The Things We Keep(78)

Dr. Li glances at me, presumably to see how much I am taking in. The answer is all of it. Every word.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I concentrate on my words to make sure this comes out right. “It sounds horrible, what you said. I know I’m … not getting things right anymore, I’m getting confused and doing strange things. But I’m…” I pause to wipe my face. “I’m still here. It’s just—you have to look a little longer and harder to find me.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the doctor push her chair back, trying to pretend she’s not there. Jack slides forward in his chair and looks at me. And for the first time since I checked into that place with the old people, maybe for the first time since I was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Jack sees me.





42

Eve

“Clem’s not talking.”

It’s late afternoon, and I’m pressed into a corner of the cleaning cupboard, on my cell phone. I’ve already told Dr. Felder about Clem running away from school and seeing Angus kiss me in the garden. So far, Dr. Felder has just listened. It’s nice, the way she listens. It makes me realize how much I’ve missed having someone to talk to about Clem.

“I’ve tried bringing it up, but she says she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Then you should listen to her,” Dr. Felder says. “Believe it or not, people—even kids—are pretty good at knowing what is best for them. If she doesn’t feel like talking, it means her subconscious is still processing everything. And that’s perfectly fine.”

“I know, but I worry. Clem is a talker. Usually my biggest problem is how to get her to stop talking.”

“Clementine will talk again. And when she does, she’ll know that she can go to you. In the meantime, you should think about what you’re going to say to her when she does go to you. She’ll definitely have questions, particularly about her father’s death, and his business activities that she perceives to be ‘bad.’ She’ll want to know how you are processing all of it. Have you considered having any therapy yourself, Eve?”

“Me? Oh no. I’m just worried about Clem.”

“I know. But sometimes the best way to look after other people is to look after yourself. Think about it, Eve.”

“I will.”

After I hang up the phone, I check on Clem in the parlor. She’s where I left her, beside Bert, talking. Clearly her desire not to talk doesn’t extend to him. The parlor has filled up in the last few minutes. Twelve out of the thirteen residents are in there, just staring at Clem as though she were the Mona Lisa herself. It’s like her presence has set off a radar—child nearby!—prompting them to wake up from their naps or send home their visitors and shuffle into the communal space. In fact, the only resident not in the parlor is Anna.

I’m in the hallway dusting the side tables when two men come out of her room. I recognize the young one as her brother, from a photograph in her room. And the older one bears such an uncanny resemblance to Anna that it has to be her father.

“Hello,” I say, smiling. “You must be Anna’s family. I’m Eve. The cook.”

“Jack,” says the brother. He shakes my hand, but he seems distracted.

“Peter,” says the father.

“How was Anna today?” I ask.

“Not bad,” Peter says. “Today was a pretty good day. She actually made a few jokes.”

“She does have a sense of humor, doesn’t she?” I say. “She had Luke and me in stitches the other day.”

I watch Jack and Peter closely, so I notice when a shadow crosses Jack’s face.

“They seem to have a special relationship, those two,” I continue. “Anna and Luke.”

“Well, it was good to meet you, Eve,” Jack says, and starts for the door.

I almost cry with frustration. Does he not care about the connection Anna and Luke have? Or does he simply not believe it? Suddenly, I have an idea.

“Oh, before you go,” I call after them. “There’s something I think you should see.”

By the time the men have turned around, I’m already reaching for my purse. I’d tucked Anna’s notebook in there earlier, to use as evidence with Eric if I needed it. I push it into Jack’s hands.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“A letter. Anna wrote it to herself last year.”

Anna’s father takes the notebook and reaches for his glasses in his breast pocket. As he does, Jack scans the page with quick, darting eyes.

“It’s quite romantic,” I say nervously, “the two of them finding love in here.”

I’m certain this letter will invoke a positive reaction in Jack. Maybe even cause him to change his mind about locking the doors. But instead, his face clouds over.

He takes the notebook from his father and closes it in one hand. “Do you mind if I take this,” he asks me, “or will Anna miss it?”

“I … I’m not sure,” I say. “I should probably put it back, just in—”

“I think it’s better if I take it.” His voice is firm. “Thanks, Eve.”

I’m stunned. He gives me a long, steady look. “I suspect, having read this, you’ve got ideas of what you would do for Anna if you were in my shoes,” Jack says. “But if you were in my shoes, you’d realize that fantasy scenarios don’t exist for Alzheimer’s disease. Your loved one is counting on you to keep them safe when they’ve lost the ability to do it themselves. And if you had all the information, you’d know that if I were to do what it looks like Anna wants, I wouldn’t be keeping her safe.” Jack remains calm and articulate as he delivers his speech, but I notice the color rising in his cheeks. “Anyway, it was nice to meet you. Dad? Let’s go.”