The Things We Keep(31)

“Can you turn that damn TV off?” Baldy shouts suddenly. Grumpy old bastard. He points to the arm of my chair, where the remote control is resting. I pick it up.

Just so you know, there are about a million buttons on a remote control. Some are green. Some are red. Some are gray. The writing below each button is all gobbledygook—INPUT, AUDIO, AV. I try a gray one. The room fills with loud static noise.

“Are you trying to burst my eardrums?” Baldy yells.

I quickly press another button, a green one. The noise remains, but the picture on the screen changes, then changes again.

I wish Ethan were here. Or Brayden or the other nephew. Kids are so good with electronics.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m trying,” I say, because I really am. I press a red button, but it just gets louder. I look at Young Guy desperately.

He grabs my hand. “Quick,” he says, standing. The animal on his lap jumps off and scampers away. He grabs my hand, and even through the noise, I feel a rush of energy at his touch. Sumo Bunny slides off my lap as he pulls me to my feet. “Let’s … go … out of h-here,” he says.

“Hey!” Baldy cries. “Where are you two going?”

We turn a corner, then another, and finally we stop next to a small table and a mirror and a vase of flowers. My eyes roll over his strong jaw, his dimple, his tea-colored eyes. A warm tingly feeling rises through my body. I’m so transported; I don’t even break his gaze when a woman in a green T-shirt enters the room. Her name badge says LIESEL.

“There you are, Luke!” she says. “We’re just feeding the dogs. If you want to see them, you’ll have to come outside now.”

“Not … t-today,” he says.

“You should go,” I tell him. “You love those damn dogs.”

He shakes his head firmly, definitively. And despite my protests, my heart begins to sing. “No,” he says again. “I’m h-h-happy right where I am.”

*

There’s a knocking sound, somewhere in my room. It sounds like a woodpecker. Knock, knock, knock. I glance at the window at the same time as the door opens.

Suddenly the manager guy is in front of me. “Anna? You have a phone call.”

“A phone call?”

I feel strangely untethered today, on edge, like I’m waiting for someone to sneak up on me, but they never do. I know I’m in my room, at Rosalind House, but when I look for the familiar, I don’t find it. It’s like I’m straddling the line between dementia and reality, and I can’t tell which is which.

“Yes,” he says, “a phone call. Follow me.”

I haven’t had a phone call since I arrived. Not that I’d remember, I guess. I don’t have a phone in my room—too distracting for people with dementia, they say. I’m okay with this. I find it hard, talking on the phone: no facial expressions to rely on, no rising eyebrows or conspiratorial glances. Still, it’s a little excitement, I suppose. A phone call.

As I weave my way to the manager’s office, it occurs to me that it could be bad news. A death? An accident? One of the nephews? By the time Eric hands me the talking end of the phone, I’m fluttery in the chest. I hold it next to my ear, but it takes me a few seconds to remember to say something. “Um … hello?”

There’s a deep throaty-noise, and then … “Anna?”

“Dad?”

There’s a pause. “Anna, it’s Jack.”

I feel a flash of humiliation. “I know. That’s what I said.”

I fight the urge to slap myself in the head. Dad? Seriously? Did I think after a twenty-year absence, he’d just call up and say hi?

“How you doing?” he asks.

“What is it, Jack?” I sound snappy, I know, but after my embarrassing slip, I just want to get off the phone. “Did something happen?”

“No, it’s about tomorrow. I have to take Brayden to Little League, so Helen is going to pick you up. Okay?”

I have no idea what he’s talking about, but the pause goes on and on, so I figure he’s waiting for me to say something. So I say, “Okay.”

“I’m really looking forward to seeing you.”

“Yep,” I say. “Me, too.”

I glance at the doorway. The manager is waiting there. I want to tell him he doesn’t have to wait, that I’ll be able to find my way back to my room, but I’m not so sure I will. Probably best that he waits right where he is.

I stand for a moment longer, and then I realize the phone is beeping into my ear. Jack must have hung up. The manager is still in the doorway, and I don’t want him to know that Jack hung up on me, so I say loudly, “All right—bye, Jack.” Then I put the talking end of the phone on its cradle and follow Eric back to my room.

*

At Rosalind House, people fall asleep a lot, but never in their beds. During the day, while sitting in armchairs, they drop like flies. One minute they’re chatting away, and the next, zzzzzz. Dreamland. But at night, when a comfy bed is at the offering, wham. Wide awake. In this, as with so many things these days, I sympathize with the oldies. I’m tired a lot, and all day I look forward to a nice, restful sleep. But the moment I slip between the sheets, my lids are on stalks.

Tonight when I can’t sleep, I get out of bed and walk into the hallway. Blondie is there.