The Things We Keep

by Sally Hepworth

“My favorite is the mahimahi,” I said finally. “We make it with fresh lime and cumin—it’s a bestseller, I think you’ll like it.” I arranged the fish on a flour tortilla and topped it with slaw and a dollop of Mexican crema. Then I rolled it up and handed it to him. “Here you go.”

  I’ll never forget the way he looked at me—as though I were the most unexpected treasure, a nearly extinct animal he’d stumbled across in the wild. Beside me, oblivious or uninterested, Carlos grunted at the next person who dared not to know exactly what he wanted.

  “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?” he asked.

  I laughed, surprised. Behind him, someone jostled him and someone else yelled, “Keep it moving, man!” But he didn’t budge.

  “I insist,” he said. “A thank-you for this … this wonderful taco. I’m Richard, by the way.”

  “Eve,” I said.

  It wasn’t the first time a customer had invited me to dinner. It was, however, the first time I’d been tempted to accept. Perhaps it was the fact that, unlike most of the Wall Street stockbrokers we served, he didn’t seem entirely assured of my response? On the contrary, he seemed … nervous. It was endearing.

  “Eve, I need guacamole,” Carlos yelled.

  “I’ll pick you up,” the man—Richard—said, moving in closer. His face, I noticed, was full of surprises, from his wide-set eyes to his cleft chin. He stood like a rock in a stream while customers flowed on either side of him. “Around seven. Anywhere you want to go.”

  Carlos thumped around, making his impatience known. “Guacamole!”

  Richard’s gaze pierced me, pinning me in place even as Carlos’s thick arm reached around me for the guacamole. Then Richard closed his eyes, pressed his palms together in faux prayer.

  “Yes,” I said, laughing. “Yes, okay. Fine. Tonight.” I gave him my phone number and hurried back to the guacamole.

  “Guess he’s pretty convincing,” Carlos muttered when Richard was gone.

  I wish I’d known how right Carlos was.

  * * *

  I am just inside the gates of Rosalind House when I hear the bushes rustle behind me.

  “Hi,” I say, when Angus emerges.

  “Hey.” He drops his secateurs into a bucket and dips to snatch up a larger pair of garden shears. “Thanks for the sandwich,” he mutters, then turns his back and starts chopping.

  “You’re welcome,” I say. Angus’s demeanor is barely civil, but I choose to be heartened by the fact he is talking to me. “Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. I’d like to talk to you about starting a vegetable and herb garden.”

  “A vegetable and herb garden.” He pauses, the shears still in hand. “I guess we could do that.” He turns to look at me. “How big do you need it?”

  “Well, I’d like to plant carrots and potatoes. Plus herbs.”

  I may be imagining it, but Angus seems slightly more upbeat. “You’ll want something with shade then.” He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. “There’s a spot in the yard that might work, but you’d need a canopy. One that can be retracted—”

  “You can buy those at Garden City,” I say, a little too enthusiastically. “I used to have one above my vegetable garden at my old place.”

  He gives me a long, cool look. “I was going to say I’d build you one. I doubt Eric has money for a Garden City canopy in the budget.”

  “No, of course not. I didn’t think—”

  Angus shakes his head. “No. You wouldn’t.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.” He lifts the shears and starts hacking at the bush with sharp, aggressive strokes.

  I stare at his back. “Is there something you want to say to me, Angus?”

  He turns around. “You probably think you and your daughter got a rough deal, don’t you? You lost your big house. Your money. You had to get a job in a residential care facility and have your canopies built instead of bought—”

  I open my mouth.

  “My sister and her husband lost everything because of your husband. Not just money but—” His throat works. “—they were in the middle of doing IVF. Kelly’s forty-one. Now they can’t afford to do it anymore, so she’ll probably never have kids.”

  I blink back tears at the unexpected outburst and Angus resumes hacking at the bush. I stay quiet. At least now I know why Angus has been so cold with me. His sister is one of thousands of people harmed by my husband. And, by extension, harmed by me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “But for the record, I don’t think I got a rough deal. I got off lightly. I can live with losing my money and my house. I’ll get used to being a social outcast, to working menial jobs and having no friends. I’d take all of it, and more, if it meant I could give my daughter back her father. So, say what you want about me, but don’t lump my daughter into the same category. My daughter got one hell of a rough deal. And she is as innocent as your poor sister.”

