The Enumerations Read online

  It’s not like he hasn’t tried to listen when Kate says they need to talk.

  But it’s the same worries and questions over and over. When he looks at her and says, ‘Pardon?’ and her face takes on that look, Dominic feels something close to rage growing inside him. What does she want him to say? To do? It’s not as if talking is going to solve any problems.

  The best is to hand Noah over to the experts, they’ve had success with his sort of disorder, said Ms Wet-behind-the-ears, almost-young-enough-to-be-his-daughter Turner.

  Isn’t that enough? He can’t delve like Kate does, deep into Noah’s life, into their treatment of him, deeper and deeper and deeper. What he actually wants to say is, Kate, enough. We’ve found him the type of help he needs. It’s down to him, not us, now.

  Hard and cruel, he knows. But true. He’s grateful that his son is no longer in the house, cordoned off behind his self-imposed rules and routines.

  Dominic remembers the session they had with Ms Turner, Kate’s gratitude, the way she hung on the therapist’s every word. He feels again the spurt of resentment at the suggestion about the ‘good times’ exercise, the way Kate smiled so readily at the idea. Why couldn’t she tell the truth? Why couldn’t she just say, ‘Sorry Ms T, no can do.’ No, instead she’d nodded her head, beamed and said, ‘Isn’t that a good idea, Dom?’

  He had gathered all his love for her into his answer. But even then, his response was grudging. ‘We’ll try.’

  Dominic ought to rinse his hands at the garden tap, go inside, hug his wife close and say, ‘Don’t worry darling, he’ll be fine.’ But he can’t. If he breaks his silence about this, he might say terrible things. He might say, ‘I hope they manage to sort him out, Kate. I hope he comes home and all of this weirdness is over.’

  54.

  Maddie’s bedroom is her refuge. Her parents respect her privacy – Noah has trained them well in this respect. A closed door is a closed door, if you want to come in, you need to knock.

  Not that she has any secrets. If they walked in on her, they’d find her doing her homework or on Facebook with her friends. Or lying on her bed crying silently, like she’s doing now, as she remembers waving her brother goodbye. She’s filled with too much sadness to keep inside. So she lies on her bed and closes her eyes and lets the tears trickle down the side of her face and onto her pillow. If her mom sees her crying, she’ll be filled with concern, worried. She’ll try to reassure Maddie, tell her that everything will be all right, that she mustn’t worry, that Noah will be fine. They’ll all be fine … although it’s clear to Maddie that they won’t.

  Soon she’ll have to get up, wash her face, check that her eyes aren’t too red. Then she’ll find a smile for her parents, a reassurance that their daughter is still okay.

  55.

  Week 2: Day 8 / 13:16

  ‘They say it’s a three-month programme, but it’s not really.’

  Noah swivels towards her. ‘It’s not? What do you mean?’ He’s using his own words, letting his thoughts show. He doesn’t have a choice. What Juliet is saying is truly important, and he needs her to carry on.

  Juliet shakes her blonde mane. ‘Don’t you get it, Noah? Do the work, and by work I mean the things they want you to do, and they’ll let you go home. Refuse and they’ll say perhaps you need more time.’

  Noah considers the number of times he’s sat mute and closed in Ms Turner’s office. Not so much refusing to talk as not being able to release the information that sets his scales teetering, sees his walls tumbling.

  ‘You’ve got to do the work if you want to get out of here, Noah.’

  56.

  Mum’s telling Gabriel why she chose his name. He never tires of the story, hearing how her voice softens and fills with love as she speaks.

  It’s a strong name, she tells him. Filled with happiness, joy, and light. The light of heaven, Gabe. As she speaks, Gabriel feels his heart swelling with love. I looked at you, she says, and suddenly my life was filled with meaning.

  The kitchen’s dark now and she gets to her feet and moves to the switch on the wall. The room flares into light, and there he is, sitting on a chair in the corner, smiling his special smile. The one he keeps just for them, the one that means trouble is coming. How does he manage to move so silently, so quickly? How does he sniff them out so that they can never have time alone? Gabriel’s fists clench and the old man catches the movement.

