The Things We Keep(25)

“Hi,” I say, when Angus emerges.

“Hey.” He drops his secateurs into a bucket and dips to snatch up a larger pair of garden shears. “Thanks for the sandwich,” he mutters, then turns his back and starts chopping.

“You’re welcome,” I say. Angus’s demeanor is barely civil, but I choose to be heartened by the fact he is talking to me. “Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. I’d like to talk to you about starting a vegetable and herb garden.”

“A vegetable and herb garden.” He pauses, the shears still in hand. “I guess we could do that.” He turns to look at me. “How big do you need it?”

“Well, I’d like to plant carrots and potatoes. Plus herbs.”

I may be imagining it, but Angus seems slightly more upbeat. “You’ll want something with shade then.” He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. “There’s a spot in the yard that might work, but you’d need a canopy. One that can be retracted—”

“You can buy those at Garden City,” I say, a little too enthusiastically. “I used to have one above my vegetable garden at my old place.”

He gives me a long, cool look. “I was going to say I’d build you one. I doubt Eric has money for a Garden City canopy in the budget.”

“No, of course not. I didn’t think—”

Angus shakes his head. “No. You wouldn’t.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” He lifts the shears and starts hacking at the bush with sharp, aggressive strokes.

I stare at his back. “Is there something you want to say to me, Angus?”

He turns around. “You probably think you and your daughter got a rough deal, don’t you? You lost your big house. Your money. You had to get a job in a residential care facility and have your canopies built instead of bought—”

I open my mouth.

“My sister and her husband lost everything because of your husband. Not just money but—” His throat works. “—they were in the middle of doing IVF. Kelly’s forty-one. Now they can’t afford to do it anymore, so she’ll probably never have kids.”

I blink back tears at the unexpected outburst and Angus resumes hacking at the bush. I stay quiet. At least now I know why Angus has been so cold with me. His sister is one of thousands of people harmed by my husband. And, by extension, harmed by me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “But for the record, I don’t think I got a rough deal. I got off lightly. I can live with losing my money and my house. I’ll get used to being a social outcast, to working menial jobs and having no friends. I’d take all of it, and more, if it meant I could give my daughter back her father. So, say what you want about me, but don’t lump my daughter into the same category. My daughter got one hell of a rough deal. And she is as innocent as your poor sister.”

With that, I spin on my heel and march toward the house. As I walk, I think I hear Angus call my name, but I just keep walking.

*

I find a cart in the housekeeping closet and drive it down the corridor. I shouldn’t have said that to Angus, but Clem is my Achilles’ heel. She seems like she’s okay, but every now and then, I get a glimpse of her grief, and it worries me. Her father was her hero. But what will happen when she finds out he wasn’t a hero at all?

Eric’s instructions were that each room and bathroom be given a light “going-over” each day. Empty, clean, and reline wastebaskets. Strip beds on Thursdays and make them on other days. Inner windows should be done weekly—Mondays are best because of grubby fingers from grandchildren on Sundays, when most residents have visitors. It’s not exactly what I envisioned when I applied for a cook position, but if it keeps Clem out of Butt Road, I can do it for a while.

When I peek into Anna’s room, I see Clara in the armchair by the window.

“Oh,” I say. “I thought this was Anna’s room.”

“It is,” Clara says, nodding toward the bed where Anna is lying. “Anna, honey, Eve’s just here to make the beds and clean up a bit.”

“Oh,” Anna says. “Okay.”

I open the door wide and push my cart inside. The room is lovely, small but bright, furnished with just a bed, a couple of armchairs, and a dresser. It reminds me of a hotel room. What is unlike a hotel, though, is that everything is labeled—each drawer has a sign labeled UNDERWEAR, BRAS, T-SHIRTS, PAJAMAS. The doors to the closet, the bathroom, and the hallway are labeled, too. It stuns me. Really? Does Anna really not know which door goes where?

“That … thin-jacket suits you,” Anna says to Clara. “It’s the exact blue of your eyes.”

“Thanks, honey,” Clara says. “Blue’s my favorite.”

I take a hand cloth and steal a glance at Clara. Her eyes are a striking blue, almost violet. The exact blue of her cardigan. I slide the cloth back and forth along the windowsill. It’s already pretty clean, and all I’m doing is dragging the little dust that is there back and forth.

Behind me, pages of a notebook ruffle.

“Eve’s the new cook,” Clara says to Anna. “Started this morning.”

I look over my shoulder in time to see Anna visibly relax. “That’s why you’re not in my book.”

I glace at the spiral notebook in her lap. Three rows of Polaroid photos line the double page. I recognize Eric, and a bunch of the residents. A few of the people I don’t recognize, perhaps family members? Underscoring each photo is a name in a thick black pen, as well as a one-word explanation—Doctor. Resident. Friend. Farther below are a few other notes, scrawled in blue Biro.