. And if it was IVF, my parents would have told me. We don’t have any secrets.’

‘I know,’ Skye said. ‘That’s why I’m so embarrassed.’

The waiter arrived with the bill and Ben had motioned to him to give it to Skye.

‘It’s OK,’ he’d said. ‘At least you bought me breakfast.’

Now standing in the living area of his flat, Ben opened the envelope. The blood test had taken all of five minutes, the white-coated doctor explaining that the results would be mailed out within three weeks.

‘Do you think you’ll be needing a follow-up appointment?’ he’d enquired. ‘For counselling, or discussion . . .’

Ben had looked at Skye. ‘No,’ she’d said firmly. ‘We’ve done all we have to do.’

He shook out the folded piece of paper and quickly scanned to the bottom.
Sibling DNA Index > 1.00. Probability of exclusion:
99.9%
. That didn’t make sense. He read through it again, more carefully this time.
A siblingship DNA index greater than 1.00
indicates that the two tested individuals are most likely to be biological siblings. The probability of exclusion is a measure of the likelihood of these results being correct
. Ben’s hands began to shake. A match. They were a match.

Ben grabbed for the edge of the table. It couldn’t be true. The hospital must have made a mistake, must have mixed up their results with someone else’s. Or maybe they’d tested his blood twice in error? That would explain it. That would make sense. Of course he’d be a match for himself. For a moment he managed to believe that that was what must have happened, but his mind kept racing. Hospitals didn’t make mistakes like that, did they? Not when there was so much at stake. They would have tested the samples more than once; would have made sure everything was labelled correctly. He looked at the letter again. 99.9%.The figure leered at him, taunted him. There was only one other possibility. His parents had lied to him. He wasn’t theirs. He was Skye’s brother. They’d been conceived at the same time, from the same eggs and seed. He should have grown up with her, with Arran.

His head spun. He needed to lie down. Groping for the wall, he staggered to his room, then fell onto the bed without bothering to remove his shoes. He lay there, staring straight up, trying to absorb the information. Skye was his sister. He’d slept with his sister. He’d fallen in love with his sister. There was a strand of her hair on the pillow next to his; the sheets still smelled of the last time they’d made love. It had been a few days ago now, but he deliberately hadn’t changed them; he’d been comforted by Skye’s presence in his bed even on the nights he slept alone. Suddenly, they sickened him. He sprang up and yanked at the linen, pulling at the doona cover so roughly that a button popped off and flew against the wall. Ben rolled the sheets together in a tight ball and ran to the laundry where he threw them in the washing machine, tossed some powder on top and hit the start button, then bolted for the hall. He grabbed his keys and went out, slamming the front door behind him.