  With that, I spin on my heel and march toward the house. As I walk, I think I hear Angus call my name, but I just keep walking.

  * * *

  I find a cart in the housekeeping closet and drive it down the corridor. I shouldn’t have said that to Angus, but Clem is my Achilles’ heel. She seems like she’s okay, but every now and then, I get a glimpse of her grief, and it worries me. Her father was her hero. But what will happen when she finds out he wasn’t a hero at all?

  Eric’s instructions were that each room and bathroom be given a light “going-over” each day. Empty, clean, and reline wastebaskets. Strip beds on Thursdays and make them on other days. Inner windows should be done weekly—Mondays are best because of grubby fingers from grandchildren on Sundays, when most residents have visitors. It’s not exactly what I envisioned when I applied for a cook position, but if it keeps Clem out of Butt Road, I can do it for a while.

  When I peek into Anna’s room, I see Clara in the armchair by the window.

  “Oh,” I say. “I thought this was Anna’s room.”

  “It is,” Clara says, nodding toward the bed where Anna is lying. “Anna, honey, Eve’s just here to make the beds and clean up a bit.”

  “Oh,” Anna says. “Okay.”

  I open the door wide and push my cart inside. The room is lovely, small but bright, furnished with just a bed, a couple of armchairs, and a dresser. It reminds me of a hotel room. What is unlike a hotel, though, is that everything is labeled—each drawer has a sign labeled UNDERWEAR, BRAS, T-SHIRTS, PAJAMAS. The doors to the closet, the bathroom, and the hallway are labeled, too. It stuns me. Really? Does Anna really not know which door goes where?

  “That … thin-jacket suits you,” Anna says to Clara. “It’s the exact blue of your eyes.”

  “Thanks, honey,” Clara says. “Blue’s my favorite.”

  I take a hand cloth and steal a glance at Clara. Her eyes are a striking blue, almost violet. The exact blue of her cardigan. I slide the cloth back and forth along the windowsill. It’s already pretty clean, and all I’m doing is dragging the little dust that is there back and forth.

  Behind me, pages of a notebook ruffle.

  “Eve’s the new cook,” Clara says to Anna. “Started this morning.”

  I look over my shoulder in time to see Anna visibly relax. “That’s why you’re not in my book.”

  I glace at the spiral notebook in her lap. Three rows of Polaroid photos line the double page. I recognize Eric, and a bunch of the residents. A few of the people I don’t recognize, perhaps family members? Underscoring each photo is a name in a thick black pen, as well as a one-word explanation—Doctor. Resident. Friend. Farther below are a few other notes, scrawled in blue Biro.

  Anna looks at me. “But if you’re the new cook, shouldn’t you be cooking?”

  “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” I smile.

  Anna smiles back and I get a strange feeling that somehow, she feels my pain. And for the first time, it occurs to me that perhaps I could just ask Anna what she meant when she said “Help me” the other day. It’s a l
ong shot, of course, but worth a try.

  “Anna, can I ask you something?” I say.

  She looks surprised. “Sure.”

  I squat to rinse out my cloth in the bucket. “The other day, when I was here for my interview, you asked me for help. We were out in the garden. Do you remember that?”

  She frowns. “No. I’m sorry.”

  “I was handing you your scarf,” I persisted, “and you grabbed my hands and said ‘Help me.’”

  There’s a flicker on her face, and I allow myself to hope. “Maybe I needed help registering for the New York marathon? I’ve been meaning to tick that off my bucket list.”

  She holds my gaze for a moment, deadpan, then chuckles. A laugh bursts out of me. And something inside me, something that was tightly clenched, unspools. I don’t know what I expected. That Anna would be incapable of humor? That she wouldn’t be a real person? Yes, that’s exactly what I’d thought. And after all the trouble I go to, to make sure Clem treats people with an open mind, I should have known better.

  “Do we know each other?” Anna asks suddenly.

  My smile fades away.

  “You know, you do look familiar, honey,” Clara says.

  I can’t believe my bad luck. A person with Alzheimer’s recognizes me.