  You don’t like me, do you? Little boy filled with the light of heaven, you don’t much like me.

  If Gabriel’s name is filled with light, the old man swells with ferocious menace. He looks at Gabriel and smiles again. His teeth are strong; Gabriel has watched him eat, how he attacks his food, picks up a chop and tears off the flesh. He’s seen his strong jaws chomping. Everything about him is rugged and hard. His bruising hands, his taut forearms, his still-straight shoulders, the long legs that stride. Gabriel has seen him out in the yard at the back of the house, swinging an axe to split logs. He’s old, but he’s tough.

  Gabriel counts in his mind all the days they’ve been here. They arrived just before winter, when night came early and the house was cold. Now it’s even colder and most nights Gabriel falls asleep shivering. He’s been at his new school for nearly a full term and soon it will be time for the long holidays. He won’t be able to escape the house. He’ll have to be here, day in and day out. He’ll have to listen as the man tears into Mum with harsh words, he’ll have to leave the room when he is told to and hear the soft-hard sound of fist on flesh. And then, later, he will have to watch as she pretends there is nothing wrong.

  Hate swells inside Gabriel, swelling until he feels he will burst. There’s a river of hate running through Gabriel, running through the house, lapping at Gabriel’s ankles. Lapping at the old man. Gabriel wants to see him drown. He wants to see him flailing, thrashing and scrabbling for shore, the river too strong for him, rushing him along in its current, the old man powerless, unable to swim against it, against the roaring hate that flows through Gabriel.

  57.

  Day 9 / 09:21

  ‘May I ask you a few questions, Noah?’

  Noah has to be careful around Ms Turner. She is not to be trusted – all her questions, her desire to have him ‘open up’. ‘All you need to do is talk, Noah,’ she tells him.

  She is trickery, pure and simple. Do not let your guard down.

  He sits mute. Nothing is going to make him open his mouth.

  Nothing except Juliet’s words.

  Careful, now.

  Juliet saying—

  Careful! Are you even listening?

  The Dark hammers in his brain as he recalls her message: Do what they want you to do, and they’ll let you go home.

  That’s all Noah wants – to go home.

  So … he smiles. He feels it reaching his mouth, makes sure his eyes smile too. He puts all he has into it and then he says, ‘Yes.’ His voice is weak, false, but that’s another of the things Juliet filled him in on. ‘Fake it ’til you make it, Noah. It’s such a cliché, but they love clichés around here.’

  Ms Turner’s talking. ‘Do you like your room, Noah? Are you happy with where everything is?’

  ‘My Family Tree. That was the most important thing.’ He’s following Juliet’s advice and telling Ms Turner he’s slowly getting used to seeing his charts up on the wall in his new room.

  She nods but doesn’t say anything. His other therapists did the same, their way of showing they wanted him to talk some more. The sooner he can open up to Ms Turner, the quicker he’ll get out, so the next words come in a rush.

  ‘The charts, they had to be taken off the wall in my room at home extremely carefully. Some of them had been up there for a long time and the paper was brittle. Maddie and I removed them together.

  ‘Mom was happy about that. She gave Maddie a hug and said, “Thanks, Mads. I’m so proud of you.” She was proud of me too, for coping with everything so well, all the changes. But she didn’t hug me
.’

  ‘Did you want her to, Noah?’

  It’s fine to tell Ms Turner about the Family Tree and his room, but he’s not going to tell her how his mom occasionally gives him a quick pat on his back or arm. She thinks he doesn’t like being hugged, but he does. It’s just, well, there’s never time to relax. When he tries, everything grows cold and clammy, and that tongue starts whispering in his ear.

  I’ll always be here to keep you alert. Never forget that, Noah.

  58.

  The tension between Maddie’s parents pulls tighter every day. It feels like there isn’t enough air to breathe when she’s in the room with the two of them.

  It’s a relief when she walks through the school doors and can drop her cheerful mask.

  She can make her way to the library and sit there quietly waiting for the first bell to ring. She doesn’t have to worry about anyone, especially not Noah. It’s good to know that her brother is safe at Greenhills. She doesn’t have to look out for him, protect him from the bullies who are drawn to him like a magnet.

