The Things We Keep(32)

“You okay?” I ask her. There’s a room at the end of the corridor designated for the nurse on night shift, and usually by this time of night, she is in it.

She laughs. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Couldn’t sleep?” Blondie sounds happy and cheery, as usual.

“Thought I’d walk around a bit,” I say. “That okay?”

“Fine by me.” She holds up her thick-cup by the handle. “Want a hot chocolate? I’m making one for myself.”

I tell her no thanks and she heads for the kitchen. I go in the opposite direction. Rosalind House is a beautiful building, but by the light of only a couple of floor lamps, anything can look creepy, especially when you are alone. In the dark, I feel agitated. What am I supposed to do? Turning on the TV isn’t an option, as the residents are light sleepers and I’d rather be captured by gremlins than wake up Baldy. He’s grumpy enough on eight hours’ sleep. So my choices are to stand here in the dark … or to walk.

My legs feel tingly, so I walk. A few times up and down the staircase. I vaguely remember Dr. Brain telling me exercise was good for Alzheimer’s. For some reason, this makes me laugh. What a diligent student I am!

After a minute or so, I stop walking. I’m tired now. It often happens this way—wide awake one minute, and the next, weariness hits like a train. I turn to head back to my room, then pause. Am I upstairs or downstairs? I glance around. I’m on a flat area of carpet. Right ahead is a corridor with doors leading off it on either side. I must be downstairs.

I turn to face the stairs, but instead of rising up before me, they fall away, like a hole. I look around again. Corridor, doors, giant hole. I must be at the … Nope. I can’t work it out.

I pace a little, staying well clear of the hole. I’m sleepy and I just want to go to bed. It’s like I’m in a box. A f*cking box. Like that spooky room in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, the one with only one door that no one can find. What if I can’t find it? What if I’m stuck in this box forever?

“Damn.” I kick the wall. “Stupid. Fucking. Stairs.”

I hear footsteps. Blondie! She’ll save me. I turn and, before I can stop myself, gasp. There’s someone at the bottom of the hole, and it’s not Blondie. I feel a twinge of fear or excitement or something.

“What are you d … doing?” Young Guy asks.

“Just walking,” I say. For some reason, I’m too proud to tell him I’m lost. “I’ve got a dead leg.”

“Wanna see s-s-omething?” He points beyond me. “Up there.”

Before I can answer, he’s dropped to his hands and knees and is crawling up the stairs. Must be to do with the depth perception—ten points for creativity. At the top, he rises to his feet and grins at me.

I try to grin back, but it sticks halfway.

He’s wearing a white V-neck and thin, navy-blue sweatpants—so thin, I can make out the shape of his legs (muscular) underneath. He makes sweatpants look pretty good. He gives me a one-eye blink and walks past me toward the front of the house.

“Come on,” he says. “Walk copy me.”

I’m getting used to his funny use of words, even starting to find it charming. He doesn’t seem embarrassed by any of it: the crawling, the stuttering, the muddled language. The way he owns it; it’s inspiring. And dead sexy.

He takes me to another set of stairs and crawls up. I follow on two feet. Then, at the end of the corridor, he opens a door. My heart is thundering. What are we doing? Where is he taking me?

“A-a-after you,” he says.

“No thanks.” My voice trembles a little. “After you.”

He goes in and touches a thing on the wall, and the room lights up. It’s a big room, like the parlor, but empty, apart from a few irregular-shaped mounds covered in white sheets. At one end of the room is a huge floor-to-ceiling window.

“Wow,” I say. “How did you know this was here?”

“When it’s n-nighttime and there’s no one around, you … find all many … things.”

Young Guy does a lap of the room, past a lamp and a fireplace that is covered with newspaper. He stops just inches in front of me. My breath catches. Considering I’ve known Young Guy only a short time, I’ve been up close to him quite a lot. Enough that the slope of his cheeks and the faint smatter of stubble on his face are comforting.

Comforting yet, at the same time, terrifying.

I become aware that the silence has gone on awhile, so I open my mouth to fill it. But he shakes his head.

“Just…” he says, “don’t talk.…”

His arms find my waist and pull me closer. And he presses his mouth to mine.

His lips are soft and warm. And suddenly, it feels like I’m floating. Young Guy tastes like peppermint; smells like it. I breathe him in. And then, as fast as it started, the kiss is over.

“Wow,” I say.

He smiles shyly, then drifts over to one sheet-covered mound and flicks off the sheet. Underneath is an old-fashioned record player.

“You like Nat King Cole?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, but my voice is hoarse. Did that just happen?

“G-good. Because that’s a-a-all there is.”

He slides the record out of the cover, parks it on the dial, and lowers the pointy bit. In the next breath, Nat King Cole’s rich baritone notes fill the room. Young Guy and I stare at each other, expressionless.