  “You probably recognize me from the newspaper,” I admit.

  “The newspaper?” Clara asks. “Are you famous, Eve?”

  “Infamous, perhaps. My husband was Richard Bennett. You’ve probably heard of him.”

  “Richard Bennett was your husband?” Clara gasps. “Oh, you poor, poor dear.”

  “Richard was running an illegal Ponzi scheme,” I explain to Anna. “Because of him, lots of people lost a lot of money. And we, of course, lost our money. That’s why I’m working here.”

  “That sucks,” Anna says.

  “Yes, it does, rather.” I laugh.

  Anna’s face becomes thoughtful. Her eyes are on her lap, her brow is gathered, and her lips work around silent words—like a child reading from a book.

  Suddenly she looks up. “Did I see you,” she says, “in the … the garden?”

  “Yes,” I say. “That’s when you asked me for help.”

  “And … he … was there?”

  A feeling of dread creeps in. “Who?”

  “Him,” she says. Her forehead creases. Her eyes dart back and forth, searching.

  “Do you mean Luke, honey?” Clara asks.

  I start to shake my head, but Anna’s eyes go round like she’s seen a ghost. “Yes. Luke.”

  This isn’t what I expected.

  Anna’s gaze locks on mine. “Please. You have to help me.”

  “Is Luke doing something to you, Anna?” I ask.

  “What?” She shakes her head. “No!”

  “But you said you needed help?”

  “Just give her a minute,” Clara says gently. “Too much talkin’ makes it hard for her to think.”

  So I wait, willing Anna to keep hold of whatever invisible thread was keeping her with us. Her hands shuffle in her lap, folding and unfolding. I try to imagine what it must be like, not being able to access the words and memories you need to say what you think. I wonder, just for a second, if that would make you want to kill yourself.

  Finally Anna leans forward and tugs the sleeve of Clara’s cardigan. “I like that thin-jacket on you,” she says. “It’s the exact blue of your eyes.”

  I finish wiping the mantelpiece, then move on to the bathroom. From what I’ve seen, there are still some lights on in Anna. As I finish making up her room, I can’t help but wonder which lights are on, which are blinking, and which ones are completely out.

  9

  Clementine

  Before Daddy died, my biggest wish was for a baby brother called Phil. He’d have chubby fingers and a toothy smile and legs that kicked when he was happy. I used to imagine the way my friends would gather around his stroller for a peek, and I would tell them importantly, Move back! Phil is sleeping. I would be the expert on Phil. When he cried, Mom would say to me, Clem, can you tickle his toes for me? and I would, and Phil would giggle. When we went to the mall, I would push his stroller so Mom could do the grocery shopping. And I would play peekaboo! with him when he got restless. I had it all worked out. I used to think about Phil all the time. I still do, sometimes. But he’s not my biggest wish anymore. My biggest wish is that Daddy was still alive.

  Miss Weber stands at the front of the classroom in a red dress with white spots and blue shoes with thick soles, called wedges. “All right, class,” she says, “I’d like everyone to sit in a circle on the mat. Now, since it’s no one’s birthday today … Clementine, would you like to sit in the birthday chair?”

  The birthday chair is gold with red rubies all over it, like a throne for a princess. Of course I want to sit in it. Legs sits beside me on the floor and smiles because she is happy for me. Miranda doesn’t smile. I think she wishes she was sitting on the birthday chair instead of me.

  “Now, I want to hear a little about your summers,” Miss Weber says. “Why don’t we go around the circle and each of you can tell me what you got up to. Let’s start with you, Harry,” she says. “What did you do this summer?”

  I like Harry. He has curly hair that is mostly brown but in the sunshine it turns gold and shiny like a coin. Usually he is really smiley, but today, he looks at his shoes. “I visited my dad in Orlando,” he says.

  “Wow, Florida.” Miss Weber smiles. “Were you on vacation, Harry?”

  “No,” he mutters. “My dad lives there.”

