The Things We Keep (23 page)

“I don't have any today, I'm afraid,” he says. “But if you'll see me again, I'll bring some next time.”

“Dad!” Jack says. “You can't just show up here and—”

“It's okay,” I say. “I'll talk to him.”

Jack looks uncertain. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Let's go to my room, Dad.”

It feels strange saying the word “Dad.” I haven't called anyone that since I was a teenager. As I start down the hall, I pray that I can find my way, and for once (hey, the gods aren't usually that kind to me) I'm shown some mercy. Inside, we sit.

“So … you have it, then?” Dad says. “Alzheimer's?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you tell me? I would have supported you.”

“Thanks,” I say evenly, “but I don't believe you.”

He nods. “I deserve that. And anything else you have to dole out. I've already missed so much. Now, even if it's insults, I don't want to miss another second.”

I stare at him, all self-assured. I can't believe he has the nerve to show up here like this, after all this time. Did he think that I would just open my arms and let him back in my life? And why would he want to be back in it, anyway? If he ran away from a wife with Alzheimer's, what did he want with me? “What are you doing here, Dad?”

“I let your mother push me away when she got sick,” he says after a moment. “I've always regretted it. And I've no intention of letting history repeat itself.”

I stare at him.

“I'm not making excuses,” he says, “just trying to explain. Your mother was a proud woman. She didn't want me to watch her decline. I never intended to leave you and Jack, but—”

“Surely you didn't expect us to have a relationship with you after you abandoned our Alzheimer's–ridden mother? The irony is that you were the one who taught us to have more integrity than that.”

“I messed up. And you paid the price. But there's nothing you can say to stop me coming back, Anna. I am going to repair our relationship.”

“Repair our relationship?” I snort. “Don't hold your breath.”

He stands. “I've no intention of it. At my age, holding one's breath is a bad idea.”

I feel a surprising urge to laugh. But I refrain. That could be construed as letting him off the hook. “Suit yourself.”

Dad plants an awkward kiss on my forehead, and then shuffles toward the door. I want to tell him to get out. I want to tell him to stay.

“When I found out I had Alzheimer's, I left my husband,” I blurt out, when he reaches for the door handle. “The marriage wasn't happy, and Alzheimer's seemed as good a reason as any to call it a day. So we're alike in that way, I guess. Running away when things get tough.”

Dad's eyes have become soft and shiny. “That doesn't make us alike, Anna. You left an unhappy marriage when you were most vulnerable, which shows courage. I left a woman and two children when
they
were most vulnerable, which shows the opposite. A better man would have stayed.”

“Are you a better man now?” I ask. I'm angry at myself when I realize my face is wet.

“Trying to be.” He laughs softly, shakes his head. “And looking at you, honey, perhaps I did do something right.”

*   *   *

That night, Young Guy buries his head in my hair, and I wrap a leg around his waist and pull him closer. It's mostly dark, but a thin line of light shines in from somewhere.

Wow.
I blink into the semidarkness. That's … weird.

I blink again. There's a person in the bed next to us. Actually, more than one person—there's
people
—moving briskly under the covers.

“Holy—” I push him off and jump up. The people next to us do the same. “Who the fuck are they?” I whisper.

Am I hallucinating? But no … they're right there. They're black, not just their skin but their eyes, their hair—
all of them
. I
must
be hallucinating.

“Do you see that?” I say to Young Guy. “
There!
Look!”

I fling out an arm, and one of the phantom people flings their arm out at the same time. I jump backwards. At that exact moment, so does she.

Young Guy slides slowly out of bed and stands beside me. He looks as freaked out as I feel. This is … too strange. I turn to face the black woman and she matches my stance. I wave. She waves. Slowly, the pieces click together. I edge forward, reach out to touch the face of the black person in front of me. It's smooth, flat. And then,
ching.
The penny drops.

“The people,” I say, “the black people … they're us. They're our shadows.”