  That doesn’t stop her missing him, though, even the way he organises her life, the timetables he works out for her, which she tries so hard to stick to for his sake. ‘Get the studying in first, Mads, that’s important. The rest you have to prioritise.’

  Maddie wishes she could make him do the same. Prioritise, Noah. Stop letting the demands of precision and regulation and the correct order of things control you, leaving you drained, incapable of moving until every task on your list has been perfectly executed.

  Greenhills is good for Noah, she knows that, despite all the drama that’s taken him away. But still. Maddie hates seeing his room empty, hates him not being there, waiting for her to knock.

  59.

  Day 10 / 08:24

  Noah looks at his clock.

  Time to move, get down to the Rec Room for morning exercises.

  He doesn’t like this part of the day. It takes up too much time. At home he had his own programme, worked out to gain maximum advantage from each set of squats and push-ups, curls and crunches. But this is Greenhills and he has to waste time on Mr Peterson and his easy, undemanding routines.

  ‘Lift your arms up … up, u-u-u-p, and stretch.’

  Noah lifts his arms high.

  ‘And … down,’ Mr Peterson says, ‘and u-u-u-p … stretch … and down.’

  Mr Peterson needs to up his game. Work each part of the body in the correct order, that’s what he should be doing. Functional mobility, hiit, group muscle exercises (upper and lower body on alternate days) with stretches at the end. That would be better for everyone and then Noah could do some cardio on his own.

  ‘Now then,’ Mr Peterson says, ‘bend. Try to touch your toes.’

  Morné’s next to Noah, bending slowly. There’s a small barp, and soon the room is filled with the smell of fresh fart.

  Do you have to stand so close to him?

  He does. He has to stay in the same place, keep as close to a regular pattern as he can. Counteract the effect of people like Mr Peterson, who hasn’t followed a structured workout in the last 9 days.

  ‘And right leg up, up, u-u-u-p … and stretch … and point your toes … point and point and … Noah, keep that leg up—’

  ‘Keep to a routine,’ Noah wants to say, but he can’t, because if he’s going to lift his leg, he’s going to do it properly, keep it straight, toes pointed.

  ‘And down,’ says Mr Peterson, and Noah’s leg floats to the mat.

  ‘And left leg u-u-u-p, u-u-u-p … and stretch. Feel those toes pointing to the wall.’

  Noah tolerates morning exercise because he must, but now, palms flat on the floor, left leg extended behind as him as high as it can go, he hates them. There’s no point in asking Mr Peterson for a copy of his exercise plan, he’ll simply laugh and clap him on the back and say, ‘Let me worry about that, Noah’, just like he’s done for the last week.

  And now he’s telling them to ‘Breathe in … and out. And in … and out.’

  Finally, it’s time to head back and make adjustments to his personal daily workout. But then Mr Peterson sneaks in 20 totally unnecessary starfish jumps.

  At the door, he has a word of encouragement and praise for each of them as they pass. ‘Looking good there, champ.’ He claps Noah on the shoulder.

  Noah doesn’t like Mr Peterson’s familiarity, he certainly doesn’t like his disorganised approach, but he knows not to let it show. All he says in return is, ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  60.

  Day 10 / 13:16

  Nothing in Greenhills is reliable. Ms Turner never sticks to the same format for group, Noah never knows what’s going to be on the menu, and just as he thinks he’s got his timetable organised, he finds himself having to change it, meet new challenges. Like the one he’s working on now. Or rather, he would be if Juliet weren’t sitting there again, same place, same time, for the 10th day in a row. The only constant at Greenhills, and the one he could seriously do without.

  She’s in her usual spot, leaning back against the doorframe, feet propped up opposite. And she’s talking. She’s been talking non-stop for – he checks again – 16 minutes and 40 seconds. And he can’t tell her to. Stop, that is. Stop and leave. It’s the open-door policy and he hates it.

  ‘So are you cool with being here? Good ole Greenhills, Refuge of the Troubled Teen.’

