The Things We Keep (24 page)

“Actually there's been a change of plan in relation to that position,” he says. “I've just heard from above that the budget has been cut, and the cleaning is going to be a permanent part of your role now.”

I blink.

“I know it's not ideal,” he says, “but that's our reality. We're cutting costs.”

Eric isn't quite meeting my eye. I get a funny feeling.

“Why are we cutting costs?” I ask. “I'd have thought that with the amount that the residents pay, there would be a good profit to be made here. I mean, the food budget is already tiny—”

“The decision has come from above,” he says. His tone is sharp and final. “If you're not up for it, I'll find someone else.”

“I … I didn't say I wasn't up for it.”

But that's exactly what I want to say. I want to tell Eric to stick his cleaning job. I want to literally throw in the (dish) towel. But without this job I have no address in Clem's school district, and the last thing she needs, especially now, when she is having trouble, is to be moved to another school.

“So,” he says expectantly. “What do you say?”

“It's fine, Eric. I'll do the cleaning permanently,” I say through my teeth.

“Glad to hear it.” Eric finally picks up a muffin and takes a bite. “It's very good,” he says on his way out the door. As he walks away I notice his smile, the one he was curiously missing a few moments ago, is back.

*   *   *

My visits to Anna become a nightly occurrence. The routine is pretty simple: Every night after dinner, I go into her room and take her for a little walk. Rosie is busy at that time of night, and Trish and Carole have left for the day, so it's surprisingly easy. Once Anna is in Luke's room, I clean up the kitchen or watch a little TV with Clem, and ten or fifteen minutes later, I wheel her back again.

It's not an ideal scenario. I worry that Clem will come looking for me, or that Luke or Anna will become agitated, or that Rosie could go into Anna's room and find her missing. But it's only a few minutes, I tell myself. And a few minutes can mean the difference between life and death.

The first few nights go smoothly, and during the daytime, Anna has seemed more cheerful. Luke has been more engaged, too. But each night I have to start from scratch, introducing myself to Anna, asking her if she'd like to see Luke.

“I wondered if you'd … like to see Luke,” I say when I arrive in her room tonight. “Luke is the young guy. Dark hair, brown eyes—”

“Cute?” she says.

I grin. “Very cute.”

I've come to enjoy the repetition of our nightly exchange. Night after night, Anna reacts to the same situation exactly the same way. There's something wonderful about it. What else is wonderful is that she's never resistant to visiting Luke. As soon as I mention him and give a few details, her whole demeanor lifts. How, I wonder, if she doesn't remember him? With no logical explanation, I'm forced to conclude that some part of her remembers. The heart, perhaps.

My least favorite part is getting her to leave Luke's room again.

“We're busy,” Anna says one night, when I try to retrieve her. “Go away.”

“I need to take you back to your room, Anna. You can come back tomorrow.”

“No,” she says a little more aggressively. “
You
come back tomorrow!”

I feel desperately unprepared for this. On the heels of panic, I remember Rosie's words.
“We can make each moment frightening for her with the truth. Or we can lie to her and make each moment happy.”

“Don't you want to get a good night's rest before your trip?” I ask.

Anna looks at me. “My motorcycle trip?”

I nod. “You leave early tomorrow.”

Anna looks momentarily annoyed, then sighs. “She's right,” she says to Luke. “I shouldn't ride on just a few hours' sleep. I guess I'll see you when I get back.”

And she leaves with me.

The fourth time I go into Anna's room, she's agitated. The lighting in her room is low, and she keeps looking over her shoulder. I introduce myself as loudly as I can without waking the other residents, then stand in her line of sight. She ignores me, glancing over her shoulder again. It takes me a moment to realize it is her shadow she's worried about.

“Don't worry about her,” I say, jabbing my thumb at the shadow. “She's not coming.”

Anna looks at me and sags, clearly relieved. “Phew,” she says.

