The Things We Keep (30 page)

“I … I'm so sorry.”

Clara
pffts.
“Sorry isn't worth the paper it's written on. What matters is action. Righting the wrongs. You know what I mean?”

I frown. “I'm not sure I do.”

“A long time ago, Eve, I did something terrible to my sister. Betrayed her in the worst way. Now I have to make amends.”

“Make amends … how?”

“I'm going to give her Laurie back.”

I stare at her. “What?”

Clara looks out the window. “Laurie grew up in the house right opposite ours. By the time he was sixteen, any fool could see he was sweet on Enid. I used to watch them through the window, Laurie chopping wood for Mama while Enid sat on a tree stump beside him. But Enid was a lady. She didn't giggle or flatter Laurie. To anyone else, it would have looked like she wasn't interested in him. Not to me. Sisters know these things.” Clara shakes her head. “Then, one day, Enid was given the opportunity to go away with our church, to be a missionary. She was a giver, Enid—that kind of thing was right up her alley. It all happened quite fast, someone had dropped out or something, and she didn't get a chance to say good-bye to anyone. And when Laurie came around the next day to chop wood, well … I told him she'd gone away.”

I blink. “But that's hardly a betrayal—”

“In our day, if a young woman went away suddenly, it meant she was in the family way.” Clara smiles ruefully. “Let's just say I did nothing to dissuade Laurie from that belief.”

“Oh.”

“While she was gone, I sat with Laurie while he chopped firewood. And, unlike Enid, I smiled. I giggled. I couldn't help it. I told myself I was better for him than her. By the time Enid came back, Laurie and I were engaged. As soon as he saw her, I knew the feelings were still there. I still see it, whenever she's around.”

Sisters can be treacherous.
It all makes sense now.

“So … what are you going to do?” I ask.

Clara looks away from the window and straight in my eye. “I'm going to make things right. While I still can.”

“But … how can you possibly do that?”

Clara clasps her hands together in her lap and gives a light shrug, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. “I'm fairly sure dying should do the trick.”

*   *   *

I leave Clara's room without so much as vacuuming and pause at the entrance to the parlor. Clem is in there now, talking to Bert. The two of them seem to have developed quite the friendship. May has fallen asleep in her chair and Gwen is knitting. But my eyes lock on Laurie. Clara's sister has disappeared and he's sitting alone. I lower myself into the chair beside him. “I just saw Clara.”

He looks up, scans my face. “She told you?”

“Yes.”

“I still can't believe it,” he says, looking back at his lap. “My Clara. I always thought she'd outlive me by twenty years.”

“I'm sorry, Laurie.”

He dismisses my apology with a wave of his hand. “We've been lucky, Eve. We've had a long marriage. Four sons. A long life.”

“A happy life?”

He glances up, surprised. “A
very
happy life.”

“Tell me,” I say, sliding forward in my chair until my knees nearly touch his. “Tell me why you chose Clara. What was it about her that made you decide she was the one?”

A smile inches onto his face. “Clara made me feel like the only man in the world. She still makes me feel like that. No one else has ever come close to making me feel as good as Clara. No one is stupid or blind enough, probably.”

“No one?”

Laurie is still for a moment. He sweeps a gray strand off his temple. “Well, there was one other person, if I'm being honest. A long time ago. She was very different from Clara.”

I think I might be treading on thin ice, but I have to ask. “Any regrets?”

He frowns at me, less annoyed, more curious. And I find myself holding my breath. “When you get to my age,” he says, his face softening, “you don't waste time with regrets. In the end, you just remember the moments of joy. When all is said and done, those are the things we keep.”

And just like that, I let go the breath I'd been holding.

*   *   *

That afternoon, as I'm making up Bert's room, a memory comes at me. Clem was a tiny baby, and I'd been up half the night with her. I'd woken first thing in the morning with a start—full of the terror reserved for new mothers. The bed beside me was rumpled and empty, and so was Clem's crib.

