The Things We Keep (22 page)

We put the cake in the oven, and Clem makes herself scarce before cleanup—at least in that regard, nothing has changed. When she's gone, I finally allow myself to look for Angus through the window. He's bent over a garden bed, his gloved hands buried in dirt. It makes me sad to think those hands will never be on me again.

When the last of the dishes have been washed up, I go looking for Clem in the parlor. Instead I find Anna. Her chair is right in front of the window and her hands are on the glass.

“Hey, Anna,” I say. “Everything okay?”

She doesn't respond. She feels the corners of the window, then slams a fist into the middle.

“Anna?”

She spins around, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you want me to open the window?”

Her eyes flicker to me, and her frustration turns to curiosity. “You can open it?”

“Of course.”

I roll her chair back so I can have a better look. The window is double-hung and floor-level. Eric told me that, since Anna's fall, the top-floor windows have been bolted shut. These windows do open though, so I slide the top pane down an inch, letting in a slow breeze. “There.”

Anna looks puzzled. “But … how do I get out?”

“Oh, you want to go outside? We can go out the door. Here, I'll take you.” I reach for the handles of her chair but she shakes her head.

“No. I want to go out
there
.”

She sounds stubborn, almost whiney. Her jaw is set.

“Why do you want to go out the window?” I ask.

“Because…” She swallows. “I've had enough.”

She crosses her arms and stares at the window resolutely.

I follow her gaze. There's a slight ledge and from her vantage point, in her chair, it looks like a drop. I wonder if Anna thinks this is a second-floor window. If she thinks that by going out it, she'll fall.

I've had enough
.

I squat beside her. “Why have you had enough?”

A rogue tear slides down her cheek.

“Because of Luke,” I hear myself say. “Because you are being kept apart from him?”

She looks at me and I can't tell how much she is following.

“What if you weren't kept apart from him?” I ask. “Would you still want to go out there?” I gesture at the window.

Her eyes are two pools of pale green emotion. I think of Luke crouching in front of her when the dog came into the yard. Of Anna asking,
“Where is he?”
Of the looks between them. The love that so clearly still exists. And suddenly I understand what she's been asking me all along.

“You wouldn't, would you?” I say to myself. Then I look her squarely in the eye. “In that case I'm going to help you.”

*   *   *

That night, Clem and I stay a little later than usual. She doesn't have school tomorrow, so I don't see the harm in letting her watch a little TV while I finish things up. The residents all head off to bed—they may be early risers, but in this place everyone is asleep by 8:15
P.M
. Once the dinner has been cleared up, I grab my purse and start down the hallway. The dishwasher is humming, the floors are clean(ish), and the meals have been planned for the week. Clem is in the parlor in front of the TV, and I am outside Anna's door.

I think of Richard, hanging from the ceiling beam in his study. I think of the moment I found him, the words that hung around me, useless and unsaid, the actions that floated in the air, undone. It was too late. But it isn't too late for Anna.

I step forward, suddenly emboldened. I'd told Anna I'd help her. And I will.

 

27

Anna

Eleven months ago …

There are three doors in my room. One leads to the hallway, one to the bathroom, one to the closet. Each morning I pick one, a lottery of sorts, figuring I have a one-in-three chance of finding my clothes. At first I used to put the effort in—to use logic and reasoning and memory. The bathroom would probably be closer to the bed, that sort of thing. These days, though, it's basically a crapshoot.

“Eeny meeny miney—” I point to door number two. “Mo!”

Young Guy (who showed up in my room a few minutes ago to take me to breakfast) flicks open the door, revealing a toilet. “Better luck next time.”

Some days, it drives me fucking crazy when I can't find things. A few weeks ago, or maybe it was a few days ago, I picked up a glass thingy and hurled it against one of the doors because I couldn't find the bathroom. When you need to pee as often as I do, you don't have time to mess about, looking for the toilet.