Our visits become the highlight of my day. Perhaps it's because of the quiet or because it's just the two of us, but conversation is easy. Sometimes we chat for a while before I take her to Luke's room. I tell her about Clem and about Richard. About what a terrible cleaner I am. Sometimes Anna just listens; sometimes she talks. Anna's memory isn't there, and some of her judgments are a little off … but more and more, I'm hit by a feeling that Anna and I are becoming friends.

The next night, when I go to Anna's room, it's as if she's been waiting for me. She's in her wheelchair by the door, looking expectant. “I'm ready,” she says before I say anything.

I approach slowly. There's a clarity to her that I haven't seen before. Rosie told me this could happen—that sometimes, for a short time, people come back. She never did tell me for how long.

I kneel in front of her. “Do you know where we're going, Anna?”

Tears shimmer in her eyes. “To see him.”

“That's right. We're going to see Luke. Is that what you want?”

She nods. I half expect her to wheel herself to Luke's room; that's how present she seems. Instead, she takes my hands. “Thank you,” she says.

I try to respond but my words get stuck in my throat, underneath a deadweight of emotion.

“I won't remember this, will I?” she says.

I shake my head and she nods, lets out a long, wobbly breath. I see so much courage in that breath. I see the person Anna was. No. The person Anna
is.

“Oh well,” she says. “Live for the moment, right? It should be easy when that's all you've got.”

“Anna,” I say, finding my tongue. “For the record? You might not remember this. But I promise you that I'll never forget it.”

 

30

 

By the time I haul myself out of bed the next morning, Clem's already dressed and sitting on the couch. It's her first day back at school. She's chosen an interesting outfit: stripy leggings, tutu skirt, a green long-sleeved T-shirt with
DIVA
written across the chest. And her sparkly sneakers. I pause when I see them. They're hot pink with flashing lights that trigger when she jumps and they were a gift from her father for her seventh birthday.

“You okay, hon?” I ask, dropping a slice of raisin bread into the toaster.

Clem nods, still staring.

“You looking forward to seeing Legs today?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“And you're going to say sorry to Miranda?”

Clem sighs. “Yes.”

“Good girl. It's never okay to hit someone, is it?”

She shakes her head. At the sight of her solemn little face, the noose in my stomach that I associate with mother's guilt pulls tight.

“I'll be waiting outside when class is out, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And what will you say if someone says something about Daddy?”

“He was
my
daddy, so I know better than you,” she recites, just like we practiced.

“That's right,” I say. Clem keeps staring at her shoes. “And Clem?”

I brace, waiting for her to tell me that her name is Sophie-Anne or Laila or Alice. But this time she lets it slide.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“When you say sorry to Miranda, be sure you keep one hand in your pocket, so you can keep your fingers crossed.”

Clem looks up, blinks. And finally, she gives me a big, beautiful smile. At the sight of it, the noose around my stomach releases. A little.

*   *   *

Of all my tasks at Rosalind House, I hate ironing the most. Firstly, I have to do it in a little cupboard of a room, with a fold-down board and an iron that fills the entire space with so much condensation that my hair frizzes. Secondly, it takes an exorbitant amount of time to do one shirt, even very badly. Thirdly, because I have a knack of zoning out to pass the time, I tend to have a fairly high incidence of, well, incidents.

This afternoon, I stand in the doorway to Bert's room. He stares at the iron-shaped mark on his shirt and frowns. “It's not good enough, Eve. It's really not good enough.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I'll buy you another shirt.”

“I don't want another shirt. I want
this
shirt. With no mark.”

“It's just … I'm not a great ironer, is all.”

“You young folk, you're so slapdash! You don't take the time to do things properly.” He tuts and shakes his head. “Now, Myrna … she could iron. Never once made a mark on my shirt. Not once!”

“I'm sorry,” I repeat, because there's not a lot else to say. I can't ask Myrna for an ironing lesson. I look out the window for Angus, and instead, I see Trish wheeling Gwen across the lawn in the whipping wind. That woman is crazy for fresh air, walking her in this weather. I look back at Bert. “Maybe I should ask Gwen for some tips?”

