The Things We Keep (14 page)

After a few minutes of this, Helen arrives with a cup of tea, a tray of brown eating-things in little wrappers, and her own deck chair. Jack is on the grass, watching the kids and being quiet, which is fine with me. I wish Helen would follow his lead, but unfortunately, she didn't get the memo.

“It's great to have you here, Anna,” she says, dispensing a cup of tea with no milk. It smells funny. “I got your favorite. Peppermint tea.”

I frown into my mug. Peppermint is my favorite?

“Jack drank some by accident the other day and then spat it out all over the kitchen counter.” Helen covers her hand with her mouth and chuckles. “The boys thought it was hilarious.”

Jack mutters something unintelligible. I take a sip of my tea. It's actually pretty good.

“Anna, watch this!” Ethan calls.

“No! Anna's watching me,” says Hank.

“
Me,
Anna,” says the other one. “Watch
me
!”

I turn back to Helen. “What did you say?”

Helen's smile fades. “Oh,… just that Jack tried your tea and—”

“Anna!”
Ethan is swinging from the tree by one arm, like the hairy animal that eats bananas. With his dangling hand, he tickles his opposite armpit. “Oo-oo-ee-ee! I'm a monkey.”

A
monkey.
Right.

Beside me, to my right, Helen is still talking.

“You're not a monkey,” says the boy in the red T-shirt. “You're an ape!”

The boys all break into laughter, except for the little one, who begins to cry. He lets go of the branch and finds the ground.

“Would you like a muffin?” Helen says. “Baked fresh this morning. Anna?” She holds up the tray of brown things.

I rise to my feet. Someone is talking. I don't know who. My head hurts.

“Anna, are you all right?” someone says.

The littlest boy is standing in front of me, arms outstretched. His face is red and wet, and he's muttering something about the other boys being mean. I step toward him, and he wraps his arms around my waist.

“Eath, give Anna some space,” Jack says.

The little boy protests that he doesn't want to, and then the other little boys start screaming something. The woman talks louder, over the top of them. I close my eyes. I can't hear individual words, just … noise. Loud, continuous noise.

“Shut up!”
I scream, and it actually feels good. For a second, the sound of my voice is all I can hear. That also feels good.

But the moment I stop screaming, the woman starts talking again. “Anna, why don't you just—?”

My brain is going to explode. “I said
shut up.
You!” I jab my finger at the little boy, the crying one, who has let go of my waist and stepped back a few paces. “And
you
!” This time I point at the other boys, the ones in red and green, standing before me. “And
you
!” The woman. She's the most annoying of all. “All of you,
shut up
!”

Jack gets up off the grass and starts toward me. I don't want him to touch me. I don't want anyone to touch me. I pick up the tray of brown things and hurl it as hard as I can into the garden. He stops. Finally, the chatter, the whining, the talking, stops, drowned out by one continuous, high-pitched roar. My roar.

*   *   *

“She's degenerated really fast…”

“… spoken to her doctor…”

“… what did Eric say?”

I know Jack and Helen are talking about me. If I really wanted to, I could tune in, but why bother? It would take up too much of my brain space, and I don't have much to spare. So I just continue eating my dinner. Whatever it is. For someone who spends so much time in the kitchen, Helen isn't a very good cook.

“Anna?”

They're looking at me. Terrific. Now I'm probably going to have to listen.

Jack drags his chair a little closer to mine. “Do you want to talk about what happened today?”

“No.” I take a mouthful of whatever it is Helen has cooked. It's so hot, it takes the skin off my mouth, and it tastes like tomato paste. Even Latina Cook-Lady's rice and beans is better than this.

“Anna,” he tries again, “did we do something to upset you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Apparently, he's not letting this go. I wish he'd shut up and let me eat my tomato paste.

“I'm sure,” I say. “It's just that I don't like it here. Too … noisy.”