For a moment, all I can do is stand there. Holy moly. I actually thought my shadow was some kind of crazy mutant alien. Is that how far gone I am? Young Guy's hand curls around mine, and I realize it is shaking. And not just that—he's making a noise, too. In the dark, it's hard to tell what he's doing, but finally, I realize. He's laughing.

Chuckles start to bubble up in me too, slowly at first, and then a full-on manic giggling explosion. Beside me, Young Guy laughs. And so do our shadows.

*   *   *

I jolt awake. Something isn't right. Young Guy's cheek is resting on my torso just below my chin and … Skinny is towering over us.

“I just found them like this,” she is saying to someone. Her face is bent and twisted and her voice is high-pitched. “I don't know where Rosie is. Carole, would you just
find Rosie
?”

“Bert's twisted his ankle,” someone else says. “She's bandaging it.”

Skinny pulls back the thin-blanket that's covering us and peers under. “They're partially clothed, at least. Thank God! Oh, Anna's awake.”

I lie very still as the guy with the mustache comes into view. His eyes roll over my body slowly. “Are you all right, Anna?” he asks.

I nod, shrinking farther under the thin-blanket, wishing they would get out of my room.

“Did you know Luke was here with you?” he asks, his eyes still wandering.

I glance at the top of Young Guy's head and then back at the man. “You know I have dementia, right? I'm not blind.”

Mustache Man's eyes narrow. He wipes at his forehead with his arm.

There's something majorly unsettling about lying flat while people hover over you, but Young Guy is heavy on my upper torso, so I'm stuck.

“We'll have to call her brother,” Skinny says. “And Luke's sister. Do you want me to do it?”

“I'll do it,” Mustache Man says, but he keeps looking at me. “Anna, do you need help getting dressed?”

I shake my head so hard, I get dizzy.

“Fine. Trish will wait outside until you're dressed and then bring you to my office, okay?”

I don't really want to get dressed or go to Mustache Man's office, but I don't see what choice I have, so I nod.

“Good,” he says, exhaling. “Then we can sort this whole thing out.”

Mustache Man and Skinny finally leave and I shimmy Young Guy's head off my body and rise into a sitting position. That's when it dawns on me, what Skinny and Mustache Man want to sort out. It's
us.
Me and Young Guy.

 

29

Eve

As I push Anna's door open, my whole body is trembling. Questions—and doubts—loop in my head so fast, I feel giddy.… Will she be awake? Will she be startled? Will she remember our conversation? The last thing I want is to terrify her. But before I can rethink anything, Anna sits up in bed.

“Hey, Anna,” I whisper, taking a couple of cautious steps toward her. Like any person woken at night, she blinks, rubs her eyes. Assesses her surroundings. Looks at me warily. “I'm Eve,” I say. “Would you … um … like to see Luke?” I smile, hoping his name will stir something in her. It doesn't.

She frowns. “Who?”

My confidence, if I ever had any, deserts me. “Um, well … he has dark hair, brown eyes…”

I trail off, give her a minute. But she just continues to look blank.

“You know what?” I say. “Why don't you just go back to sl—”

“Rosie!” Bert's voice rings into the silence suddenly. I stifle a gasp. “I need to use the gents'. Come and give an old man a push out of bed.”

My gaze bounces to the door, which is open. I dart for it, pushing it shut just as Rosie comes up the corridor to help Bert. I say a silent prayer that Anna doesn't choose this moment to freak out. It works; she remains quiet.

A few moments later, when I hear Rosie make her way back to the nurses' room, I notice Anna watching me. “Who is Luke?” she asks.

I creep to her side uncertainly. “Luke is the young guy,” I whisper. “He has dark hair, brown eyes—”

“Is he cute?”

I chuckle. “He
is
cute.”

“Okay. Then let's go.”

I wheel her to the door. There's no sound from the residents but I can hear Clem's TV program in the parlor and the low drone of infomercials from the nurses' room. This is our chance.

I hurry across the hall and I open Luke's door. Inside I flick on the bathroom light, casting a gentle glow into the room. The nerves, all of a sudden, are back. For me. Not for Anna. She looks around with the curiosity of a child, getting her bearings. I wheel her inside.

