The Things We Keep(50)

He nods.

“Even if you don’t remember me?” I ask.

He gets that look in his eye like he’s looking right through me, past my skin and hair and bones and right through my chest, into my soul. “I w-will.”

“Were you always so sweet, or is it the dementia?”

He dips his head. “P-promise me we’ll be together in the end,” he says. “No switching a button, no ending it. Promise?”

I groan. But his face is determined. There’s no arguing.

“Fine,” I say.

“Say … it.”

I roll my eyes. “I promise. We’ll be together in the end. Batshit crazy. And together. I promise.”

*

In the morning, after Young Guy has stolen across the hall into his own room, I sit at my table. My notebook is in the drawer and I get it out. Briefly, my mind wanders to the last time I sat here to write. Things feel very different now. This time, I’m writing a letter to myself. My future self.

November 1, 2013

Dear Anna, Today you made a promise. You promised the young guy with the tea-colored eyes that you would stay with him until the end. No cutting out early, no taking the fast exit. It’s hard to believe you agreed to that, right? I can hardly believe it as I write this.

So why did you agree?

You agreed because this guy is the one you didn’t know you were waiting for. You agreed because, as it is, you’re not going to have long enough together. And you agreed because this guy is a pretty good reason to hang around.

Soon you won’t remember this promise—that’s why I’m writing this down. So if you are reading this now, there’s something else you should know: Anna Forster never breaks a promise.



Anna





22

None of the residents said anything the first time Young Guy held my hand in the big front room, but I know they noticed. Baldy flew into a coughing fit. Southern Lady’s eyes narrowed, then widened. Really Old Lady smiled, but then, she always smiles. (She probably wouldn’t smile if she knew what we got up to at night.) But after a while, they start to like it. I start to like it. And, it might be dementia, but I can’t actually remember a time before his hand rested on mine.

Today it’s the usual suspects in the big front room. And the guy who does the garden. Every now and then, he comes inside with flowers and hands them out. The ladies love that. But today the garden is covered in white stuff, so he must have gotten the flowers sent from somewhere warm.

“Gabriela!” he says when Latina Cook-Lady walks past. He hands her a special bunch of flowers wrapped in brown paper. “Congratulations.”

She gives him a big, happy smile. Today she announced that she has a baby in her belly, and everyone is really excited. I know I should feel excited, too.

Next he gives me a flower. “How are you this morning, Anna?” he asks.

“I’m okay.” I feel bad for not remembering his name. I do, however, remember the name of the flower. “Lovely alstroemeria.”

His face tells me he’s impressed, and I feel pleased.

“Well, well,” he says, “you know your stems. Let me guess, you used to be a florist?”

“Do I look like a florist?”

He considers that. “Now that you mention it, no. What did you do?”

“I was a paramedic.”

I may as well have said that I was the person in charge of the United States. Southern Lady’s mouth pops open, her husband’s eyes widen, Baldy even stops chatting to his imaginary wife.

“You know what a paramedic is, right?” I say, chuckling. “I didn’t say…” I try to conjure up the title for the person who goes to the moon, but it’s temporarily—or permanently?—just out of my reach, “you know, a space person.”

“It must have been exciting,” says Really Old Lady. “Speeding around in those buses with sirens and the lights flashing.”

“Traumatic, more like it,” Baldy says. “Who do you think scrapes the bodies off the street after they leap from those tall buildings?”

“There was some of that,” I say. “But it wasn’t all sirens and dramatics. There was a lot of looking after people who’d had too much alcohol to drink. A lot of routine transfers from places like Rosalind House into the hospital.” Or the place where they keep dead people, I don’t say. The residents start to look a little bummed, so I decide to afford them what they are looking for. “But it had its moments. Once I had to help restrain an A-list famous person who went off on a drug-fueled rampage in a hotel room. And”—I can’t help a smile at this one—“I delivered a baby once, right on the floor of a shop-center place.” I can still see the slimy little thing—a boy—peering up at me from between his mother’s legs. The newspaper had run a story on it, but I’d let Tyrone pose for the picture. The bright lights liked him more than they liked me.

The residents coo and I sit a little taller. It’s been a while since anyone has listened to me like this. Like I know what I’m talking about. “And there was one time—”

“There you are, Grandpa!” We all turn to look at a young girl with spiky yellow fuzz on her head, hovering in the doorway. “Sorry to interrupt. I just really need to talk to my grandpa.” The girl is looking at Baldy, but then her eyes scan the room and stop at me. “Oh. Hello again.”