The Things We Keep(86)

“Me, too.” Her face starts to crumple. “I just … I don’t know how to remember him, Mom.”

I pull her into my arms and kiss her forehead. “You should remember all of him. All the memories you have are still true, no matter what he did.”

“But—”

“They’re all true,” I say firmly, almost as if I believe it. Maybe I do. I think of my conversation with Angus, about good things coming from bad. I think about Clara and Laurie, and the things we keep. “Daddy hurt a lot of people, Clem. But Daddy did good things, too. He was thoughtful and kind. And he was a good daddy, don’t you think?”

Through tears, she nods.

“So it’s okay to remember that. Our memories are ours to remember any way we want.”

In Clem’s eyes, the tears continue to fill and fall.

“Daddy loved you so much,” I say, and my voice cracks. “If there is only one thing you remember about him, make sure it’s that.”

Clem looks up at me. “Can you tell me some stories of him? Some that I don’t know?”

I wipe away a tear. “Actually, I have a good one.” I sniff. “About when you were a baby and I found you in the bath with Daddy. He was singing ‘I’m a Little Teapot’ to you.…”

Clem’s mouth starts to upturn cautiously, as though she’s not sure it’s allowed. But after I’ve told the story three times, she’s smiling properly. We stay there awhile, wrapped in each other, telling stories, laughing and crying. It’s sad and it’s horrible. But it’s also nice, being together in our grief.

*

The next day, Clem and I walk to Buttwell Road Elementary. As the building appears in my line of sight, my heart is in my throat. Visually, it’s not as appealing as her old school—it’s a plain, single-level, redbrick building—but by and large, the kids look the same. As we walk into the playground, Clem squeezes my hand a little tighter. It’ll be tough for her, starting halfway through the school year. A year ago, I wouldn’t have worried, knowing Clem would be the most popular kid in the class by the end of the day, but now I’m not so sure.

We meet her teacher, a grandmotherly sort called Mrs. Hubble, who puts her arm around Clem and instantly makes both of us feel better. She introduces Clem to a bouncy little girl called Billie with wild red hair, who will be Clem’s special friend for the day. The two girls start talking right away. When it’s time for me to go, I actually have to tap Clem on the shoulder. I half expect her to tell me, Yeah, okay—you can go, Mom, but she throws her arms around me and kisses my cheek.

I have to turn away so she doesn’t see me cry.

Later that morning, Rosie calls to tell me that Clara is nearing the end. She says Clara was at the hospital but has returned to Rosalind House. To die, she doesn’t say. She says she’s spoken to Laurie, and he wanted to know if I’d like to say good-bye. I head straight over.

Rosalind House looks different under snow. Prettier, if that’s possible. As I squeak along the snow toward the front steps, I remember Clara’s pact to reconcile Laurie and her sister. And I hope that, as Rosie suggested, she hasn’t had the chance.

I ring the doorbell and hold my breath, waiting for Eric. The last time I saw him, he was firing me. What would I say to him? But when the door swings open, an unfamiliar person stands there. A woman in her mid-forties with a bright smile and teased brown bob.

She smiles warmly. “Hello,” she says. “I’m Denise, the new manager.”

“The new…” I take this in for a second. “What happened to Eric?”

“Come in out of the cold,” she says, and I do. She shuts the door and takes my coat. “It’s my second day,” she tells me. “Do you have a family member here? We did send a letter explaining the change—”

“Oh no, I’m not family. I used to be the cook here. And the cleaner.”

Her expression becomes more guarded. “Oh. Well, Eric is … no longer with the business.”

“No longer with the business? What happened?”

“I’m sorry, I really can’t say.”

“Oh.”

“Can I help you with something? What was your name?”

“Eve,” I say, offering my hand. “Eve Bennett. Actually, I’m here to see Clara. Laurie called me.”

“Of course,” she says. “Come this way.”

We start down the hall. It’s strange, being a visitor here. I remember my interview, when Angus led me inside to Eric’s office. It feels like forever ago. As we walk, Denise waves at a family member coming out of Bert’s room and helps a young woman pushing the cleaning cart to pick up the pile of towels she has dropped. (They’d hired a cleaner!)

I stop suddenly. “Denise?”

“Yes?”

“Can you at least tell me … Eric wasn’t … up to anything untoward, was he? With the residents? I mean, can you at least tell me that?”

She gives me a long, assessing look. Then she exhales. “Let’s just say that Eric was far too busy doing creative accounting to be bothering with much else. And that, at least, is something to be grateful for.”

Creative accounting? All at once everything clicks into place. The tiny grocery budget. The merging of the cook and cleaner position. Eric’s fancy new car.