The Things We Keep(60)

“I’m sorry, Angus.”

“It’s fine.” He hands me the cilantro and smiles. “For you.”

“Thank you.”

I turn back to the sink, shove my hands into the rubber gloves. I know I’m doing the right thing, but sometimes the right thing feels so wrong. I’m still pondering this a few minutes later when I hear footsteps behind me.

“Eve! There you are.”

I turn. Eric is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. My heart sinks.

“Do you realize it’s nearly ten o’clock?” he asks. His face is ruddy and his hair a little unkempt.

I glance at the clock. He’s right. By ten o’clock, according to my manual, the breakfast dishes are supposed to be done and the residents’ rooms should be made up. I doubt, in all the months I’ve been here that I’ve met that timeline, but I was late this morning, and my corn fritters took three tries to get them right, so today I’m definitely behind the eight ball.

“Shoot!” With my forearm, I push the hair out of my face and start on the last pot. “Sorry, Eric. I’m almost done here.” There’s a tray of orange and poppy-seed muffins cooling on the kitchen table and I gesture at them. “Have a muffin, Eric. Fresh from the oven!”

I force a smile, but for the first time, Eric doesn’t return it.

“Eve, I’m concerned that you’re getting your priorities out of whack. Your role is a cook-housekeeper. And the housekeeping side of things, to be honest, is not up to scratch.”

This hits a nerve. “In fairness, Eric, I’m filling in doing the housekeeping. And it’s actually a lot more work than I expected.” I put the pot in the drying rack and turn around. “I thought you’d have found someone by now. I can’t imagine it is a difficult role to fill, and it’s already been months—”

“Actually there’s been a change of plan in relation to that position,” he says. “I’ve just heard from above that the budget has been cut, and the cleaning is going to be a permanent part of your role now.”

I blink.

“I know it’s not ideal,” he says, “but that’s our reality. We’re cutting costs.”

Eric isn’t quite meeting my eye. I get a funny feeling.

“Why are we cutting costs?” I ask. “I’d have thought that with the amount that the residents pay, there would be a good profit to be made here. I mean, the food budget is already tiny—”

“The decision has come from above,” he says. His tone is sharp and final. “If you’re not up for it, I’ll find someone else.”

“I … I didn’t say I wasn’t up for it.”

But that’s exactly what I want to say. I want to tell Eric to stick his cleaning job. I want to literally throw in the (dish) towel. But without this job I have no address in Clem’s school district, and the last thing she needs, especially now, when she is having trouble, is to be moved to another school.

“So,” he says expectantly. “What do you say?”

“It’s fine, Eric. I’ll do the cleaning permanently,” I say through my teeth.

“Glad to hear it.” Eric finally picks up a muffin and takes a bite. “It’s very good,” he says on his way out the door. As he walks away I notice his smile, the one he was curiously missing a few moments ago, is back.

*

My visits to Anna become a nightly occurrence. The routine is pretty simple: Every night after dinner, I go into her room and take her for a little walk. Rosie is busy at that time of night, and Trish and Carole have left for the day, so it’s surprisingly easy. Once Anna is in Luke’s room, I clean up the kitchen or watch a little TV with Clem, and ten or fifteen minutes later, I wheel her back again.

It’s not an ideal scenario. I worry that Clem will come looking for me, or that Luke or Anna will become agitated, or that Rosie could go into Anna’s room and find her missing. But it’s only a few minutes, I tell myself. And a few minutes can mean the difference between life and death.

The first few nights go smoothly, and during the daytime, Anna has seemed more cheerful. Luke has been more engaged, too. But each night I have to start from scratch, introducing myself to Anna, asking her if she’d like to see Luke.

“I wondered if you’d … like to see Luke,” I say when I arrive in her room tonight. “Luke is the young guy. Dark hair, brown eyes—”

“Cute?” she says.

I grin. “Very cute.”

I’ve come to enjoy the repetition of our nightly exchange. Night after night, Anna reacts to the same situation exactly the same way. There’s something wonderful about it. What else is wonderful is that she’s never resistant to visiting Luke. As soon as I mention him and give a few details, her whole demeanor lifts. How, I wonder, if she doesn’t remember him? With no logical explanation, I’m forced to conclude that some part of her remembers. The heart, perhaps.

My least favorite part is getting her to leave Luke’s room again.

“We’re busy,” Anna says one night, when I try to retrieve her. “Go away.”

“I need to take you back to your room, Anna. You can come back tomorrow.”

“No,” she says a little more aggressively. “You come back tomorrow!”