The Things We Keep(33)

“This is a joke, right?” I say as the swell of tension gives way to laughter. “‘Unforgettable’?”

“No,” he says, even though he’s laughing now, too. “I’ve listened to this record before, but I don’t remember hearing this song.”

“You … don’t”—A wave of hysteria hits. Now I’m laughing so hard, I can barely get the word out—“remember?”

That sets him off, which sets me off again. Which sets him off again. And for the next few minutes, he and I are just two young people. Laughing. Kissing. And listening to Nat King Cole.





13

When Jack and I were in third grade, he brought me for show and tell. (Well, he didn’t bring me, because I was already there, but he did tug me out of my seat and drag me to the front of the room.)

“This is my sister, Anna,” he told the class, which of course, they already knew. He hadn’t done me the courtesy of forewarning me of this sideshow, and judging by the way Mrs. Ramsey’s eyes shrank into her head, he hadn’t done her the honor either. Anyone else but Jack—the teacher’s pet—might have gotten into trouble for not preparing, but Jack, even at nine, was smooth as a silk tie. “And for show and tell today, I’d like to tell you about her.”

It was, when I think of it now, classic Jack. I was the tough one; he was the sensitive one—the perfect yin to my yang.

“Anna can write her name in Chinese,” he started.

He looked so comfortable, standing at the front of the room. The only time I’d stood at the front was when I was getting in trouble. This was different. Thirty pairs of eyes watched me as Jack offered me a piece of chalk and stood there, grinning, until I wrote my name on the blackboard in Chinese.

“Anna has broken three bones,” he said when I was finished. “She didn’t even cry when she broke her wrist, so Mom didn’t take her to the doctor for three days!”

The class oohed at this, and I grinned and said, “Yes, it’s true,” and “No, it didn’t hurt so bad.”

“Anna ran into the haunted house on Nicholson Street and knocked on the door when no one else was brave enough.”

Mrs. Ramsey’s eyes almost disappeared. I shrugged noncommittally.

“Anna can ride a bike without holding the handles.”

This wasn’t actually that hard, but Jack had always been easily impressed.

“Anna can do lots of things that I can’t do,” he finished up. “I’m really lucky to have such a cool twin.”

Jack shifted to put his arm around me, which was weird, but I allowed it. He could be such a cornball sometimes.

“Jack’s brought up an important point, class,” Mrs. Ramsey said. “We’re all special in our own unique ways. Even Jack and Anna, who are twins, have lots of differences. Anna, why don’t you tell us something special about Jack? Something he can do that you can’t?”

Jack was still right beside me, holding me like I was some kind of trophy. At nine, the idea of “uncoolness” was already starting to hover around the edges of my consciousness, but Jack just looked so proud, I thought he might cry.

Mrs. Ramsey was looking at me, waiting for an answer, so I said: “Jack is really good at math,” and we took our seats again. But later, when I thought about it, I wished I’d said something different. I wished I’d said, Jack knows how to make you feel like the most important person in the room.

*

After I’ve lived in the big house with all the old people for two months, I’m allowed a “home visit.” Everyone talks about the home visit in tra-la-la voices, as though it’s some kind of prize—a conjugal visit for a prisoner who’s been behaving himself. It makes me think of The Bachelor. Toward the end of each series, the final four girls are invited to take the Bachelor back to their homes to meet their families, let him see them in their home environment. When the girls find out they’ve made the final four, they squeal and cheer. We’re getting a home visit! Woop-Woop! To me, it always seemed shortsighted. After all, odds are there won’t be a second visit. Three of the girls are about to be booted off the show. The fairy-tale ending is unlikely at best. And for me, it’s even less likely.

I’m in the parlor when the woman comes in, tossing her bouncy hair. She’s wearing jeans and a pink cardigan and large hoop earrings, and she’s smiling at me. I’m starting to wonder if she’s simple when it dawns on me: It’s Helen. After a long night of kissing and dancing (nothing else) in the upstairs room with Young Guy, my brain isn’t all here.

“Anna!”

Helen and I don’t normally hug (as I recall), but as she comes at me with open arms, I feel it would be rude to point that out. I also decide it’d be rude to ask why the hell Jack—the blood relative, the family member—isn’t here to pick me up. But I ask anyway.

“Jack and the boys are at Brayden’s Little League game.” Helen pulls back slowly and frowns, like she’s suddenly noticed I’ve grown a third nostril. “Remember? Jack called yesterday to tell you. They’ll be home when we get there.”

“Oh, right,” I say. No need to point out that Jack had forgotten.

When we arrive, as promised, they’re there. They’ve even erected a banner: WELCOME HOME ANNA. My first thought is … but I’m not home. I’m here for my “home visit.”