The Things We Keep(5)

2

There’s something in my soup, floating between a chunk of carrot and a green bean. It’s not a hair or a fly. It’s white. It’s about two inches long and curved around itself like a spiral. I reach into my bowl and give it a squeeze. It compresses between my fingers, then springs back like a piece of rubber. Before I even put it in my mouth, I know what it will taste like: bland, chewy, but appealing. I like this food. Why can’t I remember what it’s called?

“Tastes like an old boot, right?”

When I look over, the old lady next to me is watching me. I’m grateful it’s her speaking because the alternative, on my other side, is an old bald man who keeps referring to the empty seat beside him as “Myrna.” At one point, he even asked someone to pass Myrna the salt. So much for no crazies at Rosalind House.

“I’m sorry?”

“The pasta,” she says. “It tastes like an old boot.”

Pasta! I feel a thrill akin to finding a missing, well, boot.

“Actually, the pasta’s all right,” I say. “It’s the rest of it that’s the problem.”

“I s’pose you’re right,” she says, examining the spiral on her own spoon. “Beans and celery and watery soup—the pasta’s the savin’ grace, really.”

The woman has a Southern accent, which cheers me a little. After all, how could you not like someone with a Southern accent? Then again, there’s the rednecks and Ku Klux Klan, but this woman doesn’t look like she’s affiliated with either. She’s younger than the rest of the residents, who remind me of mottled pieces of driftwood ready to sink to the ocean floor. This woman, on the other hand, while probably eighty, seems able-bodied—verging on spry.

“I seem to have forgotten your name,” she says.

I nearly laugh. “It’s Anna.”

“I’m so forgetful these days, aren’t I, sweet thing?” Southern Lady looks at the old man next to her with such adoration that I feel something move in my stone-cold heart. Then she looks back at me. “I’m Clara. This here’s Laurie,” she says, pointing to the man next to her with a spoon, “my husband.”

I observe Clara’s face, looking for clues as to whether she actually forgot my name or if it was just a clever way of introducing herself. If it’s the latter, I like her even more.

“I’m glad you came out for lunch today,” she says. “I’ve been lookin’ forward to having another young person to talk to.”

There’s something nice about a woman in her eighties referring to herself as a “young person.” I don’t see any reason to tell her that I came out here only because Jack is visiting this weekend, and I know he’ll ask me if I’ve ventured out of my room. If I can say yes, we’ll have a nice visit, a relaxed visit. Maybe we’ll even share a few jokes? In an ideal world, we’d also share a beer or two, but the world, of course, is not ideal.

“Have you met our Luke?” Clara asks, tipping her head toward the young guy opposite her. Somehow, I’d completely missed him. All at once, I realize Clara wasn’t talking about herself when she mentioned another young person. She was talking about the other person like me.

“I don’t think so,” I say, “which means it’s entirely possible.”

With his head down, he chuckles. I’m pleased to note he’s not so far gone that he can’t appreciate a little dementia humor. I give him the once-over. He has golden skin, straight white teeth, a dimple. His wavy hair is near black and long enough to tuck behind his ears, and his blue shirtsleeves are pushed up over his strong forearms. Well.

Clara lowers her voice, but not nearly enough. “Sexy, right?”

“So you’re my counterpart?” I say, ignoring Clara. “Young person, old mind.”

He laughs again. “I g-guess you could s-say that.”

My counterpart has a stutter, but otherwise he seems remarkably normal. He lifts his gaze. His eyes are the shade of weak black tea. The way I have it.

“How are you s-settling in?” he asks, and I shrug. “Takes some getting used to, this place,” he says. “The g-group meals, the activities, the showers…”

I wince, remembering the showers. Perhaps stupidly, it never occurred to me that I’d be assisted with those. But the laminated white square on my bathroom wall had other ideas. There, in erasable pen, I could find my scheduled daily wash time, and the moment the clock ticked over to that time, a helper lady barged in, ready to strong-arm me into the shower.

“It’s policy,” she’d say when I explained that I did not require a chaperone. “I’m not interested in peeking. I’ll just wait by the door in case you need me.”

Now I always consulted the laminated square and made sure to finish my shower by the time she showed up. When she asked me about it, I blamed the dementia. “Oh, I was meant to wait for you? Silly me.”

“I hate the showers,” I tell him.

“It’s t-tough, the first few weeks,” he says. “I remember.”

His dimple bobs on his cheek, and I can’t help but smile. I suppose he does remember. My eyes drift down to his hands, which are resting lightly on the table—large, masculine, yet somehow elegant.