The Things We Keep (18 page)

“Leaving you,” I said.

Aiden continued hooking his coat on the hall tree. “Oh yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I said. “You seem to be taking it well.”

He turned, taking in my suitcase and somber expression. “You're … serious?”

I'd never threatened to leave him before, but we had a certain way of talking, a light way, that made everything seem like a joke. As I held his gaze and nodded, realization dawned.

“Shit, Anna.” He raked his hands through his hair. “I know we have problems but—”

“I have Alzheimer's.”

There I went again, dropping a bombshell. Somehow it helped me feel in control of this conversation and I wanted to be in control of
something
.

“Seriously?” Aiden sank to his knees. “Oh God. I'm … I'm so sorry.”

We'd talked briefly about the possibility early in our relationship, but never since. Aiden was like me—if there was something unpleasant to be thought about, he found something else to do.

“But … you're leaving? Now?”

Admittedly, it didn't make much sense. Many people would have stuck in a failing relationship upon the diagnosis of a terminal illness, but I was not most people. The only way I knew to deal with this was to leave. And though he never said so, I suspected Aiden was relieved.

I drove straight to the bar. A cliché thing to do, but I was too thirsty to care about cliché. And, as it turned out, I only had to pay for one drink.

I don't remember the guy's name, though I blame the Jack Daniel's rather than the Alzheimer's. I do remember the scramble of hands and clothes—the fevered desperation to be free of my clothing. I remember the gravel in the parking lot rolling under his feet as he pinned me against the cold brick wall. I remember the bliss and agony of being ridden by a stranger who didn't care a thing about me. I remember the awkward aftermath of rising zippers and buttoning shirts.

Afterwards, the bartender called me a cab.

“Where to?” the cabdriver asked, hanging his arm over the back of the bench seat. I rattled off my address and dozed on the way home, drunk and spent and sore. When I got home, Aiden looked up from the sofa and stared at me as though I were a ghost.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” I'd said, headed for the fridge. “I live here.”

Aiden made me a bed on the sofa that night. And the next day, I had to leave all over again.

*   *   *

When Luke enters me, we knock heads—my chin into his nose. It's amazing how something can feel awkward and wonderful all at once. There's laughter, and a shudder. And then we're off.

Luke holds my hands beside my ears as he rocks against me.
Yes.
I look at his face. A face so new, yet so familiar. A face soon to be unfamiliar, but for now, I don't care. Not about anything that's happened, or anything that's going to happen. Why should I, when all either of us has is right now?

His breath becomes rough and raw, and a deep noise rolls from his throat. Here, nothing about him stutters or stammers. I don't feel disoriented or confused. I'm not worried about what I might say or do wrong. I feel like I might die from the loveliness of it.

I might not remember this. But I'm glad I got to live it.

 

19

Eve

It takes a few weeks, but I get to know each of the residents. I even have a few favorites. Clara, of course, is easy to love, with her Southern accent and her penchant for calling everyone “honey.” Her husband, Laurie, is equally delightful, if only for the way he adores his wife. There's May, quiet and so old, I often find myself checking her breathing when she falls asleep in her chair. There's Gwen, stout and cheerful, and always knitting. Then there's the perpetually grumpy Bert, who somehow is still a favorite. Perhaps it's the fact that Clem has taken a shine to him? Or maybe it's that he's still head over heels for the wife he lost fifty years ago? Whatever it is, I get the feeling he's a favorite of Gwen's, too, if the way she looks at him is anything to go by.

I've been at Rosalind House about a month now, and there's no denying that the place is starting to look shabby. The mirrors have little specks of God-knows-what all over them, and the carpets are covered in hair and dirt. And, as Eric has yet to hire a cleaner, it is
my
responsibility to do something about it. Still, I continue to find excuses to cook rather than clean. If the ladies notice, they don't say anything. Bert, however, is a different story.

“You realize my bathroom's not self-cleaning, right, girlie?” he says one afternoon within earshot of Eric. After that, I know I can't dillydally any longer. And that's where Eric finds me: on my knees, scrubbing Bert's toilet.

