The Things We Keep(26)

Anna looks at me. “But if you’re the new cook, shouldn’t you be cooking?”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” I smile.

Anna smiles back and I get a strange feeling that somehow, she feels my pain. And for the first time, it occurs to me that perhaps I could just ask Anna what she meant when she said “Help me” the other day. It’s a long shot, of course, but worth a try.

“Anna, can I ask you something?” I say.

She looks surprised. “Sure.”

I squat to rinse out my cloth in the bucket. “The other day, when I was here for my interview, you asked me for help. We were out in the garden. Do you remember that?”

She frowns. “No. I’m sorry.”

“I was handing you your scarf,” I persisted, “and you grabbed my hands and said ‘Help me.’”

There’s a flicker on her face, and I allow myself to hope. “Maybe I needed help registering for the New York marathon? I’ve been meaning to tick that off my bucket list.”

She holds my gaze for a moment, deadpan, then chuckles. A laugh bursts out of me. And something inside me, something that was tightly clenched, unspools. I don’t know what I expected. That Anna would be incapable of humor? That she wouldn’t be a real person? Yes, that’s exactly what I’d thought. And after all the trouble I go to, to make sure Clem treats people with an open mind, I should have known better.

“Do we know each other?” Anna asks suddenly.

My smile fades away.

“You know, you do look familiar, honey,” Clara says.

I can’t believe my bad luck. A person with Alzheimer’s recognizes me.

“You probably recognize me from the newspaper,” I admit.

“The newspaper?” Clara asks. “Are you famous, Eve?”

“Infamous, perhaps. My husband was Richard Bennett. You’ve probably heard of him.”

“Richard Bennett was your husband?” Clara gasps. “Oh, you poor, poor dear.”

“Richard was running an illegal Ponzi scheme,” I explain to Anna. “Because of him, lots of people lost a lot of money. And we, of course, lost our money. That’s why I’m working here.”

“That sucks,” Anna says.

“Yes, it does, rather.” I laugh.

Anna’s face becomes thoughtful. Her eyes are on her lap, her brow is gathered, and her lips work around silent words—like a child reading from a book.

Suddenly she looks up. “Did I see you,” she says, “in the … the garden?”

“Yes,” I say. “That’s when you asked me for help.”

“And … he … was there?”

A feeling of dread creeps in. “Who?”

“Him,” she says. Her forehead creases. Her eyes dart back and forth, searching.

“Do you mean Luke, honey?” Clara asks.

I start to shake my head, but Anna’s eyes go round like she’s seen a ghost. “Yes. Luke.”

This isn’t what I expected.

Anna’s gaze locks on mine. “Please. You have to help me.”

“Is Luke doing something to you, Anna?” I ask.

“What?” She shakes her head. “No!”

“But you said you needed help?”

“Just give her a minute,” Clara says gently. “Too much talkin’ makes it hard for her to think.”

So I wait, willing Anna to keep hold of whatever invisible thread was keeping her with us. Her hands shuffle in her lap, folding and unfolding. I try to imagine what it must be like, not being able to access the words and memories you need to say what you think. I wonder, just for a second, if that would make you want to kill yourself.

Finally Anna leans forward and tugs the sleeve of Clara’s cardigan. “I like that thin-jacket on you,” she says. “It’s the exact blue of your eyes.”

I finish wiping the mantelpiece, then move on to the bathroom. From what I’ve seen, there are still some lights on in Anna. As I finish making up her room, I can’t help but wonder which lights are on, which are blinking, and which ones are completely out.





9

Clementine

Before Daddy died, my biggest wish was for a baby brother called Phil. He’d have chubby fingers and a toothy smile and legs that kicked when he was happy. I used to imagine the way my friends would gather around his stroller for a peek, and I would tell them importantly, Move back! Phil is sleeping. I would be the expert on Phil. When he cried, Mom would say to me, Clem, can you tickle his toes for me? and I would, and Phil would giggle. When we went to the mall, I would push his stroller so Mom could do the grocery shopping. And I would play peekaboo! with him when he got restless. I had it all worked out. I used to think about Phil all the time. I still do, sometimes. But he’s not my biggest wish anymore. My biggest wish is that Daddy was still alive.

Miss Weber stands at the front of the classroom in a red dress with white spots and blue shoes with thick soles, called wedges. “All right, class,” she says, “I’d like everyone to sit in a circle on the mat. Now, since it’s no one’s birthday today … Clementine, would you like to sit in the birthday chair?”

The birthday chair is gold with red rubies all over it, like a throne for a princess. Of course I want to sit in it. Legs sits beside me on the floor and smiles because she is happy for me. Miranda doesn’t smile. I think she wishes she was sitting on the birthday chair instead of me.