The Things We Keep

by Sally Hepworth

  “No.” I take a mouthful of whatever it is Helen has cooked. It’s so hot, it takes the skin off my mouth, and it tastes like tomato paste. Even Latina Cook-Lady’s rice and beans is better than this.

  “Anna,” he tries again, “did we do something to upset you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” Apparently, he’s not letting this go. I wish he’d shut up and let me eat my tomato paste.

  “I’m sure,” I say. “It’s just that I don’t like it here. Too … noisy.”

  Jack’s and Helen’s faces shift in unison, as if moved by the same puppeteer. The long blink. The jaw drop. The swift glance at the other. I shovel in another mouthful. Ow. Crap! Hot.

  “Anna—”

  “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to go home now,” I say before the questions start again. And when I say the word “home,” I’m surprised to realize that I’m talking about the big house with all the old people.

  14

  Eve

  “I probably should have explained something yesterday—” Eric perches on the edge of my desk and lets out a long, world-weary sigh. “—about Anna and Luke. What you saw the other night? It isn’t the first time.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I hear him fine, but I want to hear him say it again.

  “It’s a sensitive topic, and I didn’t know how much to say earlier. But I’ve spoken to Anna’s brother, and he agrees that I should fill you in. The truth is, Anna and Luke were friends.” He pauses, shakes his head. “They are friends. But shortly after they arrived, they developed quite an attachment. A romance, you might say. It was a great thing for both of them; it gave them a lift and possibly even extended their mental dexterity a little. We were going to let it run its course and we figured eventually it would take care of itself, that they’d forget their friendship. Usually that’s how these things play out.”

  “These things?” I ask. “You mean … there have been other—?”

  “—romances? Oh, yes,” Eric says, grinning. “There’s more lust at a residential care facility than in high school. Didn’t you know?”

  There’s something about Eric’s obvious enjoyment of this that I find a little off-putting.

  “It’s especially common with dementia patients,” he continues. “Human beings are programmed to form attachments in order to survive. So it makes sense that when you have dementia, new attachments are formed to replace those that are lost. It’s a good thing, it can reduce loneliness and depression. But in this case, it was a little more complicated.”

  “Why?”

  “We became aware that Luke and Anna were intimate. Which in itself is complicated, but for them, it opened up a host of other issues. For example, is Anna—or Luke, for that matter—of sound mind to consent to this?”

  “But … you said they’d developed a relationship. Surely that implies consent?”

  “Actually, it doesn’t. Among other things, as dementia develops, an individual’s inhibitions can become lowered, causing them to act uncharacteristically promiscuous or flirtatious. Even if they are saying yes, we can’t be sure they would be saying yes if their judgment wasn’t impaired. Then, of course, there was the other incident—Anna’s suicide attempt. After that, we had no choice but to start locking the doors. We didn’t come to that decision lightly. But all things considered, it made sense.”

  “Are Anna and Luke okay with it?” I ask.

  “As okay as you can expect, really. Sometimes they become upset at night, but again, that’s normal for people with dementia. Most likely, Anna’s distress is simply the night-restlessness and she doesn’t remember Luke at all. It’s possible Luke does remember, but even if he does, we can’t allow him free access to Anna’s room at night. They can spend time together during the day, but the staff try to keep them busy and redirect them if they try to go off privately together. I’ll ask you to do the same,” he says, “if you happen to see them together.”

  I think of Anna asking for help. Of her asking if he was there, then saying she was talking about Luke.

  “All right, Eve?” Eric repeats.

  “Yes,” I say. “Okay.”

  But my facial expression must give away my true feelings because Eric continues. “The important thing is that we abide by the families’ wishes, for everyone’s sake.”

  “Of course,” I say, though I can’t help but wonder if abiding by the families’ wishes is really for everyone’s sake. Or just for everyone else’s sake.

  * * *

  Clem aka Alice is quiet on the way to school. I try to engage her by asking her if she wants a special dinner, but she just shrugs. Even seeing Legs on the way into the classroom isn’t enough to pep her up.