“What's that cooking in the kitchen?” he asks, hanging around the bathroom door. “It smells incredible.”

“Ground beef and spinach parcels,” I say. “There's plenty if you're interested.…”

“Better not.” Eric pats his stomach, which is hanging proudly over the top of his belt buckle. “Actually I just wanted a quick chat. I understand you've been doing the grocery shopping at Houlihan's.”

I sit back on my haunches, cringing. He must have heard about the slap.

“The thing is,” he says, “the last bill was nearly twice our weekly food budget.”

This is not what I was expecting. “Oh. I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” Eric says. “I should have specified where we go to buy groceries. I just … didn't expect you to go to Houlihan's!”

He lets out a short laugh and I feel a pulse of shame. Clearly being married to Richard had left me out of touch. But twice the weekly food budget? Was that possible?

“You mean … your previous cook managed to feed everyone for a week on half that amount? All twelve residents, three meals a day, seven days a week?”

“She did.”

“Wow.”

“Going to a regular or discount grocery store extends the budget quite a bit,” he says pointedly. “And buying seasonal items, items on special.”

“Okay well.… where shall I go? Houlihan's is … the only one I know in the area.”

“You could try Food Basics or Aldi,” he says. “Or Bent and Dent.…”

I laugh, assuming Bent and Dent is a joke. But Eric nods and smiles like it's a done deal.

“Oh and I nearly forgot!” he says, handing me a letter bearing Clem's school emblem. His frown, when it appears, bears a trace of curiosity. “This came for you yesterday. Sent to this address—”

“Oh!” I take it and drive it deep into my own pocket. “Sorry, I didn't have a fixed address when I enrolled Clem, but this, uh … this is great.”

I smile. Eric continues to stand there. I start to sweat.

“Was there anything else, Eric?”

“Actually there is one other thing. It's May's birthday tomorrow—one hundred years old. Her family is planning a party for the weekend, but I'd like to do something with the residents tomorrow. Just some balloons and maybe”—he looks coy—“a cake?”

“I'm sure I can throw something together,” I say.

“Carrot cake is her favorite,” he says. “And I'd like it to be a surprise, if possible.”

“No problem,” I say. “But I'll need to go to the store again for ingredients. Bent and Dent,” I add quickly. “I can come back tonight and bake it here.”

“I'd owe you one,” he says. His eyes rest on mine long enough to make me uncomfortable. “In fact, how would you like to check out one of the local wine bars, say Friday night? We can share a good bottle of red? My treat.”

I blink.

“Just two single people, hanging out,” he says, smiling. “No big deal.”

I imagine myself at Emilio's with Eric. The redness of his cheeks, his teeth stained black, his belly peeking out between buttons. I'd almost certainly run into someone I knew. Andrea or Romy would be overjoyed.
Karma,
they'd whisper to each other,
it's a bitch.

Eric watches me, eyebrows raised. He thinks he's a shoo-in. There's a cockiness about him, I realize. He thinks that whatever he wants, he can take.

“I'm busy Friday,” I say. “Perhaps some other time.”

*   *   *

That afternoon, it's time to work on the vegetable patch. It's warm and still, and the sky is pale blue, mottled with cloud. A perfect planting day.

“Okay,” I say to the residents. “Who's ready?”

Gwen and Clara stand before me in wide-brimmed hats and floral gardening gloves. Clara was an avid gardener, she tells me, with a thriving vegetable garden in her yard that used to win her plenty of prizes at the community fair. Gwen isn't quite so experienced, but her enthusiasm makes up for it. Anna and Luke have also joined us, and while I haven't been able to assess their level of enthusiasm, they certainly didn't put up a fight.

