Free The Wolf Border by Sarah Hall Page A

seizures became too much for her heart. He is sorry to break the bad news, he says. Perhaps he could call back later when she has had a chance to absorb the news? Rachel thanks him. She hangs up. She sits for a moment, in the quiet of the cabin, then looks up her brother’s number and dials it. She does not expect him to answer but he does.
    It’s Rachel. They just rang me.
    Lawrence is too distraught to speak coherently.
    I can’t believe it, he says. She isn’t. Why would she do it?
    Rachel does not say – but she could – because Binny wasn’t a hysteric, because she was a dyed-in-the-wool, high-calibre, selfish bitch. Then again, was the action really so inappropriate, really so bad? Get off the bus when it’s your stop .
    I think maybe it was her plan.
    I don’t understand. She planned it?
    Maybe.
    How do you know?
    Something she said when I was there.
    What the fuck?
    Her brother begins to cry, hard sobs, which he muffles. Rachel’s heart begins to bark and her head swims; she feels as if she will be sick again.
    Why didn’t you warn me? he asks.
    Lawrence, she says. Come on.
    But he is lost in grief. She listens to him weeping, the sound both awful and remote. Emily takes the phone from him. No greeting. No consolation.
    I think we better call you back later, she says. He needs to rest.
    Is he alright?
    Obviously not. His mother just died.
    His mother . As if Rachel were not related, as if she were a stranger to the events. There is little point trying to liaise with Emily. Rachel hangs up. Whether they will call back, she does not know.
    She sits by the ashy stove, a blanket cast around her shoulders, her feet bare and numb on the floorboards. She pictures a pure, clear glass of water, but it seems like a fantasy, out of her reach. The soft layers inside her skull throb. After a time, there is a knock at the door. She does not answer. She hears Kyle’s boots breaking the crust of new snow as he walks away. She gets up and moves cautiously to the kitchen, runs the tap and puts her head underneath it, drinks as much as she can without vomiting. The brandy from the previous night seems to reanimate. The room hazes. She sits by the cold fire, feeling drunk again.
    The manager of Willowbrook calls a second time – the hour late in the UK. He is sorry again for her loss, he says. Dreadfully sorry. Everything was done by the book, interviews have beenconducted with staff, there were no signs, such a situation is unusual. Covering his ass, she thinks. Does she have any questions? he asks. She doesn’t. Among the possessions there is an envelope addressed to Rachel from her mother, he says. The care home will post it immediately, of course.
    No. Just open it, Rachel tells him.
    It looks like private correspondence. It’s no trouble to post. I wouldn’t want to intrude.
    She convinces him that it will be simpler this way. Another heavy snowfall is due in Idaho. Postal deliveries may not reach the centre; it could be weeks before anything gets through. There’s a pause, silence. She imagines him sitting at his desk, in lamplight, the envelope being opened, probably with a paperknife, respectfully.
    It’s more of a note, really, he says. I wonder if it mightn’t be better to send it on to you.
    No. Please just read it.
    I’m sure your mother would have wanted you to know how much she loved you, he says. She talked about you all the time. About how proud she was.
    Rachel baulks. His words are excruciating to hear, ludicrous. The comment so blatantly twee and false, it is almost as bad as his breaking the news of the death. This man knew Binny; he knew her proclivities, her disposition. Rachel sits rigidly, waits for it all to be over. The manager clears his throat, then reads.
    Dear Rachel. We all choose. You can come back home now. Binny .
    *
    A polar vortex over North America. The heaviest snow for fifty years, structures locked in ice. January is all