Lost - Michael Robotham [71]
“Listen, Daj, I need to ask you a question. Did I post you something?”
“You never send me anything. My Luke is such a sweet soul … Maybe you could knit him something. A vest to keep him warm.”
“Come on, Daj. I want you to think really hard.”
Something resonates in her. “You sent me a letter. You told me to look after it.”
“I’m coming to see you now. Keep the letter safe.”
“Bring me some dates.”
The main building of Villawood Lodge looks like an old school, with gable roofs and gargoyles above the downspouts. The sandstone is just a façade and behind it is a seventies redbrick building, with aluminum window frames and cement roofing tiles.
Daj is waiting for me on the enclosed veranda. She accepts two kisses on each cheek and looks disappointed with only one box of dates. Her hands and fingers are moving constantly, brushing her arms as though something is crawling on her skin.
Ali tries to stay in the background but Daj looks at her suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“This is Ali,” I say, making the introductions.
“She’s very dark.”
“My parents were born in India,” explains Ali.
“Hmmmphf!”
I don’t know why parents must embarrass their children. Maybe it’s punishment for the mewling and puking and nights of broken sleep.
“Where is the envelope, Daj?”
“No, you talk to me first. You’re going to take it and run away—just like last time.” She turns to a group of elderly residents. “This is my son, Yanko! Yes, he’s the policeman. The one who never comes to see me.”
I feel my cheeks redden. Daj didn’t just steal a Jewish woman’s name—she adopted a whole demeanor.
“What do you mean, I ran away last time?”
She turns to Ali. “You see he never listens. Not even as a baby. Head full of fluff.”
“When was I here last?”
“See! You’ve forgotten. It’s been so long. Luke doesn’t forget. Luke looks after me.”
“Luke is dead, Daj. What day did I come?”
“Hmmphf! It was a Sunday. You had the newspapers and you were waiting for a call.”
“How do you know?”
“The mother of that missing girl called you. She must have been very upset. You were telling her to be patient and wait for the call.”
She returns to brushing her arms with her hands.
“I need to see that envelope.”
“You won’t find it unless I tell you where it is.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“You never have time. I want you to take me for a walk.”
She’s wearing her walking shoes and a warm coat. I take her arm and we shuffle along the white gravel path, moving in slow motion as her feet struggle to keep up with mine. A handful of residents are doing tai chi on the lawn. Elsewhere the gardeners are planting bulbs for the spring.
“How is the food?”
“They’re trying to poison me.”
“Have you been playing bridge?”
“Some of them cheat.”
Even the half deaf can hear her.
“You really should make an effort, Daj.”
“Why? We’re all just waiting to die.”
“It’s not like that.”
I stop and button up the top of her coat. Spidery wrinkles radiate from her lips but her eyes haven’t aged. From a distance we are mother and son sharing an intimate moment. Up close we are a stuttering monosyllabic tragicomedy played out over fifty years.
“Can I have the envelope now?”
“After morning tea.”
Inside we sit in the dining room and go through the ritual of stilted conversation served with jam and cream. The manager is wandering between the tables.
“Hello there! How lovely to see you. Isn’t it nice to have your son here, Mrs. Ruiz? Maybe he’d like to come and hear Mr. Wilson’s lecture on trekking in the Andes.”
I’d rather be strung up and dunked headfirst into a vat of cold porridge.
Daj announces in a loud voice, “Yanko was always the strongest baby. I needed both hands to pull him away from the bottle. He didn’t want the breast.”
“Nobody wants to know that, Daj.”
Louder this time: “His father was a Nazi, you know. Like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s father.” I feel my cheeks redden. She’s on a roll. “I don’t know if he looks like his father. There were so many of them. Maybe all their sperm got