  I have a quick word with Miss Weber, who says she’ll keep a special eye on her. She also asks for my change-of-address form, which I supply with a stomach full of knots. If she suspects anything, I can’t tell.

  Then I have to run off to work. It strikes me that this is a cruel irony. Before, when I had the most well-adjusted, happiest little girl in the world, I had nothing but time to spend with her. Now, when she could really use her mother around, I have to work.

  Back at Rosalind House, the parlor is full. Laurie is reading a newspaper, Bert is chatting quietly to himself. Gwen dozes. Luke and Anna are perched at opposite windows. As I wipe down the mantel, I can’t help stealing a look at them. They seem content enough, staring into the garden, but who knows? Do they wish they were side by side?

  “That’s lovely,” Bert says, startling me. At first I’m not sure what he’s referring to; then I realize I’ve been humming.

  “Oh,” I say. “Well … thank you.”

  “That tune?” he says. “What is it?”

  “It’s … Pachelbel’s Canon.” Why had I chosen to hum my wedding song? “Do you know it?”

  “Of course. I like it.” He frowns. “Why did you stop?”

  I smile and continue to hum. There’s something warm about Bert, gruff as he is.

  “Are you all right, my love?”

  I look around. This time it’s Laurie talking, and not to me.

  Clara has drifted into the room, carrying a Maeve Binchy novel. “Fit as a fiddle,” she says, kissing him on the mouth. Her eyes close, and for a heartbeat, she looks completely blissed out. “Don’t you go worryin’ yourself.”

  “You should tell the doctor when she gets here,” Laurie says.

  “You think she’s interested in my headache?”

  “Dr. Walker is interested in everything,” Laurie says. “At our age, anything is a symptom.”

  Clara pffts, but with a smile. “At our age, a headache is still a headache.”

  I give the coffee table a spritz. Spraying, I realize, is surprisingly pleasant—the shush sound it makes, the way the products mist out evenly over the surface, ready to make something clean. It’s impossible to be bad at spraying. Wiping, on the other hand, is loathsome. It makes no sound. It takes a lot of effort, and if you’re not any good at it, it shows you up as the amateur you are.

  “Tell the doctor,” Laurie orders.

  “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “I am,” he replies. “I’m your husband.”

  I continue to hum, soothed by the pleasant squabble of a couple who’ve been married sixty years.

  “Ah, I nearly forgot,” Laurie says. “Enid called.”

  The silence that follows is long enough for me to look up.

  “When?” Clara asks.

  Laurie shrugs. “Before.”

  “Before when?”

  “I’m an old man.” He waves his hands about as if that emphasizes his point. “Keeping track of time is too depressing.”

  He winks at me, and I hum louder—proof that I’m not eavesdropping.

  “What did my sister have to say for herself?” Clara asks.

  “Just that she’s coming to visit.”

  “From Charlotte?” Clara’s voice rises like a Chinese sky lantern. “Why?” />
  The coffee table is nice and shiny, and I really should move on to the kitchen. But I get out my bottle and give it another spray. I’ve missed my daily gossip sessions with Jazz. Hearing about who has had Botox, who is leaving her husband for the personal trainer. While this conversation isn’t anywhere near so scandalous, I feel myself getting sucked into it. I’d have expected someone like Clara to talk to her sister every day, to send cards and gifts and exchange photos of respective grandchildren. But by the way she’s acting, you’d have thought Laurie had said Satan himself was coming to visit.

  “Enid comes every year,” Laurie says slowly. “Why not this year?”

  Clara shrugs. “It’s a long way for her to travel, is all.”

  “As you point out every time. Now, are you going to get all worked up as usual, planning activities for every solitary second of her trip, or are you going to let her have a nice visit this time?”

  Clara narrows her eyes. “Since when are you so worried about my sister getting a nice visit?”

  “Staying out of it,” Laurie says.

  “You do that.”

  Clara thumps down her book and heaves herself out of her chair.

  “Where are you going?” Laurie asks.

  “Where do you think? I’m going to call Enid. Get this visit planned and over with.”

