The Things We Keep(61)

I feel desperately unprepared for this. On the heels of panic, I remember Rosie’s words. “We can make each moment frightening for her with the truth. Or we can lie to her and make each moment happy.”

“Don’t you want to get a good night’s rest before your trip?” I ask.

Anna looks at me. “My motorcycle trip?”

I nod. “You leave early tomorrow.”

Anna looks momentarily annoyed, then sighs. “She’s right,” she says to Luke. “I shouldn’t ride on just a few hours’ sleep. I guess I’ll see you when I get back.”

And she leaves with me.

The fourth time I go into Anna’s room, she’s agitated. The lighting in her room is low, and she keeps looking over her shoulder. I introduce myself as loudly as I can without waking the other residents, then stand in her line of sight. She ignores me, glancing over her shoulder again. It takes me a moment to realize it is her shadow she’s worried about.

“Don’t worry about her,” I say, jabbing my thumb at the shadow. “She’s not coming.”

Anna looks at me and sags, clearly relieved. “Phew,” she says.

Our visits become the highlight of my day. Perhaps it’s because of the quiet or because it’s just the two of us, but conversation is easy. Sometimes we chat for a while before I take her to Luke’s room. I tell her about Clem and about Richard. About what a terrible cleaner I am. Sometimes Anna just listens; sometimes she talks. Anna’s memory isn’t there, and some of her judgments are a little off … but more and more, I’m hit by a feeling that Anna and I are becoming friends.

The next night, when I go to Anna’s room, it’s as if she’s been waiting for me. She’s in her wheelchair by the door, looking expectant. “I’m ready,” she says before I say anything.

I approach slowly. There’s a clarity to her that I haven’t seen before. Rosie told me this could happen—that sometimes, for a short time, people come back. She never did tell me for how long.

I kneel in front of her. “Do you know where we’re going, Anna?”

Tears shimmer in her eyes. “To see him.”

“That’s right. We’re going to see Luke. Is that what you want?”

She nods. I half expect her to wheel herself to Luke’s room; that’s how present she seems. Instead, she takes my hands. “Thank you,” she says.

I try to respond but my words get stuck in my throat, underneath a deadweight of emotion.

“I won’t remember this, will I?” she says.

I shake my head and she nods, lets out a long, wobbly breath. I see so much courage in that breath. I see the person Anna was. No. The person Anna is.

“Oh well,” she says. “Live for the moment, right? It should be easy when that’s all you’ve got.”

“Anna,” I say, finding my tongue. “For the record? You might not remember this. But I promise you that I’ll never forget it.”





30



By the time I haul myself out of bed the next morning, Clem’s already dressed and sitting on the couch. It’s her first day back at school. She’s chosen an interesting outfit: stripy leggings, tutu skirt, a green long-sleeved T-shirt with DIVA written across the chest. And her sparkly sneakers. I pause when I see them. They’re hot pink with flashing lights that trigger when she jumps and they were a gift from her father for her seventh birthday.

“You okay, hon?” I ask, dropping a slice of raisin bread into the toaster.

Clem nods, still staring.

“You looking forward to seeing Legs today?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re going to say sorry to Miranda?”

Clem sighs. “Yes.”

“Good girl. It’s never okay to hit someone, is it?”

She shakes her head. At the sight of her solemn little face, the noose in my stomach that I associate with mother’s guilt pulls tight.

“I’ll be waiting outside when class is out, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And what will you say if someone says something about Daddy?”

“He was my daddy, so I know better than you,” she recites, just like we practiced.

“That’s right,” I say. Clem keeps staring at her shoes. “And Clem?”

I brace, waiting for her to tell me that her name is Sophie-Anne or Laila or Alice. But this time she lets it slide.

“Yeah, Mom?”

“When you say sorry to Miranda, be sure you keep one hand in your pocket, so you can keep your fingers crossed.”

Clem looks up, blinks. And finally, she gives me a big, beautiful smile. At the sight of it, the noose around my stomach releases. A little.

*

Of all my tasks at Rosalind House, I hate ironing the most. Firstly, I have to do it in a little cupboard of a room, with a fold-down board and an iron that fills the entire space with so much condensation that my hair frizzes. Secondly, it takes an exorbitant amount of time to do one shirt, even very badly. Thirdly, because I have a knack of zoning out to pass the time, I tend to have a fairly high incidence of, well, incidents.

This afternoon, I stand in the doorway to Bert’s room. He stares at the iron-shaped mark on his shirt and frowns. “It’s not good enough, Eve. It’s really not good enough.”