One by one the postcards had got their toes across the threshold until she went rooting in the cubbyhole, that unexplored hinterland at the back of the house where they dumped everything and found nothing. There were the boxes of baby clothes, the travel cot and a set of drawers, stacked one on top of another, no longer in their chest; there were the rugs and fabrics Alex had bought in Turkey, rolled up and dusty, their swirls of Eastern glory stashed away lest their bright colors brought memories of more exotic times (Alex, after all, had traveled more than Thea); and there too were the boxes of old photos, the ones that had never earned an album, including, in a red Kodak envelope, the few she had taken in Iraq. Few, because she had thought at the time that Iraq lay mostly ahead, and only one image of Sachiv, in which he stood with Kim, in that chilly wind, with Lake Razzaza shimmering behind them.
Sometimes Alex interrupted her musings, looking over her shoulder—“Is that al-Ukhaidir?”—and one day he came in from the garden to present her with a four-breasted berry, fuchsia pink. “A spindleberry from our tree. Isn’t it beautiful?” The spindleberry had four bulbs, like their family, and a velvety coat. Holding it between her fingertips, Thea had squeezed to see what would happen, but it was hard, tough, not easily pulped. Still, the temptation to press remained. To squeeze and see what happened.
She had brought that spindleberry to Oman, kept it in the back pocket of her suitcase. This was their first holiday apart, although she and Alex had started out with ambitions of independence, vowing to follow their own interests and take separate trips so that they wouldn’t end up as one of those couples who were plastered together like two bricks in a wall and both wearing the same jumpers. They had never worn the same jumpers, but neither had they done much apart because, simply, they enjoyed one another’s company. In urging her to go to Muscat, to see who turned up—if only to add a bit of splash to their lives (even their close friends had been delighted with this postal intrigue)—Alex had admitted to his own restlessness. Their children, like all children, had used up much of their parents’ energy and intellect, and he wanted to adjust the balance. It had been too long since he had been sailing with his pals. He missed it, and other things too, and now that the boys were more independent, he suggested they should make an effort not to vegetate their middle years away in front of the television.
They watched far too much television.
Recently, he had taken to falling asleep with his hand on her hip. It was lovely, loving, but she asked him to stop. “It’s like you’re laying claim to me.”
“You fall asleep with your toes in my groin.”
“Only when my feet are cold. I’m using you, not owning you.”
Maybe that was why she couldn’t sleep. She was missing the feel of Alex’s thighs on the soles of her feet. Frustrated, she threw off the sheet and stood by the window, which looked out onto the parking lot, trying to shake off the jitters in her limbs.
Kim stirred. Not asleep yet either. “Do you believe him?”
“Hmm? Who?”
“Gabriel.”
“About Sachiv? Yeah. Why not?”
“He has an agenda. And he’s quite the fantasist, let’s face it.”
“He’d hardly lie about a guy being widowed.”
Kim stretched. “Maybe not about that. But Sachiv being available right now would not suit our Gabriel, so don’t get too upset over the remarriage bit.”
“I’m not upset. Wistful, maybe.”
“Did you ever look Sachiv up online?”
“Course I did, and you, and Reggie, but he hasn’t left much of a trail, which is odd for a hotelier. Maybe he retired early, to be kept by his new wife.”
“If she exists.”
“I would have liked to see him again,” Thea admitted. “He was such a kind, generous guy—”
“And not unattractive.”
“And not unattractive, but I’m not unduly devastated that I missed the bus. These last months I got a bit caught up in the idea of a frantic fling, which brought on a bout of dissatisfaction, and a longing to see him again, but it’s unlikely I’d have gone through with anything if I had.”
“So what has you staring out of the window?”
“Insomnia.” Thea went back to bed.
“You mean the Gabriel Effect?”
“You don’t really think he’d tell a barefaced lie about Sachiv just to throw me off?”
Kim was still for a moment. “I think he’s capable of lying about a lot of things. Including his brother.”
“How so?”
“Maybe the poor guy actually died. At the time, or later. I mean, why has Gabriel never gone back? Not once. Not even for Christmas. Isn’t it possible he’s got some questions to answer? Charges hanging over him?”
“Fratricide? Really? You said you think he’s kind.”
“It has nothing to do with kindness. It’s about booze. It wouldn’t be the first time a groom has inadvertently died at his own bachelor party.”
“No,” said Thea. “No. He would say so. He’s admitted everything. If you ask me, he’s haunted by the fact that he came extremely close to exactly that outcome. He nearly killed Max, and he’ll never get away from that.”
“I guess.”
As her breathing evened out and deepened, Kim made no further contributions. Thea tried again to sleep, but her mind was in a spin. A whirlpool. The Gabriel Effect. Coincidence. Intersections. Supernatural chat. Something about him. About him, something. She wanted more of his deluded certainty; to taste again the way he knew her, though he did not. Even though Alex was back home, with her kids, looking after her
