No Good Brother. Tyler Keevil

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      ‘Just on a drive,’ he said, distantly. ‘A sort of road trip.’

      ‘Will you see Sandy?’

      ‘You can’t drive to France,’ Jake said.

      ‘But she might meet us,’ I said.

      ‘Oh – how wonderful.’

      ‘Ma,’ Jake said.

      But she was up. Charged with nicotine and caffeine. She went into the kitchen and started opening and closing cupboards, mumbling about us taking Sandy something. But it wasn’t clear what she had in mind. Then she seemed to remember and opened the bottom door of her fridge – the freezer compartment – and got out a microwaveable burrito. We’d eaten them all the time as kids. She brought it over and deposited it on Jake’s lap.

      ‘That’s for her,’ she said, triumphantly. ‘Bean and cheese. Her favourite.’

      Jake held it up, helpless. He said, ‘Ma – we’re not going to see Sandy.’ And then he said, ‘Ma – Sandy’s gone. I can’t give her some frozen burrito, for God’s sake.’

      He said it quietly, but not so quietly she didn’t hear. She laughed, high and terrified. ‘What are you talking about? Timothy – what on earth is your brother talking about?’

      ‘Nothing, Ma. He’s just messing around.’

      ‘It isn’t very funny.’

      ‘I know. I know it isn’t.’ I took the burrito from Jake. He let it go but his hands retained its shape, as if he were still holding it – as if he were now holding an invisible burrito. ‘We’ll give this to her. Sure we can give this to her. Sandy loves these things.’

      ‘I know she does. And they don’t have them in France.’

      ‘No – that’s good thinking. That’s real considerate.’