I followed the tune of “I'm a Little Teapot” to the downstairs bath, where Richard was stretched out in the water, cradling Clem's tiny, nearly sleeping, body. He glanced up, smiled, and kept on singing. I still remember his face, saccharine but warning, making clear that stopping the song would be a disastrous option.

So I sat on the edge of the bath and sang, too.

Every time the song came to an end, we'd pause, holding our breath, and every time her little eyelids fluttered, we broke back into song. In the end, I took off my pajamas and got into the bath, too. After about an hour of it, Clem fell asleep.

Another memory comes at me after this one. Then another. The way Richard used to bring home recipe books when I was ill. The time we were on holiday in Vietnam and he tried to get me tampons from three different pharmacies that didn't understand a word he was saying. The night he waited up to show me the lipstick that Clem had put on him—because he'd promised her he would.

After all was said and done with Richard, I couldn't regret my life with him. There were moments of joy. There was
Clem.

I finish arranging the pillows on Bert's bed and then fall into the armchair by Bert's window. And for the first time since Richard died, I cry for him.

 

41

Anna

Eight months ago …

One day Jack arrives to take me somewhere. I don't care to venture what day it is, since even if I did have the capacity to figure it out, who really cared? We go to a room with chairs around the edges, and I pick up one of the thin books to avoid speaking to Jack. I don't like talking to Jack. I'd never tell him that, because I know he's trying. He keeps the conversations simple and slow, the topics basic. But it's impossible not to feel his scrutinizing, like I'm taking an exam. I concentrate so hard on not saying something stupid that I become stuck in my head and completely forget what he asked in the first place. And I fail.

With the thin book in my lap, my first thought is … all the
writing.
Even on the cover, bright pink and orange headlines slash the page. There are several pictures, too, of famous people I don't recognize. How do people make sense of this? Did I used to read these? I put it back on the glass tabletop and instead stare at the television, muted, in the corner. That's when I feel a kick in my belly. Latina Cook-Lady must have served one of her spicy dishes today, judging by the way my belly is moving.

“Anna Forster.” A woman stands in the doorway, her thick black hair streaming over one shoulder. I recognize her. It's my family doctor—Dr. Li.

I feel a genuine smile as I stand. I am going to greet this doctor by name. A small, verging-on-pathetic win, but a win for a person with Alzheimer's. A win for me.

“Yes,” Jack says, standing also. “Nice to see you, Dr. Li.”

It really,
really
pisses me off that he beats me to it. I punch Jack hard, in the shoulder. I feel his head swing toward me, slack-jawed, but I don't even look. I just walk past him and Dr. Li and into the exam room.

“So, Anna…” Inside the other room, Dr. Li, at least, addresses me. “How have things been?”

I stare at her for a long time. The last thing I want is for Jack to answer for me, but I can't for the life of me figure out how to answer her question.
How have things been?

“She does better with more specific questions,” Jack says finally. “Yes or no. One- or two-word responses.”

This is true insofar as Jack is concerned. Jack never gives me a chance to say anything more than two words. But with Young Guy, I say a lot—at least, I did. Perhaps Jack is right? Perhaps I am a little out of practice? Either way, I can't be bothered explaining. Instead I scowl at Jack and he winces, preparing to receive a punch. I laugh out loud, which probably makes me look a bit crazy.

“I see,” Dr. Li says, and scribbles something on a white square. Then she looks back at me. “Are you feeling well today, Anna?”

“I'm very well.” I raise my eyebrows at Jack. That was definitely more than two words.

“Have you been taking all your medication?”

“Yes.”

“There's a nurse at her facility that administers her medication,” Jack says, “so she's definitely taking it.”

Dr. Li looks at the white square. “So … Aricept, vitamin E?”

I nod. If that's what's written on her square, that's probably right.

“And Celexa,” Jack adds. “I think that's it.”

“Any side effects? Dizziness, headache, agitation, sleeplessness?”

“Normal night-restlessness,” Jack jumps in. “Sleeps during the day, awake a lot at night.”

“Is that right, Anna?”

Dr. Li looks at me expectantly, so I nod. She consults the white square again.

