The Things We Keep(90)

“Daddy? I need to talk to you.”

I close my eyes and bring him into the center of my mind. He’s sitting in a chair with one leg crossed over the other and watching me really close.

“I’m still angry with you,” I say, “but I’m not as angry. Because everyone does bad things sometimes.”

Daddy doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s listening. His face looks like it did when he listened, tilted a little, soft eyes, smiling. I used to love it when Daddy looked at me like that.

“And you did good things, too. You were good at dancing. And … you used to sing to me in the bath when I was a baby.” My eyes get blurry and then I’m crying. “I love you. But I’m going to stop talking to you now. And Mom and I are going to look after each other.” I feel a tug of hurt in my heart. “If you ever need anyone to speak to, I’ll be here. Or you can try ghosts.” Suddenly, an idea comes to me. “Or Myrna. I don’t think Bert would mind.…”

I keep talking to Daddy for a little while, until my socks are wet through and I can’t feel my toes. Then, slowly, I let him slip out of my mind, and I open my eyes. And right at that moment, there’s a break in the white sky. And the sun comes shining through.





49

Eve

Three months later …

It’s like a déjà vu. I’m standing in front of Rosalind House, my stomach a bundle of nerves. The only difference is, this time, I already have a job. Not at Benu or an up-and-coming Manhattan restaurant. A brand-new restaurant in the suburbs. It’s not particularly fashionable and its patrons aren’t photographed on their way in. The food is good, though, and I intend to make it better. I’m only the junior chef now. But that’ll change.

At the moment, I do lunches at the restaurant, so I can drop Clem off at school every morning and pick her up every afternoon. We’ve moved into a house, a small one with two bedrooms, but Clem and I still sleep together most nights.

I’ve seen quite a lot of Angus, too, these past months. First a few trips to the grocery store, then a movie. Then another proper date. Then he started calling around the house every so often with a plant or some herbs. Clem has been warming to him. The pair of them started a vegetable patch in the garden at our house, and I’ve heard her giggling while they tend it together. Once, Clem even asked if he wanted to watch her Irish dancing.

Now, when the front door of Rosalind House swings open, Angus is standing there. I see him for only a second before he pulls me onto the step and into his arms. He bends to kiss me, but at the last minute he pauses, looks over my shoulder. “No Clem?”

“She’s at school.”

“Then—” He kisses me in a way that makes me think I might faint. When he stops, I feel boneless, like I might slide down his body and end up as a puddle on the floor.

“Well.” He smiles. “Welcome to Rosalind House. Won’t you come in?”

Inside, people buzz about. In the entrance to the parlor, I catch the pleasant scent of cinnamon and yeast, and I marry it to the plate stand of buns on the coffee table. My relief that they’ve found a good cook is only slightly marred by feelings of inferiority; after all, I never made cinnamon buns for visitors’ day.

Bert is in the love seat between his granddaughter and her husband and their new baby, a girl if the bow around her head can be trusted. Laurie is surrounded by middle-aged men, possibly his sons, wearing earpieces and carrying pocket radios, listening to some kind of sport and announcing it for him. May is sitting with two women carrying rosary beads. Everyone is absorbed with their families, and they don’t look up when Angus and I appear. There’s a gentle hum of chatter, and I think of Anna. She won’t like the noise. Then I realize she’s not here.

“Where’s Anna?”

“In her room, love,” says the woman pushing past, “with Luke.”

The woman carries with her the yeast scent I caught earlier. The cook. I crane my neck as she whizzes away, trying to get a good look. She’s short and thick and in a hurry—yet even from that quick glimpse, she radiates warmth. Then again, it’s no surprise. What person who bakes cinnamon buns doesn’t radiate warmth?

Angus has told me a little about how Anna and Luke have been these last few months. The confusion. The repetition. Now her memory is less than two minutes long. At least she has round-the-clock access to Luke, though. They’ve moved into Clara and Laurie’s suite now. Instructions to separate them have been rescinded. They are allowed to live and move as they see fit.

I reach Clara and Laurie’s suite—now Anna and Luke’s suite—and peer inside. Peter, Jack, and a little boy around Clem’s age are gathered near Anna and Luke. The boy is sitting on Anna’s lap, chatting nonstop about baseball, about his friend Tom, about the dinosaur he wants for his birthday.

Peter glances up first and smiles. Then he looks at his daughter. “Anna?” he says. “You have a visitor.”

Jack offers a small smile of his own. “Come on in, Eve.”

I remain in the doorway, inexplicably nervous. Angus steps forward, but I hold him back. “There are too many people,” I whisper. “She won’t like it.”

“Hey, Eath,” Jack says. “Why don’t we go climb that tree in the garden?”