The Things We Keep (31 page)

I'm in the hallway dusting the side tables when two men come out of her room. I recognize the young one as her brother, from a photograph in her room. And the older one bears such an uncanny resemblance to Anna that it has to be her father.

“Hello,” I say, smiling. “You must be Anna's family. I'm Eve. The cook.”

“Jack,” says the brother. He shakes my hand, but he seems distracted.

“Peter,” says the father.

“How was Anna today?” I ask.

“Not bad,” Peter says. “Today was a pretty good day. She actually made a few jokes.”

“She does have a sense of humor, doesn't she?” I say. “She had Luke and me in stitches the other day.”

I watch Jack and Peter closely, so I notice when a shadow crosses Jack's face.

“They seem to have a special relationship, those two,” I continue. “Anna and Luke.”

“Well, it was good to meet you, Eve,” Jack says, and starts for the door.

I almost cry with frustration. Does he not care about the connection Anna and Luke have? Or does he simply not believe it? Suddenly, I have an idea.

“Oh, before you go,” I call after them. “There's something I think you should see.”

By the time the men have turned around, I'm already reaching for my purse. I'd tucked Anna's notebook in there earlier, to use as evidence with Eric if I needed it. I push it into Jack's hands.

“What's this?” he asks.

“A letter. Anna wrote it to herself last year.”

Anna's father takes the notebook and reaches for his glasses in his breast pocket. As he does, Jack scans the page with quick, darting eyes.

“It's quite romantic,” I say nervously, “the two of them finding love in here.”

I'm certain this letter will invoke a positive reaction in Jack. Maybe even cause him to change his mind about locking the doors. But instead, his face clouds over.

He takes the notebook from his father and closes it in one hand. “Do you mind if I take this,” he asks me, “or will Anna miss it?”

“I … I'm not sure,” I say. “I should probably put it back, just in—”

“I think it's better if I take it.” His voice is firm. “Thanks, Eve.”

I'm stunned. He gives me a long, steady look. “I suspect, having read this, you've got ideas of what you would do for Anna if you were in my shoes,” Jack says. “But if you were in my shoes, you'd realize that fantasy scenarios don't exist for Alzheimer's disease. Your loved one is counting on you to keep them safe when they've lost the ability to do it themselves. And if you had all the information, you'd know that if I were to do what it looks like Anna wants, I wouldn't be keeping her safe.” Jack remains calm and articulate as he delivers his speech, but I notice the color rising in his cheeks. “Anyway, it was nice to meet you. Dad? Let's go.”

As they turn to the door, I remain where I am, shaking slightly. What information didn't I have? And how could it possibly change everything to the point that they were willing to keep Anna unhappy rather than with the man she loved? I want desperately to ask Jack, to beg for the missing piece of the puzzle. But instead, I watch Anna's memories disappear—this time out the front door.

*   *   *

After Anna's dad and brother leave, I go to Anna's room, tap on the door.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she says.

She's sitting by the window in her wheelchair, next to an empty chair. I have the strongest urge to sit in it. I want to tell her everything. About Jack and her notebook. About Clem. About Angus. About Eric. Somehow, over the past few months, Anna has become the person I talk to about things. She's become my friend. But friendship works both ways. And today, I want to do something for her.

“Do you want to go and see Luke?” I ask.

It's only 5
P.M
. but Eric left early. I answer the usual questions about who Luke is, and then I wheel her over into his room.

Luke is sitting on the edge of his bed, admiring a bunch of flowers on his bedside table. Angus had helped him arrange them earlier. He looks up and smiles shyly. And that's all the introduction they need.

When I return to the kitchen, my phone is ringing, and I snatch it up right before it goes to voice mail. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Bennett?”

“Yes?”

“It's Kathy Donnelly calling. From Clementine's school?”

I close my eyes. “Ms. Donnelly! I'm sorry I haven't returned your calls. It's just … been a little hectic around here.”

“I understand,” she says. “Is now a good time to talk?”