“Aricept can cause sleep difficulties in some people,” she says. “I can add a sleeping tablet to your medication to help with that. Would you like that, Anna?”

“Sure.”

“Good,” she says, scribbling on a different square. Then she lifts her head. “So, how's your mood?”

“It's been better.”

“Any depression, anxiety, feelings of helplessness?”

“She does seem to be down lately,” Jack says. “Especially compared to a few months ago. To be honest, I'm concerned about the speed of her decline. Do you mind if I speak here, Anna? I want to make sure the doctor understands what is going on.”

I don't know why he's asking now since he's done all the speaking since we arrived. But I nod.

“Anna's made a … friend in there,” he says to Dr. Li. “A guy, also with dementia. And it turns out they've been sexually involved.”

Dr. Li's eyebrows jump. “I see.”

“I don't know what to do. I want Anna to be happy, but how can I trust this guy? He has
dementia.
I want to believe that Anna could stop him from doing anything she doesn't want to do, but…” Suddenly I realize Jack is crying. “It's all happening so fast. She's not the Anna she used to be.”

“I understand,” Dr. Li says. “It must be very difficult for you.”

“A year ago, to the unknowing eye, Anna seemed normal. A normal forgetful person, but you could have a conversation with her. She could have dinner with the family or talk on the phone. But when she came to our house in September, she was only there for four hours before she went berserk and we had to bring her back. I visited her last week, and she was in her room in a sweater, jacket, and boots with the window closed while it was ninety degrees out. It takes her a good five or six seconds to answer a question, and sometimes she doesn't bother at all.” Jack hangs his head, and his shoulders begin to shake. “Anna was always the one who protected me when we were kids. Now I want to make sure I protect her.”

Dr. Li glances at me, presumably to see how much I am taking in. The answer is all of it. Every word.

“I'm sorry,” I say. I concentrate on my words to make sure this comes out right. “It sounds horrible, what you said. I know I'm … not getting things right anymore, I'm getting confused and doing strange things. But I'm…” I pause to wipe my face. “I'm still here. It's just—you have to look a little longer and harder to find me.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the doctor push her chair back, trying to pretend she's not there. Jack slides forward in his chair and looks at me. And for the first time since I checked into that place with the old people, maybe for the first time since I was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, Jack sees me.

 

42

Eve

“Clem's not talking.”

It's late afternoon, and I'm pressed into a corner of the cleaning cupboard, on my cell phone. I've already told Dr. Felder about Clem running away from school and seeing Angus kiss me in the garden. So far, Dr. Felder has just listened. It's nice, the way she listens. It makes me realize how much I've missed having someone to talk to about Clem.

“I've tried bringing it up, but she says she doesn't want to talk about it.”

“Then you should listen to her,” Dr. Felder says. “Believe it or not, people—even kids—are pretty good at knowing what is best for them. If she doesn't feel like talking, it means her subconscious is still processing everything. And that's perfectly fine.”

“I know, but I worry. Clem is a
talker.
Usually my biggest problem is how to get her to
stop
talking.”

“Clementine will talk again. And when she does, she'll know that she can go to you. In the meantime, you should think about what you're going to say to her when she
does
go to you. She'll definitely have questions, particularly about her father's death, and his business activities that she perceives to be ‘bad.' She'll want to know how you are processing all of it. Have you considered having any therapy yourself, Eve?”

“Me? Oh no. I'm just worried about Clem.”

“I know. But sometimes the best way to look after other people is to look after yourself. Think about it, Eve.”

“I will.”

After I hang up the phone, I check on Clem in the parlor. She's where I left her, beside Bert, talking. Clearly her desire not to talk doesn't extend to him. The parlor has filled up in the last few minutes. Twelve out of the thirteen residents are in there, just staring at Clem as though she were the
Mona Lisa
herself. It's like her presence has set off a radar—
child nearby!
—prompting them to wake up from their naps or send home their visitors and shuffle into the communal space. In fact, the only resident not in the parlor is Anna.