The Things We Keep(22)

While they eat, I take a plate into Eric’s office. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all. What’s up?” Eric swivels around, and his eyes widen in faux alarm. “You’re not quitting, are you?”

“No.” I laugh. “I just brought you some breakfast.”

Eric’s face is a blend of surprise and delight as I place it on the desk in front of him. “For me?”

I smile. “Usually I use fresh parsley, but I couldn’t find any.”

“Smells great.” He waggles his eyebrows, which is vaguely disconcerting. “Are you joining me?”

“I can’t, I’m afraid. I have to get Clem to school.”

He pouts, picking up his knife and fork. “Oh, but before you go, there’s something I forgot to mention. Each night before bed, Luke’s and Anna’s doors need to be locked. Rosie usually does it, but she’s on vacation this week. Tonight there’s an agency nurse on duty, so you’ll need to let her know. It’s all spelled out in the manual, but an extra reminder doesn’t hurt. Usually I’m gone by the time they clock on, so that will be up to you.” Eric pushes a mound of eggs onto his fork and buries it in his mouth.

“Oh,” I say. “Oh-kay.”

“They get night-restlessness,” he explains, his mouth still half-full. “It’s common for people with dementia to be wakeful at night and go wandering. It’s not safe for them to be roaming the halls of this house. They could hurt themselves.”

“But … isn’t it dangerous to lock them in? What if there’s a fire?”

Eric loads up his fork again. “Our fire safety plan includes evacuating Luke and Anna.”

“I see.”

We’re silent for a moment or two, then Eric puts down his cutlery. “The truth is, a few months back, Anna went to the top floor of the house and jumped off the roof.”

Without intending to, I gasp. “You mean … a…?”

“Suicide attempt.” Eric nods. “Afterwards, I met with Anna’s brother, and we agreed that locking the doors was the best way to keep her safe. And we didn’t want to take any chances with Luke.”

I swallow, wetting my inexplicably dry throat. “Is that why she’s in a wheelchair? Because she … jumped off the roof?”

“Yes. It was a big fall. It’s amazing she survived it.”

“Yes,” I say. “Amazing.”

I’m trying to take this all in when I notice the time blinking at the bottom corner of Eric’s computer. “Shoot! I have to get Clem to school.”

“Go ahead,” he says. “But it goes without saying that what we’ve discussed is confidential, Eve.”

“Yes,” I say. “Of course.”

“And thanks for the eggs.” Just like that, his gormless smile is back. “They really are delicious.”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ve got a plate for Angus, too. Is he in the garden?”

“I think he’s somewhere about.” Eric looks at his breakfast. “Though … I’m not sure we need to be feeding the gardener breakfast! We’re not running a soup kitchen, after all.”

I think of the mound of leftover eggs I have already cooked. “Oh. Right. I won’t bother, then.”

Back in the kitchen, I stack the dishwasher and wipe down the kitchen bench. Above the sink is a sash window with a view to the garden bed, where Angus kneels, weeding. I glance at the eggs.

“Clem?” I call down the hall. “Can you come here for a sec?”

I pop a couple of slices of bread under the grill and flick on the stove to heat up the eggs.

Thirty seconds later, her head peeks around the corner. “My name’s not Clem, it’s Sophie-Anne.”

“Sophie-Anne?” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I’m making Angus a breakfast sandwich. Would you do me a favor and run it out to him?”





8

Clem is not only a wonderful dancer, but she also has a beautiful, silvery voice. As we walk to school in the perfect fall sunshine, she sings like a cardinal. Her tune begins with words from a pop song but quickly drifts to her own made-up lyrics. I hear the words “first day” and “homework” and “best friend.” It’s lovely, but as it’s only a two-minute walk to school from Rosalind House, I need the time to fill her in on a few things.

“Clem?”

She pauses, mid-song. “Yes?”

“I don’t think I explained to you what I’m doing at Rosalind House.” Her frown reminds me of Richard’s. Gentle, thoughtful, soft. If anything, it makes her more beautiful. “You see … it’s a residential care facility.”

She looks only faintly interested. “What’s a resi—?”

“A residential care facility? It’s a place for people who need help looking after themselves.”

Clem blinks. “Do we need help looking after ourselves?”

“No.” I chuckle. “Not us. I’m going to help look after the people who live there. Cook their meals, do the laundry and clean up after them.”

The crease between Clem’s eyebrows deepens—a ravine between two plump mounds of forehead. “Like Valentina?”