The Things We Keep (19 page)

He holds his glass out to me. “Some things last forever, don't they?”

I look over at Anna and Luke. “Honestly?” I say. “I have no idea.”

*   *   *

That night, after I've cleaned up dinner, I head to the store to pick up ingredients for May's birthday cake. By the time I make it back to Rosalind House, most of the residents are in their rooms and the place is low-lit and quiet.

It's strange being at Rosalind House at night. Usually, the place is bustling and
alive.
Now, apart from the bubble and swoosh of the dishwasher, it's dead silent, which is vaguely unnerving.

Mother is watching Clem at our apartment and I call to say goodnight around 8
P.M
. An hour later I'm grating lemon rind into my cream cheese frosting when a woman's scream pierces the silent air. I drop my spatula and follow the noise to Anna's door.

“Eve?”

Rosie appears beside me and I am flooded with relief. “I … I heard the screaming,” I say.

“Pretty hard not to.” She smiles, resigned. “I'll look after her, don't worry.”

As Rosie reaches for the lock, I'm struck by how unruffled she is. Unsurprised. Then I remember Eric's words.
“Sometimes they become upset at night.”
I'd pictured sleeplessness. Nightmares, perhaps. Not this.

Rosie steps into the room, and instinctively, I shadow her. We find Anna sitting up in bed. Her blankets are kicked off and hair is wild around her face.

“What's going on, Anna?” Rosie asks. “You sound upset. Can I help?”

“I want to go
home
!” Anna's voice is a razor, intended to hurt. “Take me home.”

“Why don't I turn on this light?” Rosie advances slowly but confidently. “Help you see a bit better.”

“No!” Anna shouts. “Where is he?”

A tingle runs down my spine.

“Is there someone we can help you find?” Rosie asks.

Anna nods. “Yes. Him.” Then her face starts to crumple. “I … want to go home.”

“All right,” Rosie says cheerfully. “I'll take you home. But it's pretty late for driving right now. How about a cup of tea first? Then, when it's light, you and me will hop in the car? Sound good?”

Anna watches Rosie carefully. “Is Jack at home? And Mom?”

“Everyone's there,” Rosie says. “But it's nighttime; they're probably fast asleep. We don't want to wake them.”

“Okay,” Anna says, a little suspicious. “But in the morning, you'll take me home?”

“Absolutely.”

Rosie's voice is so soothing that
I
almost believe her. Except for the fact that Eric told me Anna's mom was dead.

“Would you mind making us some tea, Eve?” Rosie says. “Anna likes peppermint and I'll have chamomile. And would you mind checking that the other residents are still asleep? I'm going to stay here with Anna for a bit.” She produces a tissue and discreetly wipes Anna's nose.

I nod. “Yes. I'll do it now.”

I listen at the doors of the other residents, and miraculously, all I hear is snoring. They've all slept through it. Something to be said for poor hearing. The place is quiet, peaceful. All except for Anna.

“Everyone's sleeping,” I say when I return with the tea. Rosie is sitting next to Anna on her bed, giving her a hand massage. I set the tray on the table.

“Thanks,” Rosie says. “Anna and I are going to hang out for a while. I love watching the late-night infomercials, and now I'll have company.”

“Would you—?” I start, then wonder if it's going to sound strange or presumptuous. “Would you like some more company? My cake is just out of the oven and it needs to cool a little before I ice it.”

Rosie shrugs. “What do you think, Anna? Would you mind if Eve stayed to watch TV with us?”

Anna's eyes, narrowed and searching, settle on me. “Okay,” she says. “That's okay.”

Rosie throws me a pillow and I wedge myself onto the bed. Anna is in the middle, leaning back against the pillows with Rosie and me, her bookends. She seems calmer now, but she jitters a little, whispering under her breath. “Where is he?
Where is he?
”

She's talking about Luke; of that, I'm now certain. And after tonight, one thing's for sure. If this is what her life is like—being locked up in her room, alive but not living—I understand why she jumped off the roof. If I were kept locked up, away from the ones I loved, I'd want to kill myself, too.

