The Things We Keep(53)

“Mmm?”

“I don’t want to say sorry to Miranda.”

We’re at home now. Mom stops the car and turns off the engine. She turns to face me. “I think it would be good if you did, hon.”

“Why?”

“Because you hurt her. And if you hurt someone, you should say you’re sorry.”

“But Miranda hurt me,” I say, “and she doesn’t have to say sorry.”

Mom opens her mouth, but before she can speak, I crawl into her lap and burst into tears.





25

Eve

It’s hard to describe the joy I feel when I pull my first carrot out of my Rosalind House vegetable patch. It’s a sunny day, and despite a brisk breeze, the whole gang is out here—Clara and Gwen, Luke and Anna. I’ve come to think of the vegetable patch as “our patch,” and I think they have, too. We’ve been working hard all morning, and now Anna and Luke sit on the edge of the garden bed, enjoying the sunshine while Clara and Gwen drink lemonade under the tree. The air smells of earth and herbs. The only sound of significance is the shear of the secateurs as Angus cuts stems.

Clem is out here, too. I think of her yesterday, clawing at Miranda. It was so out of character. Apart from when she was a toddler (and even then, it was only with good reason), I’d never seen Clem hit another child. Now, looking at her, it’s hard to imagine. She watches Angus intently as he explains the different kinds of flowers and how to make them last. Whenever he is around, she seems to gravitate toward him. He is sweet to her, but it makes me wonder—what is she lacking? What can I do to help fill the hole?

I’d spent the previous night searching for a child psychologist for Clem, and I’d managed to get an appointment next week, but in the meantime, her mental health was in my hands. And it wasn’t only her mental health in jeopardy. I couldn’t stop thinking about how Ms. Donnelly looked at me as she recited my address. Did she know something? If she did, I could only hope that she was too distracted by everything that was going on with Clem to figure out what.

I pick some sprigs of rosemary for the roast lamb and some mint for the ice water. Bert won’t like it; he told me off last week for “fancying up the water” (with lemons, that day), but he’s going to have to live with it. It’s a minty-ice-water kind of day.

“Is this enough flowers for you, Eve?” Angus asks. His arms are laden with chrysanthemums, lilies, and hibiscuses—enough to fill an auditorium.

I laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

Angus doesn’t laugh, but his eyes crinkle in the corners, and I guess this is the best I’m going to get. His cool, silent thing is starting to grow on me. Richard was quick to smile, to compliment. After a while, with someone like that, it starts to lose its value. “If there are leftovers,” he says, “just take them home. Put them in your bedroom.”

The word “bedroom” makes me blush.

“My mother used to say that a woman should always have flowers in her bedroom,” he says.

“Did she say why?”

Angus typically just shrugs. But I notice his cheeks are a little pink, too.

A sudden flash of movement to our left steals our attention. An enormous dog has bounced into the yard with its owner on its heels.

“Rupert! Rupert!”

Angus puts down the flowers and goes to help. The dog seems to think it’s a game. It bounds this way and that, like a toy attached to a spring. Luke, who’d been sitting on one edge of the garden bed near Anna, stands, while Anna shrinks behind her hands. That’s when I remember: Anna is afraid of dogs.

Angus has herded the dog toward the gate, but just as the owner is about to grab its collar, it bounds away, across the lawn. Anna lets out a shriek. The dog heads toward her but before it gets there, I leap, catching the dog around its waist. I roll to the ground. I might as well have tackled Angus. It’s heavy—really heavy—and wriggling. I pull tight around its belly. My breathing is ragged, and something doesn’t feel quite right in my elbow, but I’m not letting go.

A moment later, Angus grabs the collar and passes it to the owner.

“Sorry,” the man says. “So sorry.”

Angus helps me to my feet. I glance over toward the vegetable patch to see how Anna is faring and my breath catches.

“Angus,” I say. “Remember when you told me that Luke used to protect Anna from the dogs when the pet therapy people came to visit?”

“Yeah.”

“You also said you weren’t sure if people with dementia were capable of having real feelings for others.”

He cocks his head, panting. “Yeah, I think I said that.”

I point at the vegetable patch, where Luke is crouching in front of Anna. His arms are outstretched and she is tucked in, safely, behind him.

“What do you think now?”

*

After the dog commotion, Clem asks if she can head inside and watch some TV. Once she is settled, I get out the cleaning cart and get busy. I spritz, wipe, dust, and vacuum until my arms feel like a pair of noodles. And the whole time, I’m thinking about Luke and Anna.

What I would give to know what was going on inside their brains! Eric said “Falling in love requires memory, communication, reason, decision making,” but did it, really? After seeing Luke today, I can’t help but think that love is more like a river—it wants to flow. And if one path is blocked off, it simply finds another.