The Things We Keep(29)

Mom serves fettuccini with bacon, cherry tomatoes, and spinach. When she comes to our table, I sink in my seat because I’m supposed to eat dinner in the kitchen, but Mom just winks at me. She must be feeling happy today.

“My daddy loved this pasta,” I tell Clara. “It was his favorite. We used to pretend it was Rapunzel’s hair. Daddy would say ‘Rapunzel! Let down your hair.’ And I would hold the fork above his mouth and unwrap the pasta straight into his mouth.”

“It sounds like he was a good daddy,” Clara says.

“He was.”

“How was school?” she asks.

“Okay. I got to see Legs. My best friend. Allegra is her name, but everyone calls her Legs.”

“Well, these are my friends,” Clara says. She points her fork at some of the others at the table. “May and Gwen and Bert.”

Bert is the bald one that kicked me out of his friend’s seat. I notice that no one has sat in it yet.

“I’m not sure your friend is coming,” I tell him. “I can ask my mom to keep something hot for her, if you like.”

The man looks straight ahead as if he didn’t hear me. I know old people can’t hear very well, so I say it again.

“Thank you very much, young lady,” he says, “I heard you the first time.”

“Then why didn’t you say so?” I ask.

Clara says: “I hope you’re going to do some more Irish dancing for us tonight, Clementine. We really enjoyed it, didn’t we, everyone?”

Everyone nods and smiles and says yes, they enjoyed it. Not Bert. He just stares at the spot he saved for his friend. Like he can’t believe she didn’t show up.

“Maybe she’s not feeling well?” I suggest.

Bert keeps looking at the chair. “I don’t think it’s that.”

“Then why didn’t she come to dinner?”

Bert looks at me for a long time without saying anything. Sometimes grown-ups just need a little longer than kids to speak. Their brains are a bit slower, I think. Finally, he says, “She did.”

“She did?” I say, astonished. “I didn’t see her.”

“That doesn’t mean she wasn’t here.”

People are getting up now, ready to go to the front room. I get off my seat and climb onto the empty seat next to Bert. But he just stands up, too.

“Wait!”

Bert stops. He’s frowning, but not like he’s mad. More like he’s tired. “Yes?”

“Is your friend invisible?”

He smiles even though he looks like he doesn’t want to. He looks different when he smiles. He looks nice.

“She’s invisible to most people,” he says. “But I can see her.”

“That is so cool.”

He smiles again. “Yes, it is … cool, I suppose.”

Suddenly, I leap off my seat. “Was I just sitting on her?”

Now he chuckles. He likes me, I can tell. Though, if I was sitting on her, his friend probably doesn’t like me so much. “No. You’re all right.” Bert takes the handles of his walker and rattles it toward the door.

“Wait,” I say again.

He sighs. “Yes?”

“Why can you see her and no one else can?”

Bert thinks about that for a minute. “I can see her because I really, really want to.”

“You mean … if there’s someone that I can’t see … and I really, really want to … I can?”

“You can try.”

“And I’ll be able to talk to them, too?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

“Even”—I lower my voice—“if he’s dead?”

Bert frowns. I guess that was silly of me. Of course you can’t see or talk to someone who is dead! But Bert bangs his walker toward me and bends until he is around my height. It looks like hard work, the bending. I hope he doesn’t get stuck like that. “If I were dead,” he says, “and a pretty young lady like you wanted to talk to me … I sure as heck’d be coming back for visits.”

I’m so happy that my eyes fill up with tears and I throw my arms around his neck and almost knock him to the ground.





11

Eve

The day passes like a mile-long train. I change sheets with suspicious-looking stains. I almost throw out a set of false teeth with a half-filled glass of water. Now I wipe the last of the crumbs from the kitchen bench, then rinse out the cloth and hang it over the faucet. My back aches. I’d always fancied myself as being fairly fit, but housework is something else. I feel withered, broken, in pain.

Clem is in the front room, watching TV, waiting to be taken home. Emerson, the agency nurse, is in the parlor, reading a novel. The residents are in their rooms, readying themselves for bed, and I can’t wait to do the same. I wash my hands, pick up my manual, then head up the hall to say good night to the nurse.

“I’m off for the night, then.”

Emerson looks up from her book. “Okay. Shall I pop in and see the residents before bed, or are they best left alone?”

I have no idea. On one hand, I’m reluctant to disturb them, given the way I walked in on Clara this morning. On the other hand, after my conversation with Anna this afternoon, I’d like to check in on her again. Maybe she’ll remember what she meant when she said “Help me.”