*   *   *

After Anna falls asleep, Rosie and I slip out of her room. We convene in the hallway, in a puddle of moonlight.

“I get the feeling that's not the first time this has happened?” I say.

Rosie yawns. “Sadly not. Night-restlessness is common. It happens to Luke, too, from time to time.”

“That's who she meant, isn't it? When she said ‘Where is he?'”

“Probably,” Rosie admits.

“So why couldn't we just take her to him?”

“The families have decided they don't want them to be together, so there's no point in entertaining it,” she says. “It's better to just change the subject.”

“But they were … friends, weren't they? Why wouldn't the families want them to visit?”

Rosie says nothing.

“Do you think they—?” I start.

“Still have a connection?” she says.

I nod, relieved that Rosie has already considered this. “It's a tough one,” she says. “No one really knows for sure what people with dementia are capable of.”

“But…?”

“But,” she says, “my guess is that they are capable of a lot more than people think. At the last place I worked, there were two residents with Alzheimer's, Rodney and Betty. Every afternoon they sat together and watched soap operas and held hands. Their diseases were fairly progressed, and there was no way they could remember that they did this every day, so for them, every time was the first time. Rodney always made the first move, letting their hands touch a little, as if it were an accident. Then, when Betty smiled, he went all in, linking fingers and stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. It was
exactly
the same every day. On the odd occasion that one of them had visitors or an appointment at that time, they still watched the soap operas with the other residents, but they always seemed a little agitated. And neither of them ever held anyone else's hand.” She smiles. “Dementia steals things—memories, speech, other abilities. But I don't think it changes who you are, or who you love.”

“If that's what you think … how do you feel about the door-locking?” I ask.

“Well, Anna
did
jump off the roof,” she says. I notice that Rosie is not meeting my eye anymore.

“Rosie,” I say. “What is it?”

She waves a hand at me. “Look, in an ideal world, of course the doors would be unlocked. There'd also be plenty of staff who could stay up with them all night, and they'd have a well-lit area where they could do activities. But even private facilities like Rosalind House don't have the funding to staff twenty-four-hour activities. I do what I can. But Eric has told me in no uncertain terms that Anna and Luke need to stay in their rooms and that I am to lock the doors. I know it seems cruel. But instead of focusing on that, I try to focus on the things I
can
do to make life better for them. Every shift I have here, I have the power to make life a little better for them. That
is
my goal.”

“So why did you tell Anna you were going to take her home?” I ask. “And that her mom would be there? You know her mom is dead, right?”

“Yes,” she says. “But Anna thought she was alive. Did you want me to break it to her that not only was she in a strange place, but that her mother was dead, too?”

“No, but … surely honesty is the best policy? Aren't you breaking the trust between you by lying?”

Rosie smiles, but it's a sad expression. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

She reaches for my forehead, then drags her fingers over my lids until I see black. “Now imagine that when you open your eyes, you're in a completely unfamiliar place. You don't recognize anything, you don't recognize me, and you can't find anyone you know. You're scared and confused and disoriented. You ask to be taken home, and someone you don't recognize tells you
this
is your home and you're not going anywhere. Every time you ask for your mother, someone tells you she is dead. And because you can't retain that information for long, you have to hear it again and again and again. How would that make you feel?”

Rosie speaks gently, without judgment, but still, the words feel like a sucker punch. When I open my eyes, they're full of tears.

“In the morning, Anna won't remember that I promised to take her home. All she will know is how she feels. And with any luck, she'll be feeling safe, secure, and happy.” Rosie watches me, looking for comprehension in my face. “We can make each moment frightening for her with the truth. Or we can lie to her and make each moment happy and joyous. I know what I'd prefer if it were me.”

