The Things We Keep (2 page)

I quit my job that day. If I couldn't remember the word “twin,” what would happen when I couldn't remember how to resuscitate someone or when I decided it was a good idea to move a patient with a possible neck injury? I had a feeling I'd already been off my game. And when I know something's going to happen, I don't see the point in dragging it out.

The same theory applies to life. Life's going slowly in one direction. I can stay in the slow lane, just keep rollin' on down that hill, gathering moss and cobwebs until finally, when I come to a stop, I'm so covered in crap, I'm unrecognizable. That's what Mom did. That's what most people do. But that's never been my style.

*   *   *

At Rosalind House, there are a lot of drugs. Enough that everyone has their own basket. Every morning and afternoon, the nurse rolls her table-on-wheels through the halls with the baskets, a veritable candy woman of pharmaceuticals. In my basket is Aricept, a round peach-colored tablet responsible for slowing the breakdown of a compound that transmits messages between the nerve cells. Also in the basket is vitamin E, clear and yellow, long and thin. Lastly there is Celexa, a powerful antidepressant responsible for making all of this feel like no big deal. That's the one I know
for sure
isn't working.

I don't get dressed until my second week at Rosalind House. When I do, I wonder why I bothered. All I do here is lie in bed, scribble in my journal, and stare out the window. Any visitors I might have had (Jack notwithstanding) have been told, at my request, that I'm at a facility on the other side of the country (Hey, I'm not likely to remember them anyway, and I need a “pity visit” like I need a hole in the head). Eric, the manager guy, stops by continually, trying to cajole me into bingo. (Yeah. Like that's gonna happen.) Various nurses and staff have popped in. But I've been out of my room only once, and when I did leave it, I got so twisted around that I couldn't find my way back. As far as blips went, this one wasn't so bad. At least I knew I was at Rosalind House. I knew I
had
a room. But the only thing my little trip out of my room taught me is that I'm in the right place. Residential care.

Today, outside my window, a handsome gardener prunes the boxwood. It's warm out, and he's stripped to a thin white T-shirt, which allows me to enjoy his ripped physique. A few years ago, I'd have leaned out and asked for a sprig of something, or even asked if he needed any help. (When I was a kid, Jack and I used to spend a lot of time in the garden with Mom, planting and weeding and mulching.) But now I can't even be bothered to return the gardener's smile. I'm too busy thinking about Ethan. About
the incident.

It happened at night. I get restless at night, one of many joyous side effects of “the disease.” I was in the living room, trying to figure out how to use the Xbox when I heard his little footsteps behind me.

“Let's make fongoo.”

“Fongoo” was a loose derivative of fondue, and it was our word for melting candy bars on the stove and then dipping cookies, marshmallows, or whatever else we had handy into the melted goo. I said yes for several reasons: One, I love fongoo. Two, I'm not his mother—it is not my job to worry about his teeth or his lack of sleep. Three, my life is hurtling toward a point where I'm not going to know myself anymore, and while I do know myself, I sure as hell want to be making fongoo with my nephew.

We'd finished the fongoo and were playing Xbox when we smelled the burning. Ethan and I locked eyes.

“Shi—oot!” I said. “The fongoo.”

I bolted for the kitchen, cursing. Burning the house down would do nothing to assure Jack I was a competent adult. I threw the door open, ready to reach for the fire extinguisher, but instead of finding it, I found the bathroom. I turned, opened another door. A cupboard filled with towels. I spun again. Where, in God's name, was the kitchen?

It wasn't the first time this had happened. I knew all I had to do was stay calm and wait for a few moments, and everything would come back to me. But the burning smell was getting stronger, and I couldn't see Ethan anywhere. And I couldn't even find my way out of the fucking
bathroom
!

That was when I heard Ethan scream.

According to Jack, after I ran in the opposite direction, Ethan tore into the kitchen and tried to take the saucepan off the stove. The handle was red-hot. He'd whipped his hand off so fast, he toppled the saucepan, splattering the burning chocolate onto his cheek. The worst part, except for hurting Ethan, was that it confirmed they were right about me. I can't be trusted with my nephew. I can't be left alone, even for a second.

