The Things We Keep (3 page)

The woman has a Southern accent, which cheers me a little. After all, how could you not like someone with a Southern accent? Then again, there's the rednecks and Ku Klux Klan, but this woman doesn't look like she's affiliated with either. She's younger than the rest of the residents, who remind me of mottled pieces of driftwood ready to sink to the ocean floor. This woman, on the other hand, while probably eighty, seems able-bodied—verging on spry.

“I seem to have forgotten your name,” she says.

I nearly laugh. “It's Anna.”

“I'm so forgetful these days, aren't I, sweet thing?” Southern Lady looks at the old man next to her with such adoration that I feel something move in my stone-cold heart. Then she looks back at me. “I'm Clara. This here's Laurie,” she says, pointing to the man next to her with a spoon, “my husband.”

I observe Clara's face, looking for clues as to whether she actually forgot my name or if it was just a clever way of introducing herself. If it's the latter, I like her even more.

“I'm glad you came out for lunch today,” she says. “I've been lookin' forward to having another young person to talk to.”

There's something nice about a woman in her eighties referring to herself as a “young person.” I don't see any reason to tell her that I came out here only because Jack is visiting this weekend, and I know he'll ask me if I've ventured out of my room. If I can say yes, we'll have a nice visit, a relaxed visit. Maybe we'll even share a few jokes? In an ideal world, we'd also share a beer or two, but the world, of course, is not ideal.

“Have you met our Luke?” Clara asks, tipping her head toward the young guy opposite her. Somehow, I'd completely missed him. All at once, I realize Clara wasn't talking about herself when she mentioned another young person. She was talking about the other person
like me.

“I don't think so,” I say, “which means it's entirely possible.”

With his head down, he chuckles. I'm pleased to note he's not so far gone that he can't appreciate a little dementia humor. I give him the once-over. He has golden skin, straight white teeth, a dimple. His wavy hair is near black and long enough to tuck behind his ears, and his blue shirtsleeves are pushed up over his strong forearms.
Well.

Clara lowers her voice, but not nearly enough. “Sexy, right?”

“So you're my counterpart?” I say, ignoring Clara. “Young person, old mind.”

He laughs again. “I g-guess you could s-say that.”

My counterpart has a stutter, but otherwise he seems remarkably normal. He lifts his gaze. His eyes are the shade of weak black tea. The way I have it.

“How are you s-settling in?” he asks, and I shrug. “Takes some getting used to, this place,” he says. “The g-group meals, the activities, the showers…”

I wince, remembering the showers. Perhaps stupidly, it never occurred to me that I'd be assisted with those. But the laminated white square on my bathroom wall had other ideas. There, in erasable pen, I could find my scheduled daily wash time, and the moment the clock ticked over to that time, a helper lady barged in, ready to strong-arm me into the shower.

“It's policy,”
she'd say when I explained that I did not require a chaperone.
“I'm not interested in peeking. I'll just wait by the door in case you need me.”

Now I always consulted the laminated square and made sure to finish my shower by the time she showed up. When she asked me about it, I blamed the dementia.
“Oh, I was meant to wait for you? Silly me.”

“I hate the showers,” I tell him.

“It's t-tough, the first few weeks,” he says. “I remember.”

His dimple bobs on his cheek, and I can't help but smile. I suppose he does remember. My eyes drift down to his hands, which are resting lightly on the table—large, masculine, yet somehow elegant.

Clara's right. “Sexy” is the word for this guy.

The room has become conspicuously silent. Under the table, something is brushing against my leg. Something …
hairy.
I whoosh backwards.

“It's … just Kayla,” Luke says. “Eric's d-dog. She's h-harmless.”

I nod, eyes on the dog.

“You don't like dogs?” he asks.

“For someone with Alzheimer's, you're fairly perceptive.”

“Actually, I have fr-frontotemporal dementia.”

There's another beat of silence, and I peel my eyes from the dog to look at him.

“You lose memories,” he says, answering my unspoken question. “I lose speech.”

I look back at the dog. Its tongue unrolls from its mouth, the most unwelcome welcome mat I've ever seen.