 

20

I arrive at work four minutes late the next morning, which isn't disastrous apart from the fact that my eyes feel scratchy and I can't stop yawning. It had been a late night. Through the window, I can see Angus in the garden with Clem on his heels, catapulting questions at him. He smiles at something she says, then points off at a bush in one corner of the garden. I am grateful that he likes kids, or at least appears to, because this morning I can use all the help I can get.

I rub my eyes and look at a bowl of fruit on the counter, trying to remember what I'm supposed to do with it. After a few minutes, I yank open the refrigerator and bury my head, hoping the cool air will snap me awake.

“I hear there was some commotion last night.”

I grab a carton of milk and reverse out of the refrigerator. Eric is leaning against the doorjamb.

“Morning,” I say. “Yes. Rosie told you?”

Eric nods. “I'm sorry Anna disturbed you.”

“Don't be.” I set the milk on the counter. “Actually, I can't stop thinking about it. She was quite upset.”

“It's very sad,” Eric says. “A tragic disease, Alzheimer's.”

“It is. Last night Anna asked for her mother. She also kept asking, ‘Where is he?'”

“She did?”

I nod. “Clearly she was talking about Luke. And I wondered, I mean, is there any reason why she can't at least visit him?”

“Why do you think she was talking about Luke?” Eric asks.

“I don't,” I admit, “but who else would she mean?”

Eric shrugs. “You said yourself that she asked for her mother, who is long dead. ‘He' could have been her father, her brother. Anyone. Anyway, it's the families' decision to keep the doors locked at night. There's nothing we can do.”

“Yes, but—” A thought rushes at me. Eric said Anna tried to kill herself and
then
they started locking the doors, but what if that wasn't the sequence of events? What if the suicide attempt was
because
they locked the doors? “Was Anna's suicide attempt before or after you started locking the doors?” I ask. I pause only a second before continuing, so certain I'm right. “It was after, wasn't it?”

“No,” Eric says, frowning. “I don't think so.”

“Oh.” I pluck a pear and an apple from the fruit bowl and begin slicing them, trying to hide my disappointment. “I just thought it might have explained things. I mean, if I were separated from the one I loved, I'd probably—”

“Loved?” Eric exhales. “Eve, falling in love requires memory, communication, reason, decision making. It's very unlikely that people with dementia have these capabilities.”

I think about Rodney and Betty, the couple Rosie told me had held hands every day.
They
didn't need memory to have a connection.

“But—”

“Look,” Eric says, “this job can be difficult. These people are at the end of their lives, and it's sad. Particularly for Luke and Anna, being so young. But in order to do this job, you need to keep a certain distance. You are, first and foremost, a staff member here. And while it's wonderful that you care so much about the residents, your job is to cook and clean. So leave things to the night nurse from now on, eh? After all, that's what she's paid for.”

“Okay.” It's hard, but I force myself to meet his eye. “I will.”

Eric claps his hands, indicating a change of topic. “Anyway, I should get my day started.” He turns toward the door, then pauses. I have an almost overpowering urge to give him an almighty shove to get him out of my sight.

“So we're clear about Luke and Anna, then?” he says.

“Perfectly clear,” I say, even though the one thing I am
not
clear on is Luke and Anna.

 

21

Anna

Twelve months ago …

“P-promise me something,” Young Guy says as I pull a sheet over my chest. We're in my bed, a squeeze for two grown bodies, but we are managing pretty well. I don't know what time of day it is, and I don't care. I don't have anywhere to be. I have
Alzheimer's disease.

“Sure.”

He watches me carefully, his face becoming hard-lined. “Promise we'll … be together. R-right until the end?”

I smile, because I can't help it when I look at him. “I can't promise that. And neither can you.”

“I c-can.”

“Okay, you can. But just because you say it doesn't make it so. When we get worse, they could separate us very easily and we'd have no idea.”

“We would.” He props himself onto an elbow. “We'll … make an order. Do not s-separate.”