The Things We Keep(51)

It’s weird. She’s definitely looking right at me, but she doesn’t seem even slightly familiar. She must have mixed me up with someone else.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” she says. “I wanted to thank you. Your advice worked.”

I study her. She’s too young to be a friend of mine, and if Baldy is her grandfather … I don’t get it. No, I definitely don’t know her.

“I came into your grandmother’s room, remember? A few months ago? I took a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and found you, and we started talking and you gave me some wonderful advice—”

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I think you’ve mixed me up with someone else.”

Baldy, suddenly, is beside the girl. He pats her shoulder.

“I’m sure it was you,” she insists. “You must remember. I told you that Grandpa was worried I’d be cursed if I got married, and you told me to tell him that I’d rather have a year of true happiness than die without knowing what happiness was. And it worked, we’re getting married, right here in the garden of Rosalind House next year!”

As someone with Alzheimer’s, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good seeing a “normal” person get confused. See, I want to say, it can happen to anyone. This young woman seems perfectly together, of sound mind, and still, she is confused.

“My grandmother isn’t a resident here,” I tell her, grateful for this nugget to hold on to, proof that I’m not the one who is confused. “I am.”

There’s a strange sudden stillness in the room. The girl’s gaze bounces to Baldy’s, then slowly slinks back to me.

“I … see,” she says finally. Her cheeks are a little pink, and I hope I haven’t embarrassed her. “I must be thinking of someone else.”

*

A few minutes after Baldy has gone off with his granddaughter, Young Guy and I trundle toward my room. We make the decision to do this without a word, just a look and a nod. Like an old married couple. Given the fact that we’re not likely ever to be an old married couple, I’m glad we’re getting the opportunity now. White flakes are fluttering down outside, and it’s cozy in here. As we walk, he takes my hand. I’ve never been the sentimental type, but the hand-holding is growing on me.

Baldy and his granddaughter are in the entry-hall bit. If Baldy ever possessed the ability to whisper, he has lost it now, and I hear the words “dementia” and “sad.” They’re talking about us.

“I just feel so sorry for them,” she says. “They’re so young.”

I keep walking. I understand that people feel sorry for us. I’d probably feel the same if it had happened to someone else. But Young Guy stops, and because of our interlinked hands, I stop with him. Baldy and the young woman look at us.

“You don’t need to feel sorry for us,” Young Guy says. “We’re a l-lot luckier than most.”

Then he gives me a little tug and we walk together to my room.





23

Clementine

Our guests are lined up against one wall of the gymnasium. Mom is at one end, wearing jeans and flat shoes. Even though we were allowed to invite anyone we liked, most of the boys have brought their moms and the girls have brought their dads. I’m the only girl who has brought her mom.

“Good evening, everyone,” Miss Weber says. She’s wearing a dress, like most of the moms, and pink shoes with ribbons that tie around her ankles. “Thank you so much for coming to our Family Dance Night. We’ve been working very hard on the decorations. Doesn’t the room look great?”

Our guests clap. I notice Miranda’s dad is holding a bunch of flowers. Reds and purples and whites.

“We would like to thank the Heathmonts for donating the materials for our banners and artwork, and the Andersons for providing the trestle tables. And to everyone who brought along cakes and cookies today.”

I grin at Mom. She brought red velvet cupcakes with creamy vanilla icing—I can see them on the table, stacked up into a triangle. Mom’s red velvet cupcakes are the best.

“Soon we’re going to start the dancing, but first, I thought you might like to hear some singing. We’ve been practicing very hard, haven’t we, class?”

Last year we sang a song, too. I can’t remember what it was. But I remember looking out at Daddy in the crowd. The other parents were whispering and nudging and taking videos on their phones, but Daddy just watched. Afterwards, he said he didn’t need to record it on his phone, because it was already recorded in his memory forever.

This year we sing “Firework” by Katy Perry. When we’re finished it’s time to dance with our special person. Freya’s dad picks her up and she wraps her legs around his waist. Miranda’s dad spins her around in circles so her skirt floats all around her. Legs stands on her dad’s feet. I put my arms around Mom’s waist and we sway a little.

“Sorry,” Mom says. “I’m not a very good dancer.”

Afterwards, Mom talks to Harry’s mom, and Harry and I eat red velvet cupcakes and Harry gets vanilla icing on his nose.

“Harry!” I say, giggling. “You’ve got—” I’m laughing too hard to finish.

Harry laughs, too, even though he doesn’t know what’s so funny. “What?”