The Night Guest Read Free

about the kitchen, opening cupboards and the refrigerator.
    “Oh! Then I’ll let you go.”
    “No, Jeff, I wanted to tell you, she’s a helper of some kind.” Ruth turned to Frida. “Excuse me, but what are you, exactly? A nurse?”
    “A nurse?” said Jeffrey.
    “A government carer,” said Frida.
    Ruth preferred the sound of this. “She’s a government carer, Jeff, and she says she’s here to help me.”
    “You’re kidding me,” said Jeffrey. “How did she find you? How does she seem?”
    “She’s right here.”
    “Put her on.”
    Ruth handed the phone to Frida, who took it good-naturedly and cradled it against her shoulder. It was an old-fashioned kind of phone, a large heavy crescent, cream-coloured and attached to the wall by a particularly long white cord that meant Ruth could carry it anywhere in the house.
    “Jeff,” Frida said, and now Ruth could hear only the faint outlines of her son’s voice. Frida said, “Frida Young.” She said, “Of course,” and then, “A state programme. Her name was on file, and a spot opened up.” Ruth disliked hearing herself discussed in the third person. She felt like an eavesdropper. “An hour a day to start with. It’s more of an assessment, just to see what’s needed, and we’ll take things from there. Yes, yes, I can take care of all that.” Finally, “Your mother’s in good hands, Jeff,” and Frida handed the phone back to Ruth.
    “This could be wonderful, Ma,” said Jeffrey. “This could be just exactly what we need. What a good, actually good use of taxpayers’ money.”
    “Wait,” said Ruth. The cats, curious, were sniffing at Frida’s toes.
    “But I want to see the paperwork, all right? Before you sign anything. Do you remember how to use Dad’s fax machine?”
    “Just a minute,” said Ruth, to both Frida and Jeffrey, and, with bashful urgency, as if she had a pressing need to urinate, she hurried into the lounge room and stood at the window. The yellow of the taxi was still visible at the end of the drive.
    “I’m alone now,” she said, her voice lowered and her lips pressed to the phone. “Now, I’m not sure about this. I’m not doing badly.”
    Ruth didn’t like talking about this with her son. It offended her and made her shy. She supposed she should feel grateful for his love and care, but it seemed too soon; she wasn’t old—not too old, only seventy-five. Her own mother had been past eighty before things really began to unravel. And to have this happen today, when she felt vulnerable about calling Jeffrey in the middle of the night with all that nonsense about a tiger. She wondered if he’d mentioned any of that to Frida.
    “You’re doing wonderfully,” said Jeffrey, and Ruth winced at this, and her back vibrated a little, so she put out her left hand to hold the windowsill. He had said exactly the same thing when, on his last visit, he mentioned retirement villages and in-home carers. “Frida’s only here to assess your situation. She’ll probably just take over some of the housework, and you’ll relax and enjoy yourself.”
    “She’s Fijian,” said Ruth, mainly for her own reassurance.
    “There you are, some familiarity. And if you hate it, if you don’t like her, then we’ll make other arrangements.”
    “Yes,” said Ruth, more doubtfully than she felt; she was heartened by this, even if she knew Jeffrey was patronizing her; but she knew the extent of her independence, its precise horizons, and she knew she was neither helpless nor especially brave; she was somewhere in between; but she was still self-governing.
    “I’ll let Phil know. I’ll tell him to call you. And we’ll talk more on Sunday,” said Jeffrey. Sunday was the day they usually spoke, at four in the afternoon: half an hour with Jeffrey, fifteen minutes with his wife, two minutes each with the children. They didn’t time it deliberately; it just worked out that way. The children would hold the phone too close to their mouths;