  She’s always talking like this, as if every noun and verb should be capitalised. Noah’s getting used to it. Just like she’s obviously getting used to him not answering. Their only real communication is when Noah asks her if she wants tea or coffee. Then she pauses momentarily, passes him her mug, and rattles on, about her mother, her father, her sister, the others in their group, Ellen. Juliet never calls her Ms Turner. ‘Small rebellions, Noah. They keep me going.’ Noah’s happy with the more formal approach Greenhills encourages. It allows a degree of distance between him and the therapist.

  Juliet’s going on about Ms Turner now, wondering if she has a boyfriend, or girlfriend for that matter. ‘Or maybe she lives alone. Or has a cat.’ She’s never short on conversation; whatever comes into her head is grist for endless grinding.

  Today of all days, Noah could do without her being here.

  Stuck to the wall is the list of things he has to do. The regular Greenhills activities fit neatly into their blocks, but 3 words – ‘Unstructured’ and ‘Open Door’ – stare out at him. Ms Turner wants him to show her how he plans to use his free time. How much time he’ll spend studying, how much on personal projects. But she’s also thrown him a curveball. She’s set him a challenge.

  ‘What I want you to do, Noah,’ she’d said, ‘is leave at least one space a day completely blank.’

  ‘Blank?’ Noah thought she was joking, but no such luck.

  ‘What I mean is “free”, Noah. Let’s say thirty minutes. Give it a go.’

  Sessions with Ms Turner always leave him tapping, but this last one was particularly bad. And now Noah’s leaning forward, staring at the timetable he’s copied out, yet again, massaging his temples, trying to isolate 30 whole minutes. 30 minutes when he won’t know exactly what is going to happen next. Worse, 30 minutes he has to find by shaving precious time from the rest of his day. Time she expects him to simply siphon off into an empty space.

  He’s already cut 1 minute each off showering and drying, 30 seconds off brushing his teeth, and combing his hair. That’s 3 minutes. Where is he supposed to find the other 27?

  And, here as always, is Juliet, making things harder, wasting his time. At least she’s stopped leaning forward, revealing whatever she’s wearing under her top. She only did that for 3 days. She’s also stopped the slow blinking thing, and licking her lips. If only she’d stop talking, too. 23 minutes she’s been here now. And 32 seconds.

  And then it dawns on him. That’s more than 20 minutes. That’s most of the time Ms Turner asked him to keep open. If Juliet sticks to this pattern, she will solve his latest challenge! He won
’t have to steal time from any of his routines. Open door is from 13:00 to 14:00. All Noah has to do is wait for her to arrive.

  He looks down at his timetable again. He goes to the block labelled 13:00–13:30 and writes the word Ms Turner challenged him with. FREE. Who knows, if Juliet stays even longer, or arrives earlier, he’ll be able to pencil in even more.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’ Juliet asks.

  Noah touches the corner of his mouth. There it is, a small smile.

  ‘No reason.’ He puts his pencil into the circular tube at the back of his desk organiser, places his eraser in the small tray at the front, side by side with the block of yellow Post-its.

  61.

  The heat catches Dominic’s garden in its suffocating grip.

  It’s a typical Cape Town summer, relieved only by an occasional sprinkle of rain. Puffy clouds rush over the mountain, then slowly evaporate. The sun is merciless and his garden is wilting.

  Spit and Spot lie in the shade, then amble indoors and into the kitchen, their long tongues lapping at cool water.

  Woody stems crack under his secateurs as Dominic prunes and deadheads, cuts back brittle bark, waiting for his summer garden to bloom bright.

  62.

  Gabriel finds a large photograph album with a mottled cover. The album is heavy and Gabriel slides it off the bottom shelf and onto the floor. The pages are black and the photographs are slotted into small white triangles of cardboard. There are names under the photos, written in watery white, but Gabriel doesn’t recognise any of the people until he gets to one of a little boy wearing long shorts and sturdy shoes. A cloth cap casts a shadow over the top of his face, hiding his eyes. The boy’s hands make fists at his sides and his mouth looks like Gabriel feels when he’s afraid he’s going to cry and show the old man how unhappy he is.