“That one is definitely … the hallway,” I say, pointing to door number one. I have no idea if this is right, and I can't be bothered to look for clues. But we've already found the toilet-room, so I figure I've got a good chance.

He peels open the hallway-door, revealing a row of clothes hanging from a pole-thingy.

“Damn!” I say, but as he pulls an item off the thingy (an item that may or may not be weather appropriate), I laugh. There was a time when I had no desire to live beyond a point when I couldn't tell what was behind a door. But today I'm very glad to be alive.

*   *   *

We're in the upstairs room again. Young Guy dips the stick-thingy on the record player and music starts playing. I wonder how long we will be able to find our way to this place, this upstairs room. It feels like
our
place. The idea that we won't be able to remember it seems somehow more tragic than not being able to remember my own name.

He holds out his arms. “W … would you like to…?”

“What?”

He moves his arms and his hips jauntily. I know what he's suggesting. I'm supposed to walk into his arms and hold his hands and jiggle about to the music. I can't think what it's called either.

He tries a few times to produce the word and then grimaces. “You kn-know,” he says finally, with effort. His eyebrows crease uncertainly. It also makes me laugh.

I stand and shuffle into his space, but instead of taking his hands, I lay my cheek right against his chest. Together we begin to move.

“Yes,” I say. “I do know.”

*   *   *

It's that day when people visit. I hate that day. And I'm not the only one. Really Old Lady hates it because she rarely gets a visitor. Baldy doesn't like it, because the middle-of-the-day meal is served earlier, and according to him, Myrna doesn't like her schedule being messed with. More and more, I'm seeing the plus sides to Myrna. In fact, I think I might befriend her myself.
Sorry, can't play bingo today, Myrna doesn't like it. Not my fault,
I'll say.
Myrna's.

Jack usually comes on his own these days, or with just one of the little boys. I haven't seen his wife in a while. Even so, I find his visits stressful. Here, at this place where I live, when I forget something or say something weird, people either don't notice or don't react. But when I say something weird in front of Jack, he looks confused. Corrects me in a slow, simple voice.
“Don't you remember, Anna, it was Aunt Geraldine?”
or
“Yes, Anna, you already said that.”
Worst of all is the long silence followed by the nod. The look that says,
I have no idea what you're saying, but it's not worth my time to try to figure it out.

Today, I'm feeling pretty anxious. Not just because it's the day when people visit but also because of Luke. (I know his name is Luke because he introduced himself to Jack a few seconds ago.) Luke has had the gloriously misguided idea that we should introduce each other to our families—you know, like a regular couple. Sometimes he has some pretty messed-up ideas. I told him that. I think.

So we're in the big front room. Jack is sitting opposite us, staring at our joined hands. I have no idea what I am supposed to say. Eventually I decide, as I do so often these days, to say nothing. I have Alzheimer's, after all. Surely that gets me out of uncomfortable small talk?

“This m-m … ust be weird for you, Jack,” Luke says finally. He's trying hard, and though his words are slightly labored, he's doing a wonderful job. “I'm sure you … thought your days of meeting your … twin sister's boyfriends were over.”

Jack's eyes seek mine, a little incredulous. I force a smile.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he continues, wobbling on the word “better.” “I can promise I'll be the l … last.”

I can't help myself, I laugh. For someone with dementia, Luke is pretty smooth. He smiles a little shyly and glances at me. I'm impressed. I haven't heard him speak so many words without pausing in a while. But Jack doesn't so much as crack a smile.

Luke, I notice, keeps glancing at his hands. He has a few little tics, but this one is new. It's not until he tips his palms upward that I notice the blue ink scrawled across them. I see the words
Jack, twin,
and
boyfriend.
My heart breaks a little.

Jack looks like he wants to respond, but he's thinking very carefully before he does. I'm happy to wait. But before he can get his thoughts together enough to speak, a woman sweeps into the room, kisses Luke's cheek, and falls into the sitting-thing beside Jack.

“Sorry I'm late,” she says. “You must be the brother. I'm Sarah. The sister.”

