The Things We Keep(37)

Eric runs over to me. “Are you all right?”

I stand upright. “I’m fine.”

“It’s all right, sweetie,” Carole says to Anna. She approaches her quickly, getting right up in her face. “Everything is all right.”

“No, it’s not!”

Unlike my push, which I think was unintentional, this time Anna gives Carole an almighty shove. Carole hits the ground with a thud, landing awkwardly on her elbow.

“We need to restrain her,” Eric says. “Trish?” he calls out.

“Oh no,” I say, “I don’t think—”

But Trish is already jogging into the room.

“Anna is getting agitated,” Eric says. “She’s just pushed Eve and Carole.”

“She didn’t mean to push me,” I say. “It was an acciden—”

“Do you need a tranquilizer?” Trish asks.

“No!” I say at the same time as Eric says, “Probably best to be safe.”

I can’t believe this is happening. Anna still seems agitated, but she’s not exactly wielding a knife. She’s just in her chair, looking at her lap, muttering quietly. I hear what she’s saying, but it doesn’t make any sense. It sounds like “beat the bomb, beat the bomb.”

Before I know what’s happening, Trish is back with a syringe. She approaches Anna from the side, so she doesn’t see it coming. When she drives the needle into her arm, Anna lets out a high-pitched, pained wail.

My hands find my mouth. I want to look away, but for some reason, perhaps out of solidarity with Anna, I can’t. Help me. They are following us. Beat the bomb. I search her words for a common thread, a clue to what she’s trying to tell me. But they just sound like the words of someone at a disconnect with reality. Someone with Alzheimer’s.

“There you go, sweetie,” Trish says as Anna sinks back into her chair. Anna continues to stare at me for a few seconds with something like pleading in her eyes. But as the tranquilizer works its way into her system, her expression dulls away to nothing.





15

One of the best things about cooking is that, by and large, you can control it. If something is too spicy, you can counteract it with cream or yogurt. If something is too sour, add sugar. Dealing with real life is nowhere near so simple. Since Richard died, some days I get the feeling I’m falling down a hole with nothing to grasp on to. On those days, I grasp on to food. That’s why, the afternoon after Anna is sedated, I go to the grocery store.

I don’t know what it is about squeezing an avocado that fills my heart with song. My basket is full of sweet corn, butternut squash, Dutch carrots, and free-range eggs. At intervals, I raise my basket to my nose simply to inhale. It feels so good to be back at Houlihan’s, my old grocery store. I’ve missed the organic produce, the high-end brands. In here, it’s easy to forget the reality of my life as a widowed housekeeper—even for an hour.

It takes me a while to realize that I’m not shopping for two anymore and my basket isn’t going to cut it. I’m on my way to the front to retrieve a shopping cart when a crisp iceberg lettuce catches my eye—perfect for a cold wedge salad starter. If I throw in some flat-leaf parsley, tomatoes, cucumber, and a couple of hard-boiled eggs, it will be lovely for this evening. Olive oil and cider vinaigrette for dressing. Even the residents with dentures could cope with that.

I reach for the top lettuce, the biggest one, still beaded with water from the mister. But before I can touch it, I feel a weight on my shoulder and I’m whipped around so fast, I drop my basket. There’s a crunchy sound: eggs breaking. Before I can steady myself, a hand shoots out and thwacks against my cheek.

“You!”

I step back, away from the finger that is now thrust in my face, and grasp the cool metal rail behind me. What on earth? I don’t recognize the woman standing before me. She’s older than me, perhaps forty, with a neat brown haircut.

“Well?” she cries. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

The part of my cheek where the slap connected begins to throb. My ear is ringing in a long endless line, like a hospital beeper after someone has died.

“My parents invested their entire life’s savings in your husband’s scheme! They weren’t those big-time investors who had money to burn, they were a hardworking couple who wanted to secure their future. Now their home is in foreclosure and they are broke.”

My mouth goes dry. Shoppers have hushed; people look up from their baskets, exchange glances by the potatoes. I can actually feel their eyes on me. That’s Eve Bennett. So much for her getting her comeuppance. She’s a fraud. Just like her husband.

In the dead quiet, there’s a sharp intake of breath. I see Andrea Heathmont peering around the end of the aisle. Another blonde is beside her, Romy Fisher maybe. My heart sinks further.

“Because of you,” the lady continues, “my parents have shopped at Bent and Dent these last few months! And you’re shopping for organic produce at the most expensive food store around? Where’s the justice?”

My eyes drop to my basket. “Oh! No. This isn’t for me.”

“And why should I believe you? You’re probably a liar and a swindler just like your husband. That man did the world a favor when he—”

“That’s enough.”