Luke's hand curls around its collar. “You really don't like d-dogs?” he asks. I can tell by the way his toes curl under the dog's belly that he is a dog lover. “Not even … puppies?”

Now I'm definitely aware of his speech. It's not only slow but also slightly slurred. And more than that, he seems to require an above-average amount of effort to project words from his throat. The disjointedness seems out of place, coming from such a young, healthy-looking man.

“Not even puppy embryos,” I say.

He gives the dog a pat, then guides her to the glass sliding door and lets her out. She pads outside, tail wagging.

“Was there an i-i-i-ncident?” he asks when he gets back. “With a dog. To cause your d-dislike.”

I nod, pointing to the faint pink stripe slicing my right eyebrow in half. “When I was three.”

“Family dog?”

“A neighbor's. You're clearly a dog fan.”

“Definitely. I used to—” He pauses, and his forehead creases like he's thinking hard. “—give my time to the animal shelter a few years back. I was in charge of p-puppy adoption.”

“Oh yeah?” An image of him snuggling a puppy against his chest flashes into my mind.

“Last call for the afternoon bus!” A man in a white shirt and trousers with a large name badge that says
TREV
stands in the doorway. “Anyone need assistance?”

Luke turns to me. “Plans this afternoon?”

“Yeah.” I laugh. “My social calendar is packed.”

“Well, you heard the man. Last c … c-all for the afternoon bus.”

“Oooh!” Clara jumps up. “I'd better grab my purse. The afternoon bus waits for no one.”

Clara hurries off, and Luke leans forward in his chair. “She's wrong, you know. The afternoon bus waits for everyone.”

I laugh. And I feel a tickle low in my belly.

“You need anything?” Luke asks me. He makes a gesture that looks like he's hanging something invisible over his shoulder. “Your thingy that you put stuff in?”

“Oh…” I know exactly what he's talking about, but in that instant, I can't think of what it is called either. “Actually, I don't think I'll make it today.”

In high school, we always had a week of class after our exams were over. There was nothing left in the curriculum, because we'd completed—and been tested on—it all, but the idea was to give us a chance to “finish off the school year
right.
” Whatever that meant. Most of the teachers played games with us. Some let us talk and hang out. One teacher, Mr. Kaiser, continued with lessons as usual. The whole thing was beyond pointless, yet year after year, that's what we did. Heading to the mall with Luke now, ready to engage in getting-to-know-you conversation, feels just as pointless.

“So-socks to sort?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

He nods and drops his head again. “Looks like it's just us, Clara,” he says when she returns.

“Well, that's a right shame,” she says, looking at me. “Are you sure we can't convince you to come, honey?”

There's a beat of silence as they wait, long enough to make me second-guess myself. Maybe I should be doing these things? One last trip to the mall? A last first conversation with a sexy man? But I shake off the doubts. I have enough to worry about without creating a heap of new “lasts.”

“I'm sure,” I say. “You two have fun.”

But as they drift away, I realize that if I was trying to avoid creating a new last, I'd failed. The whole exchange was, in fact, a “last”: It was the last time I'd say no to something I really wanted to do.

*   *   *

Dr. Brain once told me that an Alzheimer's brain was like the snow on a mountain peak—slowly melting. There are days when the sun is bright and chunks drop off all over the place, and there are days when the sun stays tucked behind clouds and everything remains largely intact. Then there are days—spectacular days (his words)—when you stumble across a trail you thought had melted, and for a short while you have something back that you thought was gone forever.

I get the feeling that since the analogy involved the words “mountain peak” and “spectacular,” Dr. Brain thought this news wouldn't be depressing to hear, when in fact, the opposite was true. I think I'd have felt better about my prognosis if he'd reworded a little. Something like,
The brain is like a filthy, stinking pile of crap
.
When the sun comes out, it stinks worse than you can imagine, and when it's cold or cloudy, you can barely smell it at all
.
Then there are the days that, if the wind is coming from a certain way, you might catch the cold scent of a spruce for a few hours and forget the crap is even there.
With that analogy, at least we'd have been calling a spade a spade. Because the truth is, if you have dementia, your brain
is
crap. And even if you can't smell it right this minute, it still stinks.

