The Boy in the Suitcase - Lene Kaaberbol [23]
She had seated herself on the couch with the unknown boy half in her lap, his bare white body curled against her. A few damp streaks had appeared in his hair. His skin felt warmer now, and after the fluid had begun to run into him, he seemed more alive. Not awake, but alive, at least. Once, he whimpered in his sleep, turned a wrist, moved his leg a bit. It had to be a good sign, thought Nina. She had done the right thing in staying away from the hospital, and even though she had felt her resolution firm every time she thought of the furious man at the railway station, it was still an enormous relief. The boy hadn’t died. He lived, and she could tell by the tiny twitches beneath his eyelids that he was on his way back up from the deep darkness he had rested in.
Yet mixed with the relief was a new sense of panic, as thoughts beyond mere survival started to surface. What on earth had she been thinking since she fled from the railway station?
Not a damn thing, she thought sardonically, running a finger under the strap of her wristwatch to ease it away from the overheated skin underneath. There hadn’t been a single thought in her head apart from the panicked urge to get away. Bring him to safety. And now she would soon have a wide-awake naked boy in her arms, and absolutely no idea what she was going to do with him.
She needed to buy time. She leaned over and tugged her bag toward her, fumbling inside for her mobile. Thank God Morten was home this week. He would have to deal with things until… .
Her finger hovered over the Place Call-button for a few seconds while she prepared herself as best she could. She had never been particularly good at lying to Morten, and time hadn’t improved her skills, despite frequent practice. It wasn’t that she wanted to be able to lie to him about important things. Just little everyday fibs that would make life run so much more smoothly. Like being able to say that her new top had cost 200 kroner rather than 450, or that it hadn’t been she who had forgotten the picnic invitation from Anton’s school. Other people got away with such things, why couldn’t she? She was an adequate liar with everyone but Morten, she thought. But Morten saw through her feeble attempts in seconds. Somehow, she lacked her usual protective coloration when she was with him. It seemed to her that he could look directly into the bubbling mass of unfinished thoughts churning inside her. It was why she had fallen in love with him, and why he was so hard to live with now. Sometimes a lie would go by without comment, but it didn’t feel like success; it was more as if he couldn’t really be bothered to discuss it with her. He let her off the hook.
Nina touched the call button tentatively; the phone was already damp from the heat of her hands. Then she pressed it, and raised the phone to her ear, careful not to disturb the boy with her shift of position.
There was a tiny click as he answered, followed by a faint, surf-like noise. She could hear Morten’s fumbling with the phone, and distant children’s voices in the background. Thank God. He was picking up Anton, then. It might even be his turn today. Her mind felt curiously blank when she tried to remember.
“Yes.” Morten’s voice succeeded in being angry and resigned at the same time. “Where are you?”
It was the voice of a man who felt that she no longer deserved to be talked to as an equal. Or even as an adult.
Nina moistened her lips, looking down at the child in her arms. She had to come up with something not too far from the truth, she thought, or he would slice her explanations into ribbons before they were half finished.
“Karin called me, earlier today,” she finally said. “She wasn’t feeling very well. She really needed help. I’ve had to stay with her so that I can take her to a doctor if it becomes necessary.”
Silence at the other end. Then she could