Our patch is in a lovely sunny part of the garden. Angus has already loosened the soil and worked through the compost and limestone, not to mention built a retractable canopy that's every bit as good as the ones in the stores. Now he's in an adjacent garden bed, weeding and mulching and watering. Angus and I have made some headway since that fateful day at Houlihan's. We're not best friends, but the long cold stares, at least, are a thing of the past. He even gives me the odd wave if he sees me through the kitchen window, and the other day he showed me how to make a special nonchemical spray to keep the bugs off my vegetables.

“Clara,” I say, “since you are the expert, why don't you take this quadrant of the bed and transfer the started plants. You can show Gwen what to do. Anna and Luke, we can take this section and scatter the seed.”

I've given this a lot of thought. Luke and Anna can follow simple instructions, so scattering seeds and watering will be perfect for them, and easy for Anna to do from her wheelchair. While Clara and Gwen get to work, I get out my packets of seed.

“Okay—Luke, Anna. We're going to plant arugula seeds. The earth is all ready, all we need to do is open the packet like this … and then scatter it.”

I sprinkle a few seeds, then check to see if Anna and Luke are following. But Anna's eyes are on Clara and Gwen, who are digging holes for the transferred plants. Luke is watching Anna. After a moment, they both look back at me.

“Try to spread them thinly and evenly,” I say, turning back to the garden. “Now, who wants to try?”

When I look back, Anna has wheeled herself over to Clara and Gwen.

“You need to go deeper or the roots won't take,” she tells them, gesturing at them to dig. They do as she says. “There,” she says, nodding. “Like that.”

“She's right,” Clara says to Gwen, “we were being lazy.”

“I didn't know you could garden, Anna,” I say.

“Did you know I was a champion boxer?” she says, not looking up.

“No.”

“That's because I'm not,” she says, and everyone bursts into laughter.

Anna tells us her mother was a gardening enthusiast and she had spent many summers with a trowel in her hand. As she talks, I notice she is so much more than her Alzheimer's. She's funny. Witty. Warm. And something else. A leader? Whatever it is, as we all move and shift and clamber around the garden bed, she always remains in the center of the group.

After a while, I pick up my packets of seeds. “Well,” I say, “how about I scatter these seeds?”

Anna looks up at me and gives me the biggest grin. “Go on, then,” she says. “Get busy.”

*   *   *

When everything has been planted, I head inside to make a jug of lemonade. I return a few minutes later and pour everyone a glass, then take one over to Angus. He's wiping his forehead with the hem of his T-shirt, exposing a tanned, muscular stomach.

A flash of Richard, shirtless in Hawaii on our honeymoon, comes to mind. Richard's body was nothing on Angus's, but it was broad and taut. I remember watching him brush his teeth one morning, a crisp white towel at his waist. I thought to myself that one day, that body would be old and wrinkled and sagging at the elbows. I remember that the thought had made me smile.

“For me?” Angus says when he lets the T-shirt fall.

I shrug. “It's warm out here.”

“That it is.” He drops his trowel, grabs the lemonade, and takes a sip, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “It's good.”

I know it's good. My homemade lemonade is famous in these parts. Last year, the school practically begged me to run a stall at the fund-raiser, and I was told it was the most lucrative stall of the day.

This year Romy and Andrea were running an orange-juice stand.

“It's a favorite recipe of mine,” I say.

Angus takes another sip. “So who taught you about cooking, then?”

“I was self-taught before the cookery school,” I say. “I became interested in flavors in high school, I guess. Were you always interested in plants?”

I wait as he drains his glass. “Nope. I wanted to be a professional football player.”

“You did?”

“Didn't every guy?” He laughs. “Unfortunately, I wasn't any good at football.”

Now
I
laugh.

“Eh, a guy's gotta dream,” he says. “My grandmother loved gardening, though. I practically grew up in her garden. When I realized the football thing wasn't going to work out, I thought … there are worse things than spending your life in the garden. As Grandma says, now I'll never stop smelling the roses.”

Automatically, I glance over at the roses. They are pink and white, climbing up a trellis on one side of the house. “Except in winter,” I point out. “You won't smell them then.”

Angus gives me a searching look.

“I just mean,” I say, “that nothing lasts forever.”