Jack's and Helen's faces shift in unison, as if moved by the same puppeteer. The long blink. The jaw drop. The swift glance at the other. I shovel in another mouthful.
Ow.
Crap! Hot.

“Anna—”

“If it's all right with you, I'd like to go home now,” I say before the questions start again. And when I say the word “home,” I'm surprised to realize that I'm talking about the big house with all the old people.

 

14

Eve

“I probably should have explained something yesterday—” Eric perches on the edge of my desk and lets out a long, world-weary sigh. “—about Anna and Luke. What you saw the other night? It isn't the first time.”

“I beg your pardon?” I hear him fine, but I want to hear him say it again.

“It's a sensitive topic, and I didn't know how much to say earlier. But I've spoken to Anna's brother, and he agrees that I should fill you in. The truth is, Anna and Luke were friends.” He pauses, shakes his head. “They
are
friends. But shortly after they arrived, they developed quite an attachment. A romance, you might say. It was a great thing for both of them; it gave them a lift and possibly even extended their mental dexterity a little. We were going to let it run its course and we figured eventually it would take care of itself, that they'd forget their friendship. Usually that's how these things play out.”

“These things?” I ask. “You mean … there have been other—?”

“—romances? Oh, yes,” Eric says, grinning. “There's more lust at a residential care facility than in high school. Didn't you know?”

There's something about Eric's obvious enjoyment of this that I find a little off-putting.

“It's especially common with dementia patients,” he continues. “Human beings are programmed to form attachments in order to survive. So it makes sense that when you have dementia, new attachments are formed to replace those that are lost. It's a good thing, it can reduce loneliness and depression. But in this case, it was a little more complicated.”

“Why?”

“We became aware that Luke and Anna were intimate. Which in itself is complicated, but for them, it opened up a host of other issues. For example, is Anna—or Luke, for that matter—of sound mind to consent to this?”

“But … you said they'd developed a relationship. Surely that implies consent?”

“Actually, it doesn't. Among other things, as dementia develops, an individual's inhibitions can become lowered, causing them to act uncharacteristically promiscuous or flirtatious. Even if they are saying yes, we can't be sure they would be saying yes if their judgment wasn't impaired. Then, of course, there was the other incident—Anna's suicide attempt. After that, we had no choice but to start locking the doors. We didn't come to that decision lightly. But all things considered, it made sense.”

“Are Anna and Luke okay with it?” I ask.

“As okay as you can expect, really. Sometimes they become upset at night, but again, that's normal for people with dementia. Most likely, Anna's distress is simply the night-restlessness and she doesn't remember Luke at all. It's possible Luke does remember, but even if he does, we can't allow him free access to Anna's room at night. They can spend time together during the day, but the staff try to keep them busy and redirect them if they try to go off privately together. I'll ask you to do the same,” he says, “if you happen to see them together.”

I think of Anna asking for help. Of her asking if
he
was there, then saying she was talking about Luke.

“All right, Eve?” Eric repeats.

“Yes,” I say. “Okay.”

But my facial expression must give away my true feelings because Eric continues. “The important thing is that we abide by the families' wishes, for everyone's sake.”

“Of course,” I say, though I can't help but wonder if abiding by the families' wishes is really for everyone's sake. Or just for everyone
else's
sake.

*   *   *

Clem aka Alice is quiet on the way to school. I try to engage her by asking her if she wants a special dinner, but she just shrugs. Even seeing Legs on the way into the classroom isn't enough to pep her up.

I have a quick word with Miss Weber, who says she'll keep a special eye on her. She also asks for my change-of-address form, which I supply with a stomach full of knots. If she suspects anything, I can't tell.

Then I have to run off to work. It strikes me that this is a cruel irony. Before, when I had the most well-adjusted, happiest little girl in the world, I had nothing but time to spend with her. Now, when she could really use her mother around, I have to work.