  Harry’s daddy met a new mommy. They live in Florida and she has a baby in her belly and Harry says they kiss all the time and it’s really gross. But Miranda must not know this, because she frowns and says, “You mean … your mom and dad—”

  “Did you go to Disney World, Harry?” I ask quickly, because Miranda can be a bit tricky sometimes. That’s what Mom calls it, being “tricky.” Being tricky is when you can make people feel bad without saying anything really mean. Miranda is good at being tricky.

  Harry looks at me, and he smiles a little. “Yep. All four parks. It was awesome.”

  It’s Miranda’s turn next, and she tells the class that this summer she got a real-life pony called Farts. Everyone giggles, even Miss Weber. Then it’s my turn.

  “Would you like to tell us about your summer, Clementine?” Miss Weber pats me on the head, and her voice gets a little bit softer than before. “If you don’t want to—”

  “I do want to,” I say. “It was very busy. I moved to a new house and I went to five birthday parties and one was a princess party and I wore real high heels. Well, they were plastic, but still real. Also, my daddy went to Heaven. I wrote him a poem.” I unfold the paper from my pocket, then look at Miss Weber. “Would you like me to read it for you?”

  Miss Weber smiles, but it is a sad smile. “We’d love to hear it, wouldn’t we, class?”

  “Okay,” I say, and put on my good reading voice:

  Daddy, I miss you every day.

  I miss the way we used to play.

  You were the best dad in the world.

  And I was such a lucky girl.

  I miss how you always made me laugh,

  When you did funny voices with my toy giraffe,

  Now you’re gone I want to cry.

  And that is not even a lie.

  Why did you have to die when I was seven?

  I wish you could come back to me from Heaven.

  When I look up, Miss Weber is wiping something from her eye. “That was lovely, Clementine.”

  I smile. “Mom helped me with the rhyming parts.”

  Freya puts up her hand. “My gramma is in Heaven.”

  “Mine, too,” says Harry.

  “Heaven is in the clouds,” Miranda says.

  “Actually,” I say, “Heaven is in the ground. I know because I saw some men put Daddy there.”

  Miranda doesn’t say anything. I feel pleased that I tol
d her something she didn’t know.

  “Heaven isn’t like going to the Hamptons,” I continue. “Because you can’t come back after the weekend. It’s a long way away, but people in Heaven can still see us and hear us.”

  Everyone listens.

  “In Heaven you never get sick. And you are never by yourself, because lots of people are there.…”

  I don’t tell the class that I really don’t understand Heaven. That it makes no sense because it would be really hard to hear and see someone from under the ground, even if you have really good ears and eyes. And that there might be a lot of people there, but not the ones you really love. I don’t tell them this, because I just want to keep talking and feeling important. It’s better than thinking about Daddy and feeling bad.

  * * *

  When Legs giggles, I giggle, too. I can’t help it. As soon as I hear her giggle, even before I know why she is giggling, I’m just giggling back. Sometimes we giggle so much that by the time we stop and I ask her why she was giggling, she’s forgotten. But when Miranda giggles, I don’t giggle back. When Miranda giggles, I get a funny feeling in my belly.

  Today Legs and I are skipping with ropes and Miranda is in a huddle in the playground with Freya and Audrey. They look over at us. “Clemmy! Can you come here for a minute?”

  I stop skipping, but Legs keeps jumping because she was trying to get to twenty without tripping.

  “Come on!” Miranda giggles. “We don’t have all day!”

  “Okay.” Legs finishes skipping and we walk over to Miranda’s huddle. “What?”

  “Is Heaven really in the ground?” Miranda asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “But … worms are in the ground.” Miranda smiles. “Does that mean that worms are eating your daddy?” She looks at Freya and they both snicker.

  “No,” I say, but I hadn’t thought of that. Worms are in the ground.

  “Why not?” she says, all innocent. “If worms are in the ground?”

  “Because he’s inside a box.” It only comes to me at that very moment, but as soon as I say it, I know I’m right.

  Miranda looks at Freya. She’s not smiling now. “How did he die, anyway?”

  Everyone looks at me, even Legs. I don’t know what to say. Every time I ask someone, they tell me something different. Mom says it was an accident. Nana says Daddy had a sick head. The man who talked at Daddy’s funeral said Jesus took him somewhere. I don’t think anyone knows what happened to Daddy. Except that he went to Heaven, which is in the ground.