The Things We Keep(48)

She’s talking about Luke; of that, I’m now certain. And after tonight, one thing’s for sure. If this is what her life is like—being locked up in her room, alive but not living—I understand why she jumped off the roof. If I were kept locked up, away from the ones I loved, I’d want to kill myself, too.

*

After Anna falls asleep, Rosie and I slip out of her room. We convene in the hallway, in a puddle of moonlight.

“I get the feeling that’s not the first time this has happened?” I say.

Rosie yawns. “Sadly not. Night-restlessness is common. It happens to Luke, too, from time to time.”

“That’s who she meant, isn’t it? When she said ‘Where is he?’”

“Probably,” Rosie admits.

“So why couldn’t we just take her to him?”

“The families have decided they don’t want them to be together, so there’s no point in entertaining it,” she says. “It’s better to just change the subject.”

“But they were … friends, weren’t they? Why wouldn’t the families want them to visit?”

Rosie says nothing.

“Do you think they—?” I start.

“Still have a connection?” she says.

I nod, relieved that Rosie has already considered this. “It’s a tough one,” she says. “No one really knows for sure what people with dementia are capable of.”

“But…?”

“But,” she says, “my guess is that they are capable of a lot more than people think. At the last place I worked, there were two residents with Alzheimer’s, Rodney and Betty. Every afternoon they sat together and watched soap operas and held hands. Their diseases were fairly progressed, and there was no way they could remember that they did this every day, so for them, every time was the first time. Rodney always made the first move, letting their hands touch a little, as if it were an accident. Then, when Betty smiled, he went all in, linking fingers and stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. It was exactly the same every day. On the odd occasion that one of them had visitors or an appointment at that time, they still watched the soap operas with the other residents, but they always seemed a little agitated. And neither of them ever held anyone else’s hand.” She smiles. “Dementia steals things—memories, speech, other abilities. But I don’t think it changes who you are, or who you love.”

“If that’s what you think … how do you feel about the door-locking?” I ask.

“Well, Anna did jump off the roof,” she says. I notice that Rosie is not meeting my eye anymore.

“Rosie,” I say. “What is it?”

She waves a hand at me. “Look, in an ideal world, of course the doors would be unlocked. There’d also be plenty of staff who could stay up with them all night, and they’d have a well-lit area where they could do activities. But even private facilities like Rosalind House don’t have the funding to staff twenty-four-hour activities. I do what I can. But Eric has told me in no uncertain terms that Anna and Luke need to stay in their rooms and that I am to lock the doors. I know it seems cruel. But instead of focusing on that, I try to focus on the things I can do to make life better for them. Every shift I have here, I have the power to make life a little better for them. That is my goal.”

“So why did you tell Anna you were going to take her home?” I ask. “And that her mom would be there? You know her mom is dead, right?”

“Yes,” she says. “But Anna thought she was alive. Did you want me to break it to her that not only was she in a strange place, but that her mother was dead, too?”

“No, but … surely honesty is the best policy? Aren’t you breaking the trust between you by lying?”

Rosie smiles, but it’s a sad expression. “Close your eyes.”

“What?”

She reaches for my forehead, then drags her fingers over my lids until I see black. “Now imagine that when you open your eyes, you’re in a completely unfamiliar place. You don’t recognize anything, you don’t recognize me, and you can’t find anyone you know. You’re scared and confused and disoriented. You ask to be taken home, and someone you don’t recognize tells you this is your home and you’re not going anywhere. Every time you ask for your mother, someone tells you she is dead. And because you can’t retain that information for long, you have to hear it again and again and again. How would that make you feel?”

Rosie speaks gently, without judgment, but still, the words feel like a sucker punch. When I open my eyes, they’re full of tears.

“In the morning, Anna won’t remember that I promised to take her home. All she will know is how she feels. And with any luck, she’ll be feeling safe, secure, and happy.” Rosie watches me, looking for comprehension in my face. “We can make each moment frightening for her with the truth. Or we can lie to her and make each moment happy and joyous. I know what I’d prefer if it were me.”





20

I arrive at work four minutes late the next morning, which isn’t disastrous apart from the fact that my eyes feel scratchy and I can’t stop yawning. It had been a late night. Through the window, I can see Angus in the garden with Clem on his heels, catapulting questions at him. He smiles at something she says, then points off at a bush in one corner of the garden. I am grateful that he likes kids, or at least appears to, because this morning I can use all the help I can get.