This woman is as blond as Luke is dark. She wears jeans and a thin-jacket with lots of shiny stuff at her wrists and neck. Her face is upturned, suggesting friendliness. She looks from Luke to me and then finally to Jack. “So? They've told you?”

Jack stares at her. “You
know
about this?”

“Of course. Luke tells me everything.”

“Terrific,” Jack mutters. “Anna tells me nothing.”

“Look, there's no reason to be upset,” she says. “My brother is a wonderful guy.”

Luke's sister sounds remarkably calm, even happy. This, I know, will rile Jack no end.

“I'm sure he is,” Jack says. “I just don't want him taking advantage of my sister so he can live out his last wish to have a girlfriend.”

There's a short silence. “Luke's had plenty of girlfriends,” the sister says. “He doesn't get into anything unless he is serious.”

“Great!” Jack says. “That's just great.”

“Besides,” she continues, “why shouldn't they have a little happiness in here?”

“It all depends,” he says, his voice a little louder now, “on what kind of happiness they are having—”

“They're adults! It's none of our business what they do!”

“Whose business is it if Anna gets pregnant? Hmm? Theirs? Maybe they could raise the baby together in this place? You're right, this is a fantastic idea—”

Jack's face is red and his voice is loud. The sister's face closes over. I shrink back into my sitting thing, away from them.

“St-st-st …
Stop it!
”

I blink up at Young Guy, who's standing now. Jack and the sister are wide-eyed, blinking but silent. It's lovely, the silence. I'm grateful to Young Guy—I want to say thank you, but the words drift away from me before I can catch them and use them.

“Anna?” A helper-lady jogs into the parlor, frowning. She doesn't usually jog. Or frown, for that matter. She squats beside me. “You have a visitor.”

I hear, but it doesn't make sense. Don't I already have visitors? “I'm sorry.”

Jack's eyes are focused beyond me, and for this reason, I turn around. There's a tall man behind my chair, dressed smartly in black pants and a white shirt. A thick brown coat is tucked under one arm. The man is, all at once, familiar and unfamiliar.

Behind me, I hear Jack clearing his throat. “Dad,” he says. “You're here.”

 

28

Anna

Dad isn't an attractive man. He has height, but the skinny kind, rounded at the shoulders so he curves forward like a wilting flower. His eyes are pale blue and his gray-orange fuzz is combed to hide a bald spot. All this information is apparent to anyone in the room, though. The things that I
should
know about Dad—the day of his birth, his baseball team, whether his stoop is old or new—are not there. Or perhaps they are, but deep down, hazy, as though he were a character from a novel I read a few years ago rather than the man who gave me life. He looks at me closely, perhaps for signs of my dementing. I wonder if he's finding any.

“Anna,” he says, “I can't believe it.”

At the sound of his voice, my brain releases a select few, seemingly unimportant memories. The way he used to eat ice cream with a fork. The way he used to drink his … morning caffeine drink … so hot, it should have taken the skin right off his mouth.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“What do you think?” he says. “I came to see you.”

Jack walks out from behind me, reminding me that he is here too. “Dad,” Jack says, “I'm not sure this is a good idea.”

Another memory is niggling at me, but just out of my reach like an itch I can't scratch. It's as if my brain has pulled a curtain over the memories area. And not even the VIPs are getting in.

“Dad,” Jack tries again, “how 'bout we go outside?” Jack catches Dad's elbow, not waiting for an answer.

I look at Dad, at the jacket under his arm with its wide, diagonal hip-pockets.

“Chocolate cigars!” I cry.

Dad stops. “You remember those, huh?”

I am practically jubilant at unearthing this memory. Chocolate cigars. They were always in Dad's pocket when I was a kid.
“Take a load off,”
he'd say to Jack and me, handing us one each and igniting it with his thumb-lighter.
“Have a cigar.”
I have to fight a smile and remind myself that the man with the chocolate cigars in his pockets is the same man who up and left his wife when she got sick. The same man who left me.