The Things We Keep

by Sally Hepworth

  “Miranda!” Miss Weber says.

  “What?” Miranda says. “It’s true!”

  Miranda still has one hand on Legs’s knee. I look at it, and my face starts to get hot. I’m sick of her being so tricky all the time. I’m sick of her saying things about my daddy. I put my twig between two fingers and flick it. It flies up and stabs her in the eye.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry,” I say. Her eye is all red and watery and it makes me feel much better. “It was an accident.”

  I look at Harry and we both smile. Sometimes I can be tricky, too.

  * * *

  “What are you staring at, young lady?” Bert asks.

  It’s after school and I’m at Rosalind House. Mom is in the kitchen making dinner and I am in the parlor, staring at Bert. “Your eyes,” I say. “They’re yellow.”

  He coughs. “They’re not.”

  Gwen is sitting beside Bert, smiling. Gwen always smiles at Bert.

  “They’re yellow, aren’t they, Gwen?” I ask her.

  “Well, uh … I don’t have my glasses on.”

  I look at his eyes again. You don’t need glasses to see that they’re yellow. “Do you want me to get you a mirror?” I ask Bert.

  He looks at me like he wishes I’d go away. “At my age, you don’t like to look in the mirror too much.”

  “Why not?”

  “You ask a lot of questions,” he says.

  I shrug. “You asked the first one. About what I was staring at.”

  He looks annoyed that I am right. Then he says: “Is there something I can do for you, young lady?”

  Bert says “young lady” a lot. I think it’s because he doesn’t remember my name. “Yes,” I say. “I’d like to talk about Myrna.”

  “Why do you want to talk about Myrna?”

  “Ummm … because she’s invisible?” Der.

  “Oh.”

  “So, if I want to talk to someone invisible … is there anything I need to do? Touch my nose? Blink twice?”

  “Touch your nose?” he says, then waves his hand. “No. No.”

  “Okay,” I say. “What then?”

  “Well, I suppose I think about how Myrna looks. The way she used to curl up her hair. The kind of rouge she wore on her cheeks. Once I do that for a while, I guess, I can see her.”

  I nod, my chin cupped in my hand. “Okay.”

  “I think about what she would have said. Would she have laughed, screamed, cried … that sort of thing. And then, well, then I can hear her.”

  I repeat it all in my head, so I don’t forget. Think about how they look. Think about what they would have said. I notice that Gwen is still smiling at Bert.

  “Have you ever thought about any other ladies?” I ask. “Ones that aren’t invisible?”

  Bert coughs again. “The sun will shine out of my nether regions before that happens, young lady.”

  I frown, curling my mouth around the words. The sun will shine out of my nether …

  “Oh,” I say eventually. I think it means no.

  * * *

  “Daddy?”

  I’m in the garden, by the tree. A few old people are across the yard, but I don’t look at them. I really don’t know what is supposed to happen, but I close my eyes and concentrate really hard. In my mind, I can see him, holding a bunch of flowers out to me. But when I open my eyes, poof. He’s gone.

  “Daddy?” I try again. “Are you there?”

  I try to remember what Bert said about Myrna. “I see her because I really, really want to see her.”

  “The Family Dance Night is next week,” I tell him because even though I can’t see him, he might be listening. “Remember we went last year? That was fun, right? Remember you brought me flowers?”

  Legs had really liked my flowers, so I asked Daddy if we could give her one and he said yes. Daddy liked Legs. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine,” he said.

  “Mom is going to take me this year,” I say. “But I wish you could take me.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed and I remember last year. After I’d danced around the room on his feet, Daddy had watched Legs and me do Irish dancing while he clapped and clapped. He said that was his favorite part.

  “Show me your dancing.”

  My eyes fly open again. I don’t see him. I don’t even hear him, exactly. It’s weird, but I kind of feel the words. I feel them from the tips of my toes all the way up to the hairs on my head.

  “Please,” he says. “Show me?”

  “Okay,” I say, nodding. “Are you watching?”

  I step into position and give myself a little shake. Come on, Clem. He’s watching. I put my arms by my sides, then start my routine. Three skips, two point-hop-backs, two side-sevens. Repeat. It’s the same dance I did for Daddy at the dance last year. At the other end of the garden, I see Clara and May and Laurie clapping.

  “Bravo,” Daddy says in my mind. “Bravo, my sweet Clementine.”

  “Take a bow!” Laurie shouts when I stop spinning. And I do. But the bow isn’t for him. It’s for Daddy.

  17

  Anna

  Twelve months ago …

  My mother used to say, “If you give up too many things, you don’t live longer, it just feels like you do.” I think she’s right. Since I’ve been at Rosalind House, I haven’t denied myself anything. Cake. Red alcohol. (I was pleasantly surprised to find that they serve it with dinner.) Online shopping. (Jack still allows me one low-limit credit card, which I use to buy politically incorrect toys for the nephews—what’s the point in having a mentally ill aunt if she can’t buy you a Nerf Super Soaker Electrostorm Blaster?) I’ve downloaded countless books to my online-book-thingy even though I’m more of a TV watcher lately. (Novels seem to favor complex plots, and my mind can’t keep up.)

  Also, I haven’t denied myself kissing.

  Young Guy and I are in the upstairs room again, lying side by side on the floor. His lips are on mine, and my hands are on his face. Sometimes we just do this for hours. Sometimes I forget who we are and why we are here.

  “I’m g-glad you’re … here,” he says, kissing my hair. I’m lying in the crook of his arm and I’ve just finished telling him about the time I punched Jack’s friend Greg for trying to kiss me in third grade. Old memories come to me the easiest these days, and I enjoy sharing them. And Young Guy, judