The Things We Keep (26 page)

It looks like a fairy threw up outside. White flower-leaves are sprinkled over everything: the grass, the chairs, the green arched thingy out front. The chairs are divided in the center by a pink floor-rug that is also sprinkled with—you said it—white flower-leaves. From somewhere or other music plays. I recognize the song, I think.

I'm starting to wonder what all this is about when someone explains there is a wedding about to take place. Baldy's granddaughter's. All the people who live here are seated at the side of the garden; so are the staff. Latina Cook-Lady sits on one side of me. Her belly is big and round now, and she rests her hand on it. In her other hand is a sandwich that smells like pickle and cheese. It's making me hungry.

Everyone oohs and ahhs, but I'm underwhelmed. For my wedding to Aiden, I wore a short black thingy and red pointy shoes, but this, I guess, is most women's dream. Baldy walks the bride down the aisle on his pushy-wheeler, for which he earns a standing clap. I admit, judging from all the flower-leaves, I'd written the bride off as a superficial Barbie-princess-wedding kind of girl, but when I see her, edging down the aisle next to her elderly grandfather, she earns back a modicum of my respect.

It's not until the couple are exchanging their vows that I realize Young Guy is beside me. His head hangs forward, blocking the sun from my face. And I definitely still know him. For now.

“Well, well,” I say, wondering why someone hadn't whisked him away. “Skinny must have got laid.”

We both glance at her, at the end of the bench, dabbing her eyes. Her mind was clearly elsewhere.

His hand clasps mine.

We stay like that through the ceremony, as the music—Pachelbel's Canon, according to the folded paper-thingamajig—plays around us. And before I know it, I'm picturing
our
wedding. What it could have been like. What it
should
have been like, if it wasn't for the stupid brain-disease. Then again, if it wasn't for the stupid brain-disease, we would never have met.

When the wedding guests move on to the party, Latina Cook-Lady brings out the bread with fillings and bubbly water and we eat and drink outside. Even Skinny and the other lady—Fat?—eat out here with us. No one talks—it's as if we've been put under a spell. Maybe it's witnessing someone at the beginning of their lives that has made us reflective of our own lives, at the end.

*   *   *

That night, when I extend my arm under the thin-blanket,
he's
there. How, I have no idea. After the brief hand-holding at lunch, Fat and Skinny didn't leave us alone. Every time he looked at me, one of them was in my face, suggesting Scrabble (whatever that is). But tonight Blondie is on duty. She must have allowed him to take liberties.

He half sits, half lies on the sleeping bench and looks at me. “I w-wish this were the beginning,” he says. “Like for the c … c … couple who got … marr … married.”

In the moonlight, I see tears in his eyes. It's the first time I've heard him talk in … I don't know how long.

“I was thinking that, too,” I say. “Imagining what our life would be like. We'd have a house, our own house, with no … helper-people.” I pull myself up on one elbow. “A cottage with a spare room that we'd say was a study, but we'd both know it would be the baby's room. You'd pretend the idea of a baby terrified you when it actually thrilled you.”

He smiles. A tear slides from the corner of his eye.

“We wouldn't have one of those after-wedding vacations because we're flat broke, but you'd surprise me with a flying balloon ride over the city.”

“I'm … don't … heights.”

“Which makes it all the more sweet,” I say. I'm starting to enjoy this fantasy.

“We'd have a cat,” I say, and Luke pouts. “Who we'd call Dog. After we'd been married for a little while, I'd go off that drug that stops babies from being made, reasoning that it could take months or even years to make a child, and then we'd find out the very next month that we
had
made a baby. The baby is a boy and we'll call him—”

He holds up his hand, stopping me mid-sentence. “Only … one baby?”

“I'm nearly forty. It's unlikely we'll have an army.”

“Then—” He stops. It's getting harder for him, this speaking. “—a girl.”

I roll my eyes, even though I'm delighted that he is joining in. “Fine. A girl then. She has your eyes—”

“And your…” He frowns, then grabs a piece of my hair and tugs it.

“Curls,” I say, “which she hates!”

He grins, indenting a dimple.

“She has you wrapped around her little finger,” I say.

He chuckles. And I can see it: Him and me and our little girl. And it's the funniest thing—when I wrap my arms around my stomach, I can actually feel a little bump.

 

33

Eve

It might be futile, but the night after I leave Anna and Luke in the room together, I allow myself to hope. Maybe it will all be fine? Maybe Anna and Luke will fall asleep in each other's arms and I'll be able to move them back in the morning before anyone notices? Maybe I've done them a service, allowing them to have an entire night together—probably the last they'll ever have?

I arrive as early as I can manage. The residents' doors are all shut. The place is in silence. A good sign. I tap on Luke's door quietly and hurry inside.

My heart sinks. It's empty.

Anna's room is empty, too. I creep around, looking for signs of them, but they are nowhere to be seen. Finally I go to the nurses' room. As I enter, Rosie glances up. Anna and Luke sit opposite her, in a pair of armchairs.

“Morning, Eve,” she says. “Why don't you sit down and tell me what is going on?”

It could be worse, I tell myself. It could have been Eric who caught me, not Rosie. Then again, Rosie is probably the closest thing I have to a friend right now, apart from Anna, and I don't feel good about betraying her.

“How long has this been going on?” she asks when Anna and Luke are back in their rooms and we are in the hall.

“A couple of weeks.”

“A couple of weeks?” Rosie puts a hand to her temple and starts to pace. “Are you
crazy
? Do you realize you could get fired for this?”

“Only if you tell Eric.”

She stops pacing. “Are you serious?”

“I know you should tell Eric,” I say. “But I'm hoping you don't.”

Rosie is incredulous. “Why shouldn't I?”

“Because Anna and Luke should be allowed to be together. And you know it.”

Her eyes flash. I'm taking a risk, saying this. I don't know for sure that is how she feels, but it's a pretty strong instinct.

“So what have you been doing, exactly?” she says. “Going into Anna's room every night, dragging her out of bed, and wheeling her into Luke's room?”

Sounds pretty crazy when she puts it like that. “Pretty much.”

“And then?”

“I leave her there for a few minutes, then bring her back. But last night, you interrupted, so I couldn't take her back.”

“So you don't usually leave them overnight?”

“No.”

Rosie seems relieved to hear this. She thinks for a minute. “And … are they happier when they see each other, do you think?”

“
Infinitely
happier.” A feeling of hopefulness starts to bubble up. “And they've been so much more settled during the daytime—”

“Just to be clear, Eve, you shouldn't have done this. You took this whole thing into your own hands, and it could have had disastrous consequences for everyone.”

“What
kind
of consequences?” I ask. “And don't give me the whole issue of consent, because I don't buy it. Clearly both Anna and Luke would consent to this! I even—”

“I agree they would consent,” Rosie says quietly.

My mouth is already full of a retort, but suddenly, I stop. “You do?”

She nods. “But, Eve, if we're going to do this, we're going to do it my way.”

I blink. “You mean…?”

A small smile appears on Rosie's lips. “Yes, we're going to do it. But this time, we're going to do it right.”

*   *   *

From that night on, it's Rosie's rules.

Each night, Rosie locks Anna's and Luke's doors, and around five minutes later, before I leave, I unlock them again. It's semantics, but it makes Rosie feel better to be able to tell Eric she has locked the doors if she's asked a direct question. Then, once everyone is asleep, Rosie goes in and ushers one over to the other. She lets them have a visit, but she keeps the doors open and checks in on them regularly. This, she said, was a nonnegotiable part of the arrangement, and though I didn't entirely understand it, I didn't care. Anna and Luke are together. I am keeping my promise.

Today, I'm wheeling the cleaning cart down the hall when I run into Angus. He's holding an armful of flowers.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says.

“You have some dirt on your face.” I reach out, wipe it off his cheek. Then I quickly take my hand back.

“Gone?” he asks.

“Sorry. I'm clearly the mother of a young child.”

He laughs and I feel an overwhelming wave of pure lust.

“Does the offer of dinner still stand?” I ask suddenly. Perhaps it's the laugh, or maybe the fact that Anna and Luke's connection has renewed my faith in love, but the words just tumble out of me.

“Sure,” he says, startled. “Absolutely. But what about Clem?”

“Clem wants me to be happy,” I say. “And life is … well, rather short. Isn't it?”

Angus's eyes twinkle. “That it is.”

“So, how's Thursday night?” I ask.

“Thursday night is good,” he says, and he tucks a flower behind my ear.

I make a mental note to thank Anna.

*   *   *

At three
P.M
., I wheel the cleaning cart into Clara and Laurie's suite. I'm supposed to make up all the residents' rooms after breakfast each morning, but at this stage, it's more of a goal than a reality. And with everything else that's going on, it's fallen even further down my list of priorities.

I start with the bathroom to get it out of the way. I hate the bathrooms. The smells, the streaks, the smudges. I spray the shower screen, wipe the vanity. I pour a little bleach into the toilet, leave it for a minute or two, then flush it down. I rehang the towels squarely and neatly. The floor looks clean enough, so I leave it alone. Finally, I pick up the used towels and carry them out to the hamper.

It's a legal requirement that each resident has a separate room, but because Clara and Laurie are married, they converted one bedroom into a living room, with a sofa and television and dressing table. When I get out of the bathroom, Clara is sitting at the dressing table, looking at the photographs that litter the countertop.

“It's just me,” I say. “Shall I keep cleaning, or would you like me to come back later?”

Clara glances over her shoulder. “Oh, go ahead, honey, don't mind me.” She picks up a photo frame, looks at it, puts it down again.

I wipe down the tables, vacuum the floor, make up the bed. Then I get out my feather duster. “Okay if I dust?”

“Of course.”

I pick up a photo in a heavy silver frame to dust underneath. As I put it down, it catches my eye. “Is this you and Laurie?”

“Our wedding day.” She throws me a smile. “Laurie and I have been together sixty-one years.”

“Wow. What a wonderful achievement.”

It
is
an achievement; I've always thought so. All marriages, even good ones, involve a lot of work, a lot of compromise. It says a lot about a person, I think, if they make it to the end with the one person.

Then, as it happens every so often, I'm thinking about Richard.

“I'm sorry,” Clara says. “I shouldn't be saying this, with your husband and all.”

“It's all right. I like hearing about happy endings. Even if I don't get to have one.”

“Oh, honey.” She sighs. “There's nothing happy about endings.”

I replace the photo. Clara doesn't seem herself. She's holding a string of pearls in one hand, rolling a single fat pearl between her fingers, and I notice that she looks terrible—somehow puffy and gaunt all at once. Her makeup is too dark for her complexion, and her pink lipstick bleeds into the lines of her mouth.

“Are you all right, Clara?” I ask.

“Course I'm all right, honey,” she says. “Just … a headache, is all.”

“Shall I get Laurie for you?”

Clara makes a gesture with her hand, dismissing the idea, and I catch a waft of her scent: lavender and talcum powder. “Do you have any sisters, Eve?” she asks.

“Me?” I say, surprised. “No. No brothers or sisters.”

“You're lucky.”

“
Lucky?”
I laugh. “Do you know what it's like eating your dinner every night for twenty years under the watchful eye of two parents who have nothing they'd rather do than talk—at length—about
your
day? With no one to interrupt, no one who's failed a math quiz to steal their attention. Just you. And them. What I would have done for a sister!”

From the way Clara smiles, I think I've got her. But then she says, “Sisters aren't always the way they look on TV, Eve, with all the hugging and the sharing secrets and the swapping clothes. Sometimes sisters can be treacherous.”

I think back to the day in the parlor when Laurie said Clara's sister was coming to visit. Clearly things aren't particularly harmonious between the two of them.

“Have you ever wondered if your whole life was a lie?” Clara asks.

“Yes,” I say.

She looks at me, nods. “Yes, I s'pose you have.”