I know the moment she sees him, because she stills, and releases her breath softly. Luke blinks awake. He sees me first, then Anna. Maybe it's because I want to see it, but I swear, a bulb lights up within him. He lurches upright.

I push Anna over to Luke and help her move onto the bed beside Luke. Then I back away. She plants a hand on each side of his face and he closes his eyes. They start to nod in unison—a strange, beautiful liturgical dance—then stop with their foreheads resting together. The empty space between their bodies, I notice, resembles a heart.

After a moment, Anna looks over at me. Her mouth moves ever so slightly, and a breath of noise comes, like a whisper that didn't work out. But I hear what she's trying to tell me all the same.
Thank you.

*   *   *

The next morning, I stand in the kitchen, yawning. In theory, I'm washing the breakfast dishes, but in practice, I'm just staring out the window, where Angus is doubled over in a garden bed. The ground is going to freeze soon, and he's working hard at putting the plants to bed. Even from the back, there's something sexy about him. I try to ignore it, but it's like trying to ignore the sunset during an evening stroll on the beach. Not happening.

Perhaps feeling my stare, he turns. Quickly I focus on the blackened char on the base of the saucepan I am washing. I haven't spoken to Angus since Clem saw us kissing. I've barely
looked
at Angus since then. I have, however, thought about Angus since then. When I look back at the window he is standing up, walking toward the house. A moment later, he's in the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I say. Clem is in the parlor, and I silently pray she won't choose this moment to come tumbling in.

“I just wanted to show you this.” Pinched between Angus's thumb and forefinger is a tiny green sprig. I gasp. “Cilantro?”

“Just about enough to feed a baby Smurf. But yes.”

“Wow.” I remove my gloves and lean over to smell it. “Mmmm. I've never had any success growing cilantro.”

“You've never tried with me before,” Angus says.

I blush, wondering if Angus is thinking the same thing as I am: That there's something else I've never tried with him. Why on earth am I thinking
that
?

“Well, thanks for showing me,” I say.

“Actually, I was wondering if I could tempt you to have a rest from cooking one night?” he says. “Maybe let me cook for you?”

“Oh.” I laugh. “Thanks, but it
is
my job. And I don't think Eric would be very happy if—”

“Not for the residents,” Angus says, chuckling. “For you.”

I feel the heat rise in my cheeks. I want to say yes. But …

“You'd rather not,” he says.

“It's not that. It's just—”

“Clem.” He nods. “I get it. It's okay.”

“I'm sorry, Angus.”

“It's fine.” He hands me the cilantro and smiles. “For you.”

“Thank you.”

I turn back to the sink, shove my hands into the rubber gloves. I know I'm doing the right thing, but sometimes the right thing feels so wrong. I'm still pondering this a few minutes later when I hear footsteps behind me.

“Eve!
There
you are.”

I turn. Eric is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. My heart sinks.

“Do you realize it's nearly ten o'clock?” he asks. His face is ruddy and his hair a little unkempt.

I glance at the clock. He's right. By ten o'clock, according to my manual, the breakfast dishes are supposed to be done and the residents' rooms should be made up. I doubt, in all the months I've been here that I've met that timeline, but I was late this morning, and my corn fritters took three tries to get them right, so today I'm definitely behind the eight ball.

“Shoot!” With my forearm, I push the hair out of my face and start on the last pot. “Sorry, Eric. I'm almost done here.” There's a tray of orange and poppy-seed muffins cooling on the kitchen table and I gesture at them. “Have a muffin, Eric. Fresh from the oven!”

I force a smile, but for the first time, Eric doesn't return it.

“Eve, I'm concerned that you're getting your priorities out of whack. Your role is a cook-housekeeper. And the housekeeping side of things, to be honest, is not up to scratch.”

This hits a nerve. “In fairness, Eric, I'm
filling in
doing the housekeeping. And it's actually a lot more work than I expected.” I put the pot in the drying rack and turn around. “I thought you'd have found someone by now. I can't imagine it is a difficult role to fill, and it's already been months—”