Back at Rosalind House, the parlor is full. Laurie is reading a newspaper, Bert is chatting quietly to himself. Gwen dozes. Luke and Anna are perched at opposite windows. As I wipe down the mantel, I can't help stealing a look at them. They seem content enough, staring into the garden, but who knows? Do they wish they were side by side?

“That's lovely,” Bert says, startling me. At first I'm not sure what he's referring to; then I realize I've been humming.

“Oh,” I say. “Well … thank you.”

“That tune?” he says. “What is it?”

“It's … Pachelbel's Canon.” Why had I chosen to hum my wedding song? “Do you know it?”

“Of course. I like it.” He frowns. “Why did you stop?”

I smile and continue to hum. There's something warm about Bert, gruff as he is.

“Are you all right, my love?”

I look around. This time it's Laurie talking, and not to me.

Clara has drifted into the room, carrying a Maeve Binchy novel. “Fit as a fiddle,” she says, kissing him on the mouth. Her eyes close, and for a heartbeat, she looks completely blissed out. “Don't you go worryin' yourself.”

“You should tell the doctor when she gets here,” Laurie says.

“You think she's interested in my headache?”

“Dr. Walker is interested in everything,” Laurie says. “At our age, anything is a symptom.”

Clara
pffts,
but with a smile. “At our age, a headache is still a headache.”

I give the coffee table a spritz. Spraying, I realize, is surprisingly pleasant—the
shush
sound it makes, the way the products mist out evenly over the surface, ready to make something clean. It's impossible to be bad at spraying. Wiping, on the other hand, is loathsome. It makes no sound. It takes a lot of effort, and if you're not any good at it, it shows you up as the amateur you are.

“Tell the doctor,” Laurie orders.

“You're not the boss of me.”

“I am,” he replies. “I'm your husband.”

I continue to hum, soothed by the pleasant squabble of a couple who've been married sixty years.

“Ah, I nearly forgot,” Laurie says. “Enid called.”

The silence that follows is long enough for me to look up.

“When?” Clara asks.

Laurie shrugs. “Before.”

“Before
when
?”

“I'm an old man.” He waves his hands about as if that emphasizes his point. “Keeping track of time is too depressing.”

He winks at me, and I hum louder—proof that I'm not eavesdropping.

“What did my sister have to say for herself?” Clara asks.

“Just that she's coming to visit.”

“From Charlotte?” Clara's voice rises like a Chinese sky lantern.
“Why?”

The coffee table is nice and shiny, and I really should move on to the kitchen. But I get out my bottle and give it another spray. I've missed my daily gossip sessions with Jazz. Hearing about who has had Botox, who is leaving her husband for the personal trainer. While this conversation isn't anywhere near so scandalous, I feel myself getting sucked into it. I'd have expected someone like Clara to talk to her sister every day, to send cards and gifts and exchange photos of respective grandchildren. But by the way she's acting, you'd have thought Laurie had said Satan himself was coming to visit.

“Enid comes every year,” Laurie says slowly. “Why not this year?”

Clara shrugs. “It's a long way for her to travel, is all.”

“As you point out every time. Now, are you going to get all worked up as usual, planning activities for every solitary second of her trip, or are you going to let her have a nice visit this time?”

Clara narrows her eyes. “Since when are you so worried about my sister getting a nice visit?”

“Staying out of it,” Laurie says.

“You do that.”

Clara thumps down her book and heaves herself out of her chair.

“Where are you going?” Laurie asks.

“Where do you think? I'm going to call Enid. Get this visit planned and over with.”

Clara disappears and the room falls silent again, apart from my humming. Laurie starts whistling, so comfortable as to his place in Clara's life, he doesn't need to waste his time worrying. I'd always thought that one day, Richard and I would be old and comfortable in our ways, after a lifetime of marriage. We
would
have been. But Richard ruined it.

I finish dusting some books on the coffee table, then tuck my cloth into my apron. That's when I notice Anna.

“Anna?” I say cautiously, edging toward her. “Are you … all right?”