Bert shrugs, all indifferent, but a pair of rosy circles appear on his cheeks. “I suppose you could.”

“She's very sweet, I'm sure she'd be happy to help.” I eye Bert closely. “Don't you think she's sweet, Bert?”

He keeps his head down. “Wouldn't know.”

“She thinks you're sweet.”

His eyes bulge. “Excuse me?”

“Gwen,” I say. “I think she likes you.”

Bert clears his throat, and it turns into a coughing fit. I pat him firmly while using the opportunity to tuck the ruined shirt into the back of my pants, out of sight.

“So?” I make my voice a little singsongy. “What do you say? You and Gwen?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” he says. The rosy spots have disappeared from his cheeks and he's all business again. “And stop trying to distract me! Next shirt you ruin, I'm telling Eric. No excuses.”

“Right,” I say. “Okay.”

With that, I trundle out of the room. But when I glance back from the doorway, Bert has swiveled his chair and is looking out the window. At Gwen.

*   *   *

At 3:30
P.M.
, when Clem bounds out of the school gates with a smile on her face, I think I might weep in relief. I've always thought Legs was a sweet kid, but when I see her little hand wrapped around Clem's, I have an overwhelming desire to sweep her into my arms and kiss her.

On the way home, Clem is a lot cheerier than on previous days. She tells me how she went right up to Miranda and said sorry, and how afterwards Miss Weber said it was a very brave thing to do. Then she tells me that Miss Weber said she could sit next to Legs all day. I decide I'd quite like to kiss Miss Weber, too.

That night, after Eric, Carole, and Trish have left, I go right to Anna's room. It's earlier than usual, but since it was Clem's first day back at school, I want to get her home so we can spend some time together before she goes to bed. Now, if I can just give Anna and Luke a little glimpse of each other before I go, I'll have all my ducks in a row.

There are a few residents still milling around, and Rosie is in the kitchen making a coffee. It's not ideal, but it will have to do.

“Hi, Anna,” I say, closing her door behind me. She's by the window, gazing out at the night. “It's Eve.”

She looks over her shoulder, frowns. “Hello.”

“I'm a bit early,” I whisper after I explain that we're going to see Luke. “My daughter is having a tough time at school, so I want to get her home so we can hang out a bit.”

Anna doesn't usually respond beyond the odd yes or no when I talk about my life, but I get the feeling she likes to listen. More and more, I've been confiding in her—complaining about the cleaning, telling her my little worries. She doesn't remember what I've told her on previous visits, but she often manages to keep up pretty well with the conversation we're having.

“I haven't been the best mother lately,” I tell her.

She looks at me. I hesitate.

“Okay,” I say, “I have a confession. I kissed the gardener.”

I watch Anna for a reaction, but her expression remains neutral.

“Actually, he kissed me,” I correct. “But my daughter saw us. She asked me to promise never to kiss anyone ever again.”

Anna takes a minute. “Did you promise?”

I smile. She
is
following. “I did.”

There's a couple of seconds' silence, but I can tell by the way Anna's forehead is pinched that she is still with me. So I wait.

“Is he cute, this gardener?” she asks, after a few moments.

“Gorgeous,” I say miserably.

“Then you'll have to break that promise.”

I chuckle, but Anna remains deadpan. It makes me laugh more.

“Life is too short not to kiss,” Anna says.

“Maybe you're right,” I say, wiping my eyes. I go around the back of her wheelchair and take the handles, still grinning. Then I check that the hallway is clear and hurry her across to Luke's room. Once they're settled, I head to the parlor to check on Clem.

“Are we leaving?” she says, looking up from the TV.

“Not yet. Just have a couple more things to do.”

“Mo-
om
!”

“Sorry, hon. I won't be long, I promise.”

She sighs, looks back at the TV. I glance at my watch. It's been only five minutes. That will have to do for tonight.

“Where are you going?” she asks as I leave the room.

“To take out the trash. I'll be right back!”