The Things We Keep(63)

“Where are you going?” she asks as I leave the room.

“To take out the trash. I’ll be right back!”

I pass Rosie in the corridor. When she has disappeared into Bert’s room, I slip into Luke’s. Anna is on Luke’s bed, where I left her. It’s usually like this. They just talk, kiss, touch. Apart from my first night at Rosalind House, when I found them in bed together, the relationship seems fairly innocent.

When Anna hears me, her head snaps around. “Don’t you knock?” she says, frowning.

“Sorry,” I whisper, closing the door behind me. “But it’s—”

Anna holds up a palm. “We’d like some privacy, please.”

Anna’s voice is loud, but I fight the urge to shush her, certain it would only irritate her more. “We need to go, Anna. You have a motorcycle race tomorrow—”

“Cancel it,” she snaps. Then she turns back to Luke.

“But you’ve already paid your entrance fee. And—”

“I. Don’t. Care.”

I feel a flicker of panic. “Okay,” I say. “No race, then. But can you keep your voice down because … Jack is asleep.”

The other day I’d said “the residents” were asleep, and she’d become upset, asking “What residents?” When I mentioned Jack, though, she’d quieted.

Not today.

“Fuck Jack.” As she says it, Anna gives me a look of pure hatred. I stand there, wondering what to do.

“Mom. Mom! Where are you?”

I hurry into the hallway, closing the door behind me.

“There you are!” Clem says. “You said you were taking out the trash!”

“Sorry, hon, I had a couple other things to do first.”

“What things?” Rosie says, coming down the hall with a mug in her hands. She joins Clem and me in a three-point circle in the corridor. “I can finish them for you. You two go home.”

Clem beams.

“Oh no!” I say. “It’s cleaning stuff. I couldn’t ask you to do that, Rosie. Clem, I’ll just be another few minutes.”

“Believe it or not, I can unpack the dishwasher and take out the trash,” Rosie says. “I can even wipe down a counter. Go on. I insist.”

“But—”

“She insists, Mom.” Clem is holding my purse, and her own bag is perched on her shoulders. Her hand slips into mine. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Okay,” I say, but my voice is as thin as the strip of light I can see coming out from under Luke’s door. “Okay. We’ll go.”

Rosie smiles and I take my purse from Clem, put it over my shoulder. I thank Rosie and wish her good night. And then there is nothing left to do but leave.





31

Anna

Eleven months ago …

I was right about Mustache Man. When he said we were going to ‘sort this whole thing out’ he did mean Me and Young Guy. As for the ‘sort’ part—that must have meant he was going to call Jack and the sister. Now all of us gather in a small room and they shout over our heads as if we aren’t even here at all.

“They were in bed together,” Jack cries.

“Yes, Trish found them this morning,” Mustache Man says. His eyes dart around like flies in a jar. “But Anna didn’t seem distressed.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful?” Jack says. “How could you let this happen?”

“What do you suggest?” the sister cries. “That we tie them up like dogs?”

“For God’s sake,” Jack says. “Did I say that? Surely there’s a middle ground between tying them up and letting them roam wild.”

“We don’t tie anyone up at Rosalind House,” Mustache Man says, wiping his brow for the fiftieth time. “And no one is roaming wild.” He looks at me. “The last thing we want is to take away your freedoms, Anna, or yours, Luke. We want you to be happy.” He looks at Jack. “And safe.”

I roll my eyes. Mustache Man should be a diplomat.

“So why don’t we discuss that and see if we can find a solution that is comfortable for everyone?” he says.

I tell Mustache Man that Young Guy and I are comfortable with the current arrangement, and Jack groans. “I don’t doubt that Luke’s comfortable with it,” he says, and then the sister starts going crazy again.

I put my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t stop the noise. It feels like a radio is on in my head, loud, on a talk-back channel in a language I don’t understand. If they’d speak one at a time, and slowly, I might be able to keep up, even join in. Like this, I’ve got no chance. So when Mustache Man asks if Young Guy and I would like “a little break,” I don’t see any point in protesting.

“I’m scared,” I say to Young Guy when we’re in the big front room, sitting side by side on the … giant long chair. My head is resting against him.

“What … w-why?” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

With him, I don’t waste brain energy on trying to say the right things or make sense of my feelings. I simply say what’s on my mind. Sometimes it feels scary, being so stripped bare with someone. Sometimes it feels good.