“Actually, I—”

“I won't take up much of your time. I heard Clementine left the school premises unaccompanied today, and I was very concerned. I want you to know that we are taking steps to ensure this never happens again.”

Relief floods me. She's calling about Clem running away from school. Probably wanting to smooth things over. “I appreciate that.”

“How is Clem doing?” she asks.

I glance around to make sure she's not nearby. “Actually … she's been better. She's not herself. Quiet. Teary. But I'll get her through it.”

“I'm sure you will. It's not easy, being a single mother.”

The way she says it makes me suspect that she
does
know. And for the first time it occurs to me that Ms. Donnelly, with her thick glasses and sensible haircut, might have a story of her own.

“Thank you,” I say. “It's very kind of you to check in.”

“Actually, there's another reason I'm calling. It's about your address. It's listed here as 82 Forest Hills Drive.”

My stomach plunges. “That's right.”

There's a pause. “Hmm. It caught my eye because, before she passed away, my mother was a resident at a care facility called Rosalind House, which is at 82 Forest Hills Drive.”

I scramble for an excuse, something plausible that could explain this turn of events, but my mind is blank and she is waiting. Finally I open my mouth, and a huge sob comes out.

This is it. Clem is going to be kicked out of her school. She'll have to move mid school-year to a school in a rougher area with kids she doesn't know. Worst of all, she won't have Legs by her side anymore.

The silence, punctuated only by my sobs, continues for a perilously long time. I start to wonder if Ms. Donnelly is even still there when she clears her throat. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I keep telling my optometrist that I need new lenses.”

I take a breath. “Pardon?”

“My eyesight,” Ms. Donnelly explains. “It's
terrible.
I'm always reading things wrong. Perhaps you're not at 82 Forest Hills Drive. Perhaps you're at 83? Or 87?”

I swallow. “Uh…”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I'm sure that's what is says. Eighty-seven. I do apologize.”

“Ms. Donnelly—”

“Please,” she says. “Call me Kathy.”

“Kathy,” I say. If we weren't on the phone, I'd have grabbed Ms. Donnelly and hugged her. “I don't know what to—”

“It's not easy, being a single mother,” she says, and I hear the kindness in her voice. “Tell Clementine we're looking forward to seeing her on Monday,” and she hangs up the phone.

*   *   *

That afternoon, when Rosie arrives, she looks terrible. Blue circles ring her eyes, and her lips are peeling. Clearly I'm not the only one this has been taking its toll on. She gestures for me to follow her into the nurses' room, and I do, passing Clem cartwheeling along the hallway on our way.

“I'm so sorry,” I say to Rosie as soon as the door shuts. “I feel terrible.”

“Why? You took all the blame.” She lifts her bag off her shoulder and falls into a chair. “I'm surprised to see you, actually. I thought Eric would have—”

“He gave me one last chance. He thought last night was the first time it happened.”

“Wow. That's good, I guess.”

“Did you know about Clara?” I ask.

Rosie's expression is guarded.

“It's okay, she told me she's dying,” I say.

Rosie's head falls back in her chair, and her eyes close. “Yes, I knew. She has breast cancer. Very advanced.”

“How long has she got?”

“I'd like to say months,” Rosie says, her eyes still closed, “but I suspect it's more like weeks.”

Even though Clara told me herself, it's still shocking to hear. Weeks. Could it really only be weeks?

“She wants to reconcile Laurie with her sister,” I say. “Apparently, they dated before he met Clara and she's been carrying the guilt around all these years for stealing Laurie away.”

Rosie opens her eyes. “I'm sorry to say it, but I doubt she'll get the chance.”

It isn't good news, not at all, but for some reason this pleases me. The idea of Clara handing her dying husband over to her sister in her final days is something I can't seem to stomach. “So what happens now?” I ask.

“What do you mean, ‘what happens'?”

“With Anna and Luke,” I say. “What happens now?”