*   *   *

A little while after Luke and Clara leave, I'm still in my seat, but it feels lonelier. Everyone has left the eating-room, except me and the old bald man. And, I suppose, Myrna.

I'm about to head back to my room when the old bald man slams his spoon into his bowl. A shower of soup rains over his face.
“Hey!”
he cries. “Who told you to take Myrna's lunch away?” He's staring at the cook-lady—a pretty Latina with dark hair and large hooped earrings. I've heard the other residents call her Gabriela.

She sighs. “I'm sorry, Bert,” she says. “I thought she was finished.”

“Well, she isn't. So you'd better march on into the kitchen and bring it back.”

“I've already dumped it out, and there isn't any left.” She doesn't say it unkindly, more wearily. “How about I grab her a banana from the fruit bowl?”

Weird as it is, I kind of respect the fact that she's playing along about Myrna. But Bert doesn't seem charmed. “Myrna don't like bananas.”

“A sandwich, then.”

“She don't like sandwiches.”

Gabriela puts a hand on her hip. Her eyes narrow. “Well, what's she like, then?”

Bert raises his chin; a challenge. “Soup.”

At this, I can't help but smile.

“Well, you've still got a bit of soup left,” she says, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder. “You and Myrna will have to share.”

Bert mutters under his breath, and I feel a little sorry for him. He's a grumpy old thing, that's for sure, but I like his gumption. Standing up for his hungry (albeit fictional) woman like that? That's gallant, in my book.

“Don't you worry, love,” he says, pushing his own bowl toward the empty setting. “You have mine. There's a good girl.”

Now Bert's face is transformed. His eyes are soft and admiring. His lips curve into a helpless smile. At first I think he's smiling at me, but the truth takes only a second to dawn. He's smiling at Myrna. On one level, I find this unimaginably sad. On another, it's the most romantic thing I've ever seen.

“Listen,” I say on impulse. “I've barely touched my soup, and I'm not hungry. Perhaps Myrna would like to … finish it?”

I brace myself, aware that Bert might be insulted by the offer of leftovers for Myrna. He frowns at me, but after a quick assessment, gives a gruff nod. “She'd like that very much. Thank you, young lady.”

I give Bert back his bowl and place mine in front of “Myrna.” I start to leave, then hesitate by Bert's chair. “Myrna's a lucky lady, you know that? I'd sure like to have someone to look out for me when I … I can't do things for myself.”

Bert continues to frown at me, but it's a little different now. Less irritated. More thoughtful. “You never know, young lady,” he says. “Maybe you will.”

 

3

Eve

Present day …

The man standing before me isn't what I expect. For starters, he's at least five years younger than me—thirty, tops—and he has a smudge of dirt on his left cheek. His eyes are deep-set, his skin is olive, and his hair is tawny. He's … gorgeous. But in green shorts, a thin white T-shirt, and sturdy boots, he's too disheveled to be the manager. I glance again at the small gold-plated sign next to the doorbell:
ROSALIND HOUSE. GIVING THEM PEACE, GIVING
YOU
PEACE OF MIND
. I'm definitely in the right place.

“I'm Eve Bennett,” I say. I have a brief flash of myself standing onstage, accepting the award for most promising graduate at the Institute of Culinary Education in New York, and another flash of Mother's face when I told her I was applying for a job at a residential care facility for the elderly. “I have an interview at two o'clock. For the cook position.”

I wait for a greeting, a handshake, an
Oh yes. Please come in.
But the man just stares. I see a glint of recognition in his eyes and my heart sinks.

My last job interview had been a tough one, too, but at least I'd got a hello. It was ten years ago, at Benu, the hot NYC Asian fusion restaurant (back when Asian fusion was the next big thing). Simply landing an interview for an apprenticeship at Benu was nothing short of a miracle. Word among my friends at the culinary school was that Min-Jun, the head chef, hired only blood relatives to work in his kitchen, for fear others would steal his famous brown sauce recipe. I met with Min-Jun in the kitchen, and rather than shaking my hand, he'd supplied me with a knife and a bag of carrots to julienne. In the hour I spent there, he barely said a word to me. Later, when he offered me the job (which I declined, stupidly), he told me it was the way I looked at the carrot, like I was in love with it, that got me over the line.