  Clara disappears and the room falls silent again, apart from my humming. Laurie starts whistling, so comfortable as to his place in Clara’s life, he doesn’t need to waste his time worrying. I’d always thought that one day, Richard and I would be old and comfortable in our ways, after a lifetime of marriage. We would have been. But Richard ruined it.

  I finish dusting some books on the coffee table, then tuck my cloth into my apron. That’s when I notice Anna.

  “Anna?” I say cautiously, edging toward her. “Are you … all right?”

  Her face is slick with tears. She’s staring right at me, but unseeing, so I squat down in front of her and take her hands. “Anna?”

  Finally she sees me. Her eyes go round, panicked. “They’re having us followed.”

  “Who is having you followed?”

  She tips her head toward the doorway. “Them.”

  I look at the doorway, which is empty. I shake my head. “No one is having you followed, Anna.”

  “They are,” she says. Her hands are fists, pounding against her knees. Her face becomes twisted with frustration. “And soon, I’m going to forget him.”

  She isn’t making any sense. I glance around, looking for Carole or Trish or Eric, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

  “Anna, I promise you no one is—”

  “They are!” In a sudden movement, she throws her hands up, and I lose my balance and tumble backwards onto the rug. I’m just getting up again as Carole and Eric come jogging in.

  “See?” Anna says, pointing at them. Her face is almost victorious. “I told you! They’re following us. Where’s Jack?” she asks Eric snippily. “Where’s your partner in crime?”

  Eric runs over to me. “Are you all right?”

  I stand upright. “I’m fine.”

  “It’s all right, sweetie,” Carole says to Anna. She approaches her quickly, getting right up in her face. “Everything is all right.”

  “No, it’s not!”

  Unlike my push, which I think was unintentional, this time Anna gives Carole an almighty shove. Carole hits the ground with a thud, landing awkwardly on her elbow.

  “We need to restrain her,” Eric says. “Trish?” he calls out.

  “Oh no,” I say, “I don’t think—”

  But Trish is already jogging into the room.

  “Anna is getting agitated,” Eric says. “She’s just pushed Eve and Carole.”

  “She didn’t mean to push me,” I say. “It was an acciden—”

  “Do you need a tranquilizer?” Trish asks.

  “No!” I say at the same time as Eric says, “Probably best to be safe.”

  I can’t believe this is happening. Anna still seems agitated, but she’s not exactly wielding a knife. She’s just in her chair, looking at her lap, muttering quietly. I hear what she’s saying, but it doesn’t make any sense. It sounds like “beat the bomb, beat the bomb.”

  Before I know what’s happening, Trish is back with a syringe. She approaches Anna from the side, so she doesn’t see it coming. When she drives the needle into her arm, Anna lets out a high-pitched, pained wail.

  My hands find my mouth. I want to look away, but for some reason, perhaps out of solidarity with Anna, I can’t. Help me. They are following us. Beat the bomb. I search her words for a common thread, a clue to what she’s trying to tell me. But they just sound like the words of someone at a disconnect with reality. Someone with Alzheimer’s.

  “There you go, sweetie,” Trish says as Anna sinks back into her chair. Anna continues to stare at me for a few seconds with something like pleading in her eyes. But as the tranquilizer works its way into her system, her expression dulls away to nothing.

  15

  One of the best things about cooking is that, by and large, you can control it. If something is too spicy, you can counteract it with cream or yogurt. If something is too sour, add sugar. Dealing with real life is nowhere near so simple. Since Richard died, some days I get the feeling I’m falling down a hole with nothing to grasp on to. On those days, I grasp on to food. That’s why, the afternoon after Anna is sedated, I go to the grocery store.

  I don’t know what it is about squeezing an avocado that fills my heart with song. My basket is full of sweet corn, butternut squash, Dutch carrots, and free-range eggs. At intervals, I raise my basket to my nose simply to inhale. It feels so good to be back at Houlihan’s, my old grocery store. I’ve missed the organic produce, the high-end brands. In here, it’s easy to forget the reality of my life as a widowed housekeeper—even for an hour.

