The Things We Keep(67)

“Just to be clear, Eve, you shouldn’t have done this. You took this whole thing into your own hands, and it could have had disastrous consequences for everyone.”

“What kind of consequences?” I ask. “And don’t give me the whole issue of consent, because I don’t buy it. Clearly both Anna and Luke would consent to this! I even—”

“I agree they would consent,” Rosie says quietly.

My mouth is already full of a retort, but suddenly, I stop. “You do?”

She nods. “But, Eve, if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it my way.”

I blink. “You mean…?”

A small smile appears on Rosie’s lips. “Yes, we’re going to do it. But this time, we’re going to do it right.”

*

From that night on, it’s Rosie’s rules.

Each night, Rosie locks Anna’s and Luke’s doors, and around five minutes later, before I leave, I unlock them again. It’s semantics, but it makes Rosie feel better to be able to tell Eric she has locked the doors if she’s asked a direct question. Then, once everyone is asleep, Rosie goes in and ushers one over to the other. She lets them have a visit, but she keeps the doors open and checks in on them regularly. This, she said, was a nonnegotiable part of the arrangement, and though I didn’t entirely understand it, I didn’t care. Anna and Luke are together. I am keeping my promise.

Today, I’m wheeling the cleaning cart down the hall when I run into Angus. He’s holding an armful of flowers.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” he says.

“You have some dirt on your face.” I reach out, wipe it off his cheek. Then I quickly take my hand back.

“Gone?” he asks.

“Sorry. I’m clearly the mother of a young child.”

He laughs and I feel an overwhelming wave of pure lust.

“Does the offer of dinner still stand?” I ask suddenly. Perhaps it’s the laugh, or maybe the fact that Anna and Luke’s connection has renewed my faith in love, but the words just tumble out of me.

“Sure,” he says, startled. “Absolutely. But what about Clem?”

“Clem wants me to be happy,” I say. “And life is … well, rather short. Isn’t it?”

Angus’s eyes twinkle. “That it is.”

“So, how’s Thursday night?” I ask.

“Thursday night is good,” he says, and he tucks a flower behind my ear.

I make a mental note to thank Anna.

*

At three P.M., I wheel the cleaning cart into Clara and Laurie’s suite. I’m supposed to make up all the residents’ rooms after breakfast each morning, but at this stage, it’s more of a goal than a reality. And with everything else that’s going on, it’s fallen even further down my list of priorities.

I start with the bathroom to get it out of the way. I hate the bathrooms. The smells, the streaks, the smudges. I spray the shower screen, wipe the vanity. I pour a little bleach into the toilet, leave it for a minute or two, then flush it down. I rehang the towels squarely and neatly. The floor looks clean enough, so I leave it alone. Finally, I pick up the used towels and carry them out to the hamper.

It’s a legal requirement that each resident has a separate room, but because Clara and Laurie are married, they converted one bedroom into a living room, with a sofa and television and dressing table. When I get out of the bathroom, Clara is sitting at the dressing table, looking at the photographs that litter the countertop.

“It’s just me,” I say. “Shall I keep cleaning, or would you like me to come back later?”

Clara glances over her shoulder. “Oh, go ahead, honey, don’t mind me.” She picks up a photo frame, looks at it, puts it down again.

I wipe down the tables, vacuum the floor, make up the bed. Then I get out my feather duster. “Okay if I dust?”

“Of course.”

I pick up a photo in a heavy silver frame to dust underneath. As I put it down, it catches my eye. “Is this you and Laurie?”

“Our wedding day.” She throws me a smile. “Laurie and I have been together sixty-one years.”

“Wow. What a wonderful achievement.”

It is an achievement; I’ve always thought so. All marriages, even good ones, involve a lot of work, a lot of compromise. It says a lot about a person, I think, if they make it to the end with the one person.

Then, as it happens every so often, I’m thinking about Richard.

“I’m sorry,” Clara says. “I shouldn’t be saying this, with your husband and all.”

“It’s all right. I like hearing about happy endings. Even if I don’t get to have one.”

“Oh, honey.” She sighs. “There’s nothing happy about endings.”

I replace the photo. Clara doesn’t seem herself. She’s holding a string of pearls in one hand, rolling a single fat pearl between her fingers, and I notice that she looks terrible—somehow puffy and gaunt all at once. Her makeup is too dark for her complexion, and her pink lipstick bleeds into the lines of her mouth.

“Are you all right, Clara?” I ask.

“Course I’m all right, honey,” she says. “Just … a headache, is all.”

“Shall I get Laurie for you?”