“Knock knock.”

I roll my head toward the door, which is eternally open, thanks to the skinny helper lady, who has an unnatural obsession with fresh air. Every time I try to close it, she appears like a magical air fairy—
fresh air, fresh air,
FRESH AIR
!
But this time when I look, Eric is there with a huge lion of a dog by his side. I feel my insides pull together to form an internal shield.

“Hey,” he says. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.” I address the dog since I can't seem to look anywhere else.

“Everyone being nice to you?”

“Yep.”

It's a German Shepherd. Its teeth are yellow and shiny with saliva; its mouth is curved into that smile-snarl that dogs always wear to keep you on guard.
Am I happy? Am I angry? Come a little closer and find out.

“Oh,” Eric says. “Are you afraid of dogs?”

I try to put on a brave face, but I obviously fail, because Eric sends the dog out. On his way into my room he pauses at a watercolor of a leaf that Jack must have hung on my wall. It belonged to my mother.

“This is lovely,” he says.

“Keep it,” I say.

He frowns at me. “You know you don't have to just sit in your room all day. There's a bus that goes into town twice a day. Some folks like to go to a shopping center or to a movie.”

I sit up. “I'm allowed to do that?”

“Sure. Trish, one of our staff, is escorting the bus group today.”

I sink back into my bed.

“Or there are board games in the parlor,” he says. “We try and encourage residents to congregate in there when they're home. We find that people feel isolated when they spend all their time cooped up in their rooms.”

“I'm okay with being isolated.”

Eric perches on the edge of my bed, a frown bobbing on his forehead. My heart sinks. It must be time for the pep talk. I actually feel bad for Eric. He doesn't want to give it any more than I want to hear it. Deep down he probably knows that if he were a resident here, he'd stay in his room, too. But that's not the dish they're feeding us.

“Fine,” I say, cutting him off before he can start. (Mostly because I want him to get off my bed.) “The parlor? That's the place to be? I'll go there today. Promise.”

Eric sighs. “You don't have to go to the parlor. That wasn't my point. My point is that I want you to be happy here.”

“I know.” Everyone wants me to be happy here. If I'm happy, they don't have to feel guilty.

Eric rests his hand dangerously close to my thigh. “Give us a chance, Anna. I won't pretend I know what it's like to be you. But I do know that your brother didn't put you in here to wither away and die in your room. There's still a lot of life to be lived, but you need to stay in the game.” He winks. “Jack told me you were an adrenaline junkie. I have to admit, I was pretty excited when I heard that. The most adrenaline we get around here is on bingo night.”

He grins and I think I might actually vomit. “You're right,” I say. “You have no idea what it's like to be me.”

*   *   *

They say when you lose some of your senses, others get heightened. I think it's true. There was a time when I had a razor tongue. If there was a joke at the offering, I was the first to snap it up (and then deliver it with more pizazz than anyone else). Now I'm not as quick as I used to be, but I'm more observant, especially when it comes to people's state of mind. So when a young woman with spiky blond hair bursts through my door, I know at a glance that she's not only lost, but that there's something on her mind.

“Oh, um,” she says. “Which way is the visitors' bathroom?”

Obviously, I have no idea. When I was diagnosed, my neuropsychologist (Dr. Brain, I called him) explained that memories tended to evaporate in reverse order. This meant my oldest memories would be the ones to hang around the longest, and new information, visitor's bathrooms included, were quick to disappear into the black hole of no return in my brain.

“I'm sorry, I don't know,” I tell the woman. Her face, I notice, is crumpled and red. Wet. “Are you okay?”

She sighs, and I half expect her to turn and leave—continue on her search for the visitors' bathroom. But she stays.

“Yeah.” She sniffs. “I mean no. It's my grandpa. He's … impossible.”

“Who's your grandpa?”

“Bert. Bert Dickens.”

“Oh,” I say, though I have no recollection of meeting Bert. “Is he … okay?”

