The Things We Keep (28 page)

I hesitate.

“Go on. I like having someone to talk to while I cook.”

I continue to hesitate until Angus grips my waist and lifts me onto the bench. He immediately starts to unpack the bags, nonchalant, but the gentle gesture leaves me scrambling for breath for several seconds. Angus doesn't seem to notice. I watch him pull items from the bags. Parsley. Spinach. Potatoes. His hands, I notice, are impressively clean. I suppose I'd have expected a residue of dirt that was impossible to remove, but his gardener's nails are cleaner than my own.

“Shall I open this?” I say. I gesture to the beading bottle of white wine on the counter.

“I'll do it,” he says, fishing out a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. I slide off the bench and reach around him for glasses. For a delicious instant, my front presses lightly against his back.

“How was your—?” I start, at the same time as he says, “Long day?”

“Sorry,” we say in unison, and then, “You go. No, you go.”

Angus pours our drinks, and I take a large gulp of wine. Then another. Angus and I usually have a fairly easy, comfortable relationship at work, but what if we are a disaster socially? If this evening goes awry, I can kiss our comfortable work relationship good-bye! I watch Angus as he reaches for my chopping board. His expression is pleasantly neutral, but then, he has the advantage—having a meal to prepare, busywork to keep his hands occupied and his head from overanalyzing it all.

“Nice place,” he says after a lengthy silence.

“Yes,” I say, surveying the expanse of brown décor. “I'm sure brown is coming back into fashion—I'm just a little ahead of the trend.”

Angus chuckles. “I love what you've done with the kitchen,” he says, taking a piece of whitefish out of a cool bag and resting it on the chopping board. I laugh and give him a friendly punch. He catches my fist and holds it for a long moment. A pulse of electricity runs through me.

“What are you cooking?” I ask, breaking the charged silence.

“Sea bass. And potatoes.”

I smile again. No jus. No ancient grain salad or Vietnamese greens. Just fish. And potatoes. Which, if done properly, is a meal entirely unto itself.

Angus finds a peeler in a drawer and declines my offer to help. In my kitchen, he seems so confident, so relaxed. His peeling hand is completely steady and smooth as it glides over the potato. But when I look down at my own hand, holding my wineglass, I notice it's shaking just the tiniest bit.

*   *   *

We eat dinner at the small round table and afterwards move to the couch. There, Angus reclines, pulling me—in a way that is both natural and entirely terrifying—into the crook of his arm. For no reason in particular, I think about Anna and Luke. Did they once have evenings like this? Well, perhaps not exactly like this, but I can't help picturing them together, on the couch in the parlor, talking, holding hands, enjoying each other. They
deserve
to have nights like this.

“Well,” I say, relaxing against him. “
That
was delicious.”

“I was pretty nervous,” he admits. “I haven't cooked dinner for a chef before. I was hoping to impress you.”

“You did,” I say. “The last person to cook for me was Clem, and that was toast and a cup of tea on Mother's Day.” I smile. “This was very special.”

“How's Clem doing?” Angus asks.

“She's…” I start to reel off the standard response—she's coping, she's strong—but I stop myself. “Actually, I have no idea. She's up and down. I'm worried about her.”

“She's a great kid, Eve.”

“Even though she told me I could never kiss you again?”

“Yeah, that was a shame,” he says. “But I like her. She's feisty and she says what she thinks. But she's also kind, which not all seven-year-olds are. The other day, after May's visitors left, Clem sat beside her for a while and held her hand.”

I smile because I remember Clem doing that. Afterwards when I asked her why, she'd said,
“I think May feels lonely after her family leaves.”

“She
is
special like that,” I say.

Angus grins and taps his head gently against mine. “Anyway, I have some news.”

“You do?”

“My sister, Kelly, is pregnant.”

I jerk up, look at him. “But I thought she couldn't afford to do IVF because of—”

“Not IVF. She became pregnant naturally. She's twelve weeks along. She had an ultrasound today, and it all looks good.”