  It takes me a while to realize that I’m not shopping for two anymore and my basket isn’t going to cut it. I’m on my way to the front to retrieve a shopping cart when a crisp iceberg lettuce catches my eye—perfect for a cold wedge salad starter. If I throw in some flat-leaf parsley, tomatoes, cucumber, and a couple of hard-boiled eggs, it will be lovely for this evening. Olive oil and cider vinaigrette for dressing. Even the residents with dentures could cope with that.

  I reach for the top lettuce, the biggest one, still beaded with water from the mister. But before I can touch it, I feel a weight on my shoulder and I’m whipped around so fast, I drop my basket. There’s a crunchy sound: eggs breaking. Before I can steady myself, a hand shoots out and thwacks against my cheek.

  “You!”

  I step back, away from the finger that is now thrust in my face, and grasp the cool metal rail behind me. What on earth? I don’t recognize the woman standing before me. She’s older than me, perhaps forty, with a neat brown haircut.

  “Well?” she cries. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  The part of my cheek where the slap connected begins to throb. My ear is ringing in a long endless line, like a hospital beeper after someone has died.

  “My parents invested their entire life’s savings in your husband’s scheme! They weren’t those big-time investors who had money to burn, they were a hardworking couple who wanted to secure their future. Now their home is in foreclosure and they are broke.”

  My mouth goes dry. Shoppers have hushed; people look up from their baskets, exchange glances by the potatoes. I can actually feel their eyes on me. That’s Eve Bennett. So much for her getting her comeuppance. She’s a fraud. Just like her husband.

  In the dead quiet, there’s a sharp intake of breath. I see Andrea Heathmont peering around the end of the aisle. Another blonde is beside her, Romy Fisher maybe. My heart sinks further.

  “Because of you,” the lady continues, “my parents have shopped at Bent and Dent these last few months! And you’re shopping for organic produce at the most expensive food store around? Where’s the justice?”

&
nbsp; My eyes drop to my basket. “Oh! No. This isn’t for me.”

  “And why should I believe you? You’re probably a liar and a swindler just like your husband. That man did the world a favor when he—”

  “That’s enough.”

  From nowhere, Angus appears. He steals around me, positioning himself between me and the woman. The woman looks startled, but only for a moment. She starts to walk around Angus, but he blocks her way.

  “Actually, it’s not nearly enough, after what she’s done!” she yells over his shoulder. “Do you know who this is?” she asks Angus.

  I glance at Andrea, who is still watching. She whispers something to the other woman and I curse myself for coming to Houlihan’s. What was I thinking?

  “Yes, I know who she is,” Angus says quietly. “She’s a woman, trying to get on with her job, cooking for the elderly. You’ve just assaulted her, which is a crime, and you’ve damaged this produce, which will cost the store money, unless you pay for it.”

  “I’m not going to pay for it,” the woman says, but some of the heat has gone from her voice. Tears build in her eyes. “The only person who should have to pay is this bitch.” The woman stabs her finger in my direction, but that appears to be all she has left. She abandons her cart and scurries out of the store via a side door.

  Immediately the bustle of the store resumes: a hushed voice, the roll of shopping cart wheels on linoleum. Andrea watches for another moment, then disappears, too.

  I look at my upturned basket. A single egg rolls free, and by the look of the yellow spray around the edge of the carton, it’s the sole survivor. I squat, bundling it all back into the basket. My cheek radiates with heat, like a nasty sunburn. The ringing continues in my ear.

  Angus squats beside me. “My truck is out front.” He tucks a set of keys into my palm. “Go. I’ll take care of this.”

  I shake my head, blinking against tears. “I … I have to finish the shopping.”

  “I’ll finish it.”

  “But … I don’t have a list.”

  I used to pride myself on never having a list. I found them creatively stifling, I’d tell people. What if I planned to make French onion soup but then saw some impossibly delightful-looking artichokes? Now the thought seems as frivolous as it does ridiculous.