The Things We Keep(79)

As they turn to the door, I remain where I am, shaking slightly. What information didn’t I have? And how could it possibly change everything to the point that they were willing to keep Anna unhappy rather than with the man she loved? I want desperately to ask Jack, to beg for the missing piece of the puzzle. But instead, I watch Anna’s memories disappear—this time out the front door.

*

After Anna’s dad and brother leave, I go to Anna’s room, tap on the door.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she says.

She’s sitting by the window in her wheelchair, next to an empty chair. I have the strongest urge to sit in it. I want to tell her everything. About Jack and her notebook. About Clem. About Angus. About Eric. Somehow, over the past few months, Anna has become the person I talk to about things. She’s become my friend. But friendship works both ways. And today, I want to do something for her.

“Do you want to go and see Luke?” I ask.

It’s only 5 P.M. but Eric left early. I answer the usual questions about who Luke is, and then I wheel her over into his room.

Luke is sitting on the edge of his bed, admiring a bunch of flowers on his bedside table. Angus had helped him arrange them earlier. He looks up and smiles shyly. And that’s all the introduction they need.

When I return to the kitchen, my phone is ringing, and I snatch it up right before it goes to voice mail. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Bennett?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Kathy Donnelly calling. From Clementine’s school?”

I close my eyes. “Ms. Donnelly! I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls. It’s just … been a little hectic around here.”

“I understand,” she says. “Is now a good time to talk?”

“Actually, I—”

“I won’t take up much of your time. I heard Clementine left the school premises unaccompanied today, and I was very concerned. I want you to know that we are taking steps to ensure this never happens again.”

Relief floods me. She’s calling about Clem running away from school. Probably wanting to smooth things over. “I appreciate that.”

“How is Clem doing?” she asks.

I glance around to make sure she’s not nearby. “Actually … she’s been better. She’s not herself. Quiet. Teary. But I’ll get her through it.”

“I’m sure you will. It’s not easy, being a single mother.”

The way she says it makes me suspect that she does know. And for the first time it occurs to me that Ms. Donnelly, with her thick glasses and sensible haircut, might have a story of her own.

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s very kind of you to check in.”

“Actually, there’s another reason I’m calling. It’s about your address. It’s listed here as 82 Forest Hills Drive.”

My stomach plunges. “That’s right.”

There’s a pause. “Hmm. It caught my eye because, before she passed away, my mother was a resident at a care facility called Rosalind House, which is at 82 Forest Hills Drive.”

I scramble for an excuse, something plausible that could explain this turn of events, but my mind is blank and she is waiting. Finally I open my mouth, and a huge sob comes out.

This is it. Clem is going to be kicked out of her school. She’ll have to move mid school-year to a school in a rougher area with kids she doesn’t know. Worst of all, she won’t have Legs by her side anymore.

The silence, punctuated only by my sobs, continues for a perilously long time. I start to wonder if Ms. Donnelly is even still there when she clears her throat. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I keep telling my optometrist that I need new lenses.”

I take a breath. “Pardon?”

“My eyesight,” Ms. Donnelly explains. “It’s terrible. I’m always reading things wrong. Perhaps you’re not at 82 Forest Hills Drive. Perhaps you’re at 83? Or 87?”

I swallow. “Uh…”

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what is says. Eighty-seven. I do apologize.”

“Ms. Donnelly—”

“Please,” she says. “Call me Kathy.”

“Kathy,” I say. If we weren’t on the phone, I’d have grabbed Ms. Donnelly and hugged her. “I don’t know what to—”

“It’s not easy, being a single mother,” she says, and I hear the kindness in her voice. “Tell Clementine we’re looking forward to seeing her on Monday,” and she hangs up the phone.

*

That afternoon, when Rosie arrives, she looks terrible. Blue circles ring her eyes, and her lips are peeling. Clearly I’m not the only one this has been taking its toll on. She gestures for me to follow her into the nurses’ room, and I do, passing Clem cartwheeling along the hallway on our way.

“I’m so sorry,” I say to Rosie as soon as the door shuts. “I feel terrible.”

“Why? You took all the blame.” She lifts her bag off her shoulder and falls into a chair. “I’m surprised to see you, actually. I thought Eric would have—”

“He gave me one last chance. He thought last night was the first time it happened.”

“Wow. That’s good, I guess.”