I can't believe it. Guilt and relief and elation all swirl through me at once.

“The funny thing is that they did IVF seven times and never had any luck. Then, after five months of no treatment, she became pregnant naturally!”

“I've heard of that happening,” I say. “It's almost as though the body needs you to relax and forget about it in order for it to happen.”

“And that wouldn't have happened if they hadn't lost their money.”

Silence. “Oh, Angus, I don't think—”

“What your husband did was bad. But good and bad stuff comes out of everything. I don't have to tell you that, do I?”

He doesn't. I've thought about it; good coming from bad. After all, if I hadn't met Richard, I wouldn't have had Clem. And yet …

“I'm not sure Richard should be taking credit for your sister's pregnancy.”

“Maybe not,” Angus says, “but it's a good reminder that people heal and move on with their lives. And they might even start a new chapter that they wouldn't have if it wasn't for what he did.”

“Yes. Maybe.”

“I must admit…” he says, reaching out to stroke my cheek, “I'm hoping that you and I are starting a chapter right now. And while I'd never wish what happened onto you or Clem, I have to say, I'm very glad to be sitting here with you right now.”

“Well,” I say, “I'm
not
glad we're sitting here.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I'd be much happier if we were lying”—I point over Angus's shoulder toward the bedroom—“right over there.”

Angus's eyes follow my finger; then they start to twinkle. He stands, lifting me with him. “Your wish is my command.”

 

37

Anna

Nine months ago …

“Put this on,” Dad says, handing me a pair of blue doo-dahs for my legs. His cheeks are flushed, and that's when I realize I'm naked, apart from a white sheet. He digs back into my closet and pulls out a pair of under-things. “And this. I'll be in the dining room.”

I don't move. I'm perfectly happy right where I am.

“What are you going there for?” I ask.

“Lunch.” He doesn't say
remember?
but the way he looks at me, I guess he must have said this before. “The cook has made tostadas or enchiladas or something.”

“She only ever makes tostadas or enchiladas or something. What I'd really like is a big, juicy cheeseburger with a side of fries.”

Dad smiles. “I'll save you a seat.”

He leaves, and I look at the things in my lap. With a strange, almost scientific awareness, I realize I have no idea what to do with them. The blue things go on my legs—I know that much. But there are three holes, two small and one large, as well as a long thing with silver teeth and a big silver circle. Pockets and seams are everywhere. What am I supposed to do with it all?

I lean back, resting my head against the back of the sitting thing. I could easily sleep, right here, for hours. Is it really only the middle of the day? The light outside, hazy and foggy, indicates that it is. And so does the gnaw in my belly. It's a little paunchy now, my belly. So much has changed about me lately, it's no wonder I don't recognize myself.

Finally I stand, and when I do, my left side starts to tingle. My mind runs over the possibilities. Pins and needles? Heart … explosion? Dead leg? I shrug off the thought. No use panicking myself. I have a brain-disease. What are the chances of that white, jagged stuff striking twice?

I sit back down, tired, but a horrible feeling nags at me—a feeling that I should be somewhere else. Then again, I live in a home for old people. Where could I possibly need to be?

I close my eyes and go to sleep.

“Anna.”

When I open my eyes, Dad is standing over me. On autopilot, I rub my eyes and stretch. Funny what my brain will do for me. It will stretch without any request, but when I desperately want it to conjure up information, nothing. “What?”

“Lunch.” His voice sounds irritated, which is strange. He must be really hungry.

“Oh. Good. I'm starving.” As I stand, a pile of clothes slides off my legs, and I realize I'm wearing only a white sheet-thing. A
towel,
that's what it is. “I'd better get dressed. You go ahead, I'll meet you there.”

A flash of pink comes to his cheeks, then just as quickly, it blanches away. He looks unexpectedly, impossibly sad. “It's okay,” he says. “I'll wait.”

*   *   *

On the table next to my sleeping-bench, I have quite the collection of things. Flower-leaves. Rocks. Movies I'll never watch. A book that Dad left here last time he visited—I might tuck it away before he comes back, a keepsake. Maybe I'll write it in my notebook to tell Jack.
Stole Dad's book.
What's he going to do? I have the brain-disease.

A drip of something rolls down my forehead. It's stifling in here. Boiling hot. I hoist myself off the sleeping-bench. There must be a cool-machine around here somewhere! Or a whirly-spinner that blows air around. Or a wet cloth or something I can put on my head. I walk over to the hole in the wall and put my face to it, but there's no wind. No relief.

“Anna?” says a man's voice. “What are you doing?”

I spin around. “Jack!” It feels like forever since I've seen him. “Thank the Lord. Where is the cool-machine? Is it summer?”

Jack watches me for a disturbingly long time. “Yes,” he says. “It's summer.”

He cuts across the room to the hole in the wall and slides it open. I laugh.
Silly me. It was closed!
Then he unbuttons my woolly overshirt and takes it off. Pulls something else over my head. “There you go. That should cool you down.”

Jack is wearing a shirt, short leg-pants, and shoes that hardly cover his feet. With my things off, already I start to feel cooler. “Ah,” I say, “that's better.”

A little boy steps out from behind Jack and grins, all coy and cheeky.

“Hello, young man!” It's hard not to smile at his little elfin face. He reminds me of someone—a cartoon character—Richie Rich or Dennis the Menace or something. Just the sight of him makes me feel happy. “What's your name?”

The little boy looks at Jack, and Jack nods. “It's … Ethan,” he says.

“That's a cool name,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Ethan.”

The little boy's smile disappears. Jack is still smiling, but he's always had a terrible poker face. When we were little, if one of us had to lie to Mom and Dad, I always told him to wait in the bedroom. For that reason, Mom always demanded Jack be the one to tell the version of how the vase got broken, or whatever scuffle we found ourselves in. Now, although his tone is patient and friendly, his face is stiff.

I don't feel so happy anymore.

“I think you should go now,” I say, turning my back on them. I focus on the hole in the wall, the open hole. The air that drifts in and out is warm and dry. Because it's
summer.

“But we just got here—”

“I'm tired,” I say. “I want to sleep.”

I wait a moment. But when I look over my shoulder, they're still there, limp, like those dolls on sticks who need someone to pull their strings. What are they called? I scrunch up my face, trying to bring up the word. It's on the edge of my tongue.

I spin around. “What the fuck are those little dolls called?”

The words sound ugly, and the little boy flinches. There are tears on my face, and I feel like I might be sick. I expect the little boy to flee from the room but instead he forges toward me, closer and closer, until I'm the one who flinches. When he's an inch away, he tugs me down and wraps his little arms around my neck. “It was nice to meet you, Anna,” he says. He's a hard, wiry little boy, and he smells like sunshine and dirt. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Ethan,” I say without thinking. And in a second or two, I'm happy again.

 

38

Eve

My feet barely touch the floor as I serve breakfast, and it's not helped by the fact that I have a clear view from the dining room to the garden bed where Angus is working with a shovel. I'm grateful, at least, that it's cold out and he's wearing several layers of fleece. If this were a shirt-off kind of day, I'd have barely been able to restrain myself. Clem sits up at the table with the residents, buoyed by her night with her grandparents. With any luck, her mood will extend into the school gates and through the day.

I collect an empty toast rack from the center of the table and am about to head back to the kitchen when I catch the tail end of a conversation among the residents.

“—apparently, he just wandered into Bert's room,” May is saying to Gwen and Clara. “Who
knows
why his door was unlocked…”

My ears prick up. “What did you say, May?” I ask. “Who wandered into Bert's room?”

Bert whacks down his spoon. “Well, it wasn't Elvis Presley. Now, can everyone just stop talking about it?”

“It was Luke,” May whispers. “Apparently, his door was left unlocked and he got disoriented and walked into Bert's room in the middle of the night. Bert woke the whole place up with his shouting but by the time Rosie got there, Luke was gone. We all went looking for him and Laurie found him in Anna's bed.”