The Things We Keep (9 page)

Clem beams, and Rosie turns and jogs away before she can find out she has a friend for life.

Inside, a couple of residents mill about in the parlor, and Clem wastes no time launching into conversation with an old man named Laurie. She tells him about school; her best friend, Legs; the fairy princess party she had for her birthday. I sit beside them.

“Hey! Is someone going to help me out of bed, or am I going to spend the day in my jammies?”

The voice that fills the hallway is brittle and irritated. “That's Bert,” Laurie explains. “He needs a little push to get him on his feet. His walker is beside the bed. Trish or Carole usually do it, but I think they're helping other residents right now.”

I nod, trying not to let my uncertainty show. “Well … I suppose I could do it.”

“Second door on the left,” he says helpfully.

I head in the direction the man pointed, and peek around the corner. Thankfully, Bert greets me with an expression much warmer than his voice. “Oh, it's you. Just a little push, then, girlie. And don't go getting any ideas just because I'm a good-looking son of a gun. I'm a married man.”

He's either joking or senile, because Eric told me the only married couple at Rosalind House was the Southern couple, Clara and Laurie. Either way, I decide to leave the “married” comment alone. “You're safe with me,” I say, shoving him to his feet. “I'm off men. Even good-looking ones.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, out with you. I have to get dressed.”

Out in the corridor, I hesitate. Are any other residents stuck in bed? Am I supposed to be tapping on all the doors, opening blinds, and wishing all a good morning? There's still no sign of Eric, so I have to improvise. The door next to Bert's is still closed, so I tap lightly. When there's no answer, I open the door. “Good morning. It's Eve, the … cook. Do you need any—? Oh!”

I jump back when I see the Southern woman—Clara?—standing inside, in front of a mirror, naked from the waist up. I pull the door closed again, leaving it only slightly ajar. “I'm so sorry,” I say into the crack, and at the same time, I hear keys rattling in the front door.

I race to the foyer.

“Sorry I'm late,” Eric says. “How's it been going?”

“Actually,” I say, “Bert needed help getting out of bed, and afterwards, I thought I'd check on the others. But then I walked in on one of the ladies half-dressed. I did knock, but I suppose she didn't hear.”

Eric chuckles. “First of all, breathe. And try not to look so worried. You're probably more embarrassed than she is.” I wonder how Eric figures this, since I didn't mention which resident I walked in on. “And it's my fault, really, for being late,” he continues, looking at his watch. “Speaking of which, I don't mean to drop you in the deep end, but I only have about an hour until my first appointment. How about we get started?”

Eric and I go over mealtimes, appropriate food, and location of utensils, but that takes less than ten minutes. For the rest of the hour, Eric details the cleaning instructions. He has a nervous habit, I notice, of glancing around every few seconds, which has the unfortunate side effect of making him appear shifty. Worse, on a couple of occasions, I noticed his gaze lingering near my chest. I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it's an accident.

He shows me my “office,” which is also the room where the mops and buckets are kept, and he reminds me to wear a mask and gloves while dealing with urine or feces. When he sees my face, he reminds me that the cleaning job will be just for a little while, but when I ask if he's had any applications yet, he's swift to move onto another topic. I'm introduced to twelve residents. Luke and Anna, the young ones. Clara and Laurie, the Southern couple. Bert who still talks to his wife, even though she is fifty years dead. May, ninety-nine years old. Gwen. A handful of others. I'm also introduced to the care manager, Trish, a brisk, forthright woman in her early forties who would be pretty if she weren't so alarmingly thin, and Carole, her assistant, a blond, thick-waisted woman in her fifties with a droning, adenoidal voice.

We do a lap of the grounds again, and when we're done, Eric glances at his watch and assures me that everything we haven't covered is outlined in the 150-page manual. Five minutes later, Eric is back in his office and I'm ready to cry. But the residents are hungry. So I have to do what I do best.

I put out cereal, fruit, and orange juice, then I scramble some eggs and smoked trout. I make a side of spinach and mushrooms, but when it comes time to garnish, I can't find a single herb. I make a mental note to talk to Angus about starting a vegetable and herb garden; then I head out to the dining room.