“He's fine, physically. Mentally, not so much. Sorry, I shouldn't have just barged in like this. Are you—?”

“I'm not busy.” It's the understatement of the century. “What's going on with Bert?”

“Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Sure I'm sure.”

“Okay.” She comes farther into the room. “The thing is—” She extends a hand and wiggles her fingers. “—I'm getting married.”

I eyeball the diamond and smile like I'm supposed to, even though I've never seen what all the fuss was about when it came to those sparkly rocks. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

I glance at own my ring finger, naked for almost a year. The knuckle seems to protrude higher now, without its anchor weighing it down. “Does Bert not like the guy?”

“No. I mean, yes. He likes him. But he doesn't want us to get married.”

“Why not?”

“He thinks our family is cursed. Yeah, and he's not senile either. He's always thought that. His wife, my grandma, died when my mom was a baby. And Mom died when I was four. He thinks if I get married, then the curse will continue.”

“I'm sorry about your mom.”

“Thanks.”

“Why does he think it's marriage causing the curse? Why not the baby?”

She gives me a strange look. This, I realize, is probably not helpful.

“Hey, I'm just pointing out that his theory isn't watertight. Maybe you could convince him the baby part causes the curse?”

“But what happens when I have a baby?”

“You want a baby, too?”

She nods. Somewhere deep in my soul, I think she's being a little greedy.

“Well, do you believe the curse?” I ask.

“No. I mean, my family has had bad luck, but … No. I don't believe it. But I want Grandpa to come to the wedding, and he says he won't. He says he can't bear to watch me seal my fate.”

“Tell him if you don't get married, your fate will be worse than death.”

She watches me through narrowed eyes.

“Tell him if you go to your grave with him as your husband, you'll go a happy woman. Tell him that even if he's right, you'd rather have a year of true happiness than die without knowing what happiness is.” I think for a moment. “If he says you're wrong, ask him if he wishes he'd never married his wife.”

“Wow,” she says. “You're good.”

There's an expression that says this exactly, and I try to conjure it up. Slowly, it starts to come. “A life lived in…” I try to continue, but the rest slips away.
Poof.
Gone.

“A life lived in fear is a life half-lived?”

“Right. Exactly.”

“You're right. He adored Myrna. There's no way he wishes he hadn't married her. Besides, if I listen to his silly superstitions, I'm reinforcing the idea that this curse could actually be true.” She sighs. “Thanks for being the voice of reason. I'd better get back.” She cocks her head toward the closed bathroom door. “Do you think she's okay in there?”

“Who?”

“Your … grandmother?” She squints at the silver name-thingy on the wall. “Anna, is it?”

I often have trouble understanding things, so I don't worry too much that this goes over my head. I'm about to nod as if I understand completely—when suddenly, it dawns. She thinks I'm visiting an old person named Anna.

“Oh … yes. She's fine.” I smile at the girl whose name I didn't catch, if she told me at all. “She'll be out of here really, really soon.”

 

2

There's something in my soup, floating between a chunk of carrot and a green bean. It's not a hair or a fly. It's white. It's about two inches long and curved around itself like a spiral. I reach into my bowl and give it a squeeze. It compresses between my fingers, then springs back like a piece of rubber. Before I even put it in my mouth, I know what it will taste like: bland, chewy, but appealing. I like this food. Why can't I remember what it's called?

“Tastes like an old boot, right?”

When I look over, the old lady next to me is watching me. I'm grateful it's her speaking because the alternative, on my other side, is an old bald man who keeps referring to the empty seat beside him as “Myrna.” At one point, he even asked someone to pass Myrna the salt. So much for no crazies at Rosalind House.

“I'm sorry?”

“The pasta,” she says. “It tastes like an old boot.”

Pasta!
I feel a thrill akin to finding a missing, well, boot.

“Actually, the pasta's all right,” I say. “It's the rest of it that's the problem.”

“I s'pose you're right,” she says, examining the spiral on her own spoon. “Beans and celery and watery soup—the pasta's the savin' grace, really.”