“Well, we don't have a lot of choice, do we? We're going to have to keep their doors locked. We can't very well let them be together after what happened today.…”

When I don't respond, Rosie looks up.

“Can't we?” I whisper.

Her eyes bug. “You're not serious, Eve? After all this trouble? After Eric said this is your last chance?”

“I know it's not ideal but—”

“Eve, I
like
my job, okay? I can't put it at risk anymore, I'm sorry.”

“But … I promised her.”

Rosie looks like she wants to see through the skin on my forehead and into my brain, where perhaps she'll get a clue of what is going on in there. Perhaps for this reason, I decide to spit out the thought that's been spinning around in my head all day.

“It's just that … if another person kills themselves because I left when they needed me … It will kill
me.
”

 

43

Clementine

Cartwheeling makes your head hurt after a while. It's been almost twenty minutes, and May and Gwen are still watching. I'm starting to think that if I don't stop, we might be here all night. I tell them I have to go, and they give me a little clap and shuffle off. Then I peek around Rosie's door, looking for Mom.

“So what happens now?” Mom is saying.

Rosie says, “What do you mean, ‘what happens'?”

“With Anna and Luke. What happens now?”

“Well, we don't have a lot of choice, do we?” Rosie says. “We're going to have to keep their doors locked. We can't very well let them be together after what happened today.…”

“Can't we?” Mom says.

There's quiet for a moment, then Rosie says, “You're not serious, Eve? After all this trouble? After Eric said this is your last chance?”

“I know it's not ideal,” Mom says, “but—”

“Eve, I
like
my job, okay? I can't put it at risk anymore, I'm sorry.”

“But … I promised her.”

It's quiet again. I wonder if they have noticed me standing there. But then Mom continues. “It's just that … if another person kills themselves because I left when they needed me … It will kill
me.
”

I snap back from the door. The hairs on my arms and legs stand on end.
It will kill me.
The thought of Mom dying, too, is so scary I can't breathe.

It takes me a few moments to figure out what to do. Then I head for Eric's office.… Miss Weber always says that if you find yourself in trouble, find someone in charge to help you. But when I get to Eric's office, he's not there. I climb onto Eric's chair. Next to the phone is a list of numbers, and I choose the one that says “Eric's Cell.” As it rings in my ear, I look through the crack in the door. Rosie is arranging everyone's medicine in baskets on the cart. I want to scream,
What are you doing? Didn't you hear Mom say that something was going to kill her?
Then I hear a deep breath on the other end of the phone. “Eric speaking.”

“Eric!”

“Yes.” A pause. “Who is this?”

“It's me,” I say. “Clementine.”

“Clementine? What are you doing in my office? Where's your mother? Is everything all right?”

“No,” I say in a small voice. “Nothing is all right.”

“Clementine, honey, is your mother there?” he says.

“No!” I say. “I mean, yes. But you can't talk to her. Eric, I need your help.” I take a deep breath. “Rosie said she has to lock Anna and Luke's doors, but Mom said she doesn't want to. She says, if she does lock them … it will kill her! And I don't want her to die. So can't we just unlock the doors? Please?”

I'm breathing hard now, but Eric is quiet. I wonder if he's still there.

Eric is quiet for a few seconds, which makes me nervous.

But finally, he says, “Why don't you sit tight, Clementine, and I'll be right there? Then we can sort this whole thing out.”

*   *   *

The doorbell rings as soon as I put down the phone. Wow. Eric must have run the whole way. I zoom out of the office past Bert (who makes a noise like
geez
or
sheesh
or something), past Rosie and her medicine cart, and don't stop until I get to the door.

“Eric,” I say, throwing the door open. “Thank you for—”

I freeze.

“Clementine, is your mother home?” Miranda's mom says, and then just pushes past me into the house. Miranda's mom is really fat, and her cheeks are pink from the cold. As I close the door behind us, I start to worry. What is she doing here? Did Miranda tell her about our fight this morning? She keeps walking farther into the house, staring at everything she passes—the lamp, the vase, the walkers lined up in a row.