The room is surprisingly loud, and I'm pleased to see they're eating and, by the look of it, enjoying the meal. Even though she's already eaten, Clem is sitting at the head of the table like the lady of the house. I try to remove her, but when I do, the residents give me such dirty looks, I have no choice but to back away.

While they eat, I take a plate into Eric's office. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all. What's up?” Eric swivels around, and his eyes widen in faux alarm. “You're not quitting, are you?”

“No.” I laugh. “I just brought you some breakfast.”

Eric's face is a blend of surprise and delight as I place it on the desk in front of him. “For me?”

I smile. “Usually I use fresh parsley, but I couldn't find any.”

“Smells great.” He waggles his eyebrows, which is vaguely disconcerting. “Are you joining me?”

“I can't, I'm afraid. I have to get Clem to school.”

He pouts, picking up his knife and fork. “Oh, but before you go, there's something I forgot to mention. Each night before bed, Luke's and Anna's doors need to be locked. Rosie usually does it, but she's on vacation this week. Tonight there's an agency nurse on duty, so you'll need to let her know. It's all spelled out in the manual, but an extra reminder doesn't hurt. Usually I'm gone by the time they clock on, so that will be up to you.” Eric pushes a mound of eggs onto his fork and buries it in his mouth.

“Oh,” I say. “Oh-kay.”

“They get night-restlessness,” he explains, his mouth still half-full. “It's common for people with dementia to be wakeful at night and go wandering. It's not safe for them to be roaming the halls of this house. They could hurt themselves.”

“But … isn't it dangerous to lock them in? What if there's a fire?”

Eric loads up his fork again. “Our fire safety plan includes evacuating Luke and Anna.”

“I see.”

We're silent for a moment or two, then Eric puts down his cutlery. “The truth is, a few months back, Anna went to the top floor of the house and jumped off the roof.”

Without intending to, I gasp. “You mean … a…?”

“Suicide attempt.” Eric nods. “Afterwards, I met with Anna's brother, and we agreed that locking the doors was the best way to keep her safe. And we didn't want to take any chances with Luke.”

I swallow, wetting my inexplicably dry throat. “Is that why she's in a wheelchair? Because she … jumped off the roof?”

“Yes. It was a big fall. It's amazing she survived it.”

“Yes,” I say. “Amazing.”

I'm trying to take this all in when I notice the time blinking at the bottom corner of Eric's computer. “Shoot! I have to get Clem to school.”

“Go ahead,” he says. “But it goes without saying that what we've discussed is confidential, Eve.”

“Yes,” I say. “Of course.”

“And thanks for the eggs.” Just like that, his gormless smile is back. “They really are delicious.”

“Sure,” I say. “I've got a plate for Angus, too. Is he in the garden?”

“I think he's somewhere about.” Eric looks at his breakfast. “Though … I'm not sure we need to be feeding the gardener breakfast! We're not running a soup kitchen, after all.”

I think of the mound of leftover eggs I have already cooked. “Oh. Right. I won't bother, then.”

Back in the kitchen, I stack the dishwasher and wipe down the kitchen bench. Above the sink is a sash window with a view to the garden bed, where Angus kneels, weeding. I glance at the eggs.

“Clem?” I call down the hall. “Can you come here for a sec?”

I pop a couple of slices of bread under the grill and flick on the stove to heat up the eggs.

Thirty seconds later, her head peeks around the corner. “My name's not Clem, it's Sophie-Anne.”

“Sophie-Anne?” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I'm making Angus a breakfast sandwich. Would you do me a favor and run it out to him?”

 

8

Clem is not only a wonderful dancer, but she also has a beautiful, silvery voice. As we walk to school in the perfect fall sunshine, she sings like a cardinal. Her tune begins with words from a pop song but quickly drifts to her own made-up lyrics. I hear the words “first day” and “homework” and “best friend.” It's lovely, but as it's only a two-minute walk to school from Rosalind House, I need the time to fill her in on a few things.

“Clem?”

She pauses, mid-song. “Yes?”

“I don't think I explained to you what I'm doing at Rosalind House.” Her frown reminds me of Richard's. Gentle, thoughtful, soft. If anything, it makes her more beautiful. “You see … it's a residential care facility.”

She looks only faintly interested. “What's a resi—?”

“A residential care facility? It's a place for people who need help looking after themselves.”

Clem blinks. “Do
we
need help looking after ourselves?”

“No.” I chuckle. “Not us. I'm going to help look after the people who live there. Cook their meals, do the laundry and clean up after them.”

The crease between Clem's eyebrows deepens—a ravine between two plump mounds of forehead. “Like Valentina?”

“Well, yes. A bit like Valentina.” Clem continues to frown, and I run a finger over the ridges of her braid. “What do you think about that?”

She keeps her eyes ahead. “I don't know.”

“Do you want to ask me anything?”

She shrugs. “Are we … poor?”

“No. We're definitely not poor.”

“Then—?”

“Clem! Clemmy Clemmy Bo-Bemmy Banana Fanna Bo-Banna!” Allegra comes bounding up to Clem.

“Legs!” Clem squeals. “Allegra Egra Bo-Begra, Banana Fanna Bo-Banna.”

Contrary to what the name suggests, Legs is almost a full head shorter than Clem. Her hair is mousy and unremarkable, and her cheeks are chubby. But she has enormous hazel eyes and an earnestness that makes her impossible not to adore.

“First day,” Legs says. “I hope we can sit next to each other.”

“If you
are
sitting next to each other, make sure you listen to the teacher and don't just talk the whole time,” Jazz says, appearing behind Legs.

I meet Jazz's eye, and she bumps her shoulder against mine in a friendly-ish way. It's not the best welcome I could have hoped for, but considering that most of the school moms I passed on the walk here completely blanked me, I'm grateful.

“How are you holding up?” Jazz asks dutifully. One thing to be said for Jazz is that she fulfills her duties. She came to Richard's funeral but sat at the back. She left frozen meals from Houlihan's (the overpriced, organic deli—the only place for which I make an exception to the “no frozen meals” policy) on my doorstep but didn't come inside. She'd invited Clem for a playdate a couple of times but declined when I'd asked if Legs wanted to come to our place.

“Not bad,” I say. “Surviving.”

She appraises me discreetly from head to toe—my ponytail, ballet flats, and khakis—then gives me a strained smile. Unlike me, Jazz looks the part of a school mom with her highlighted hair, skinny jeans, and brown leather satchel, probably Prada or Ferragamo. Clem and Legs start toward the classroom, and we follow side by side. “How is it,” she asks, “working at the…?”

“Residential care facility?”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, that's right.”

I shrug. “Well, today's my first day, so…”

She smiles, and with that, conversation is exhausted. A few months ago, we'd have been tripping over our tongues to get a word in, then probably adjourning to the coffee shop afterwards to keep talking. Now, as we stare ahead at the children, I can't think of a single thing to say.

“My name's not Clem,” I hear Clem whisper to Legs. “It's Sophie-Anne.”

Legs accepts this readily. “Okay. And I'm Lucy.”

As we walk, Jazz's eyes dart around, probably scanning the playground to see who else is here. Most moms gather in blond clusters looking inward, apart from one or two outliers, who stand alone by their cars. It's funny to think that now
I'm
one of those outliers. Arguably the biggest one.

By the classroom door, I see the butter-blond head of Andrea Heathmont in the center of a knot of women. I'd recognize her back anywhere—her cream silk shirt, her wide bottom and low heels. The last time I saw Andrea, she was on my doorstep, hand-delivering a signed copy of the new Harry Walker cookbook. Now, as her head snaps around, her face is virtually unrecognizable. Her eyes are upturned crescents, her mouth a thin line. Her hands quiver as they are prone to do in the face of too much gossip and excitement. It's hard to believe that only last summer Richard and Andrea's husband, James, golfed together in the Hamptons.

“You must be Clementine's mother. I'm Miss Weber.” A smiling woman in an orange apron steps into my line of sight. “I'm so sorry about your loss,” she says, lowering her voice.

“Thank you.” I tear my eyes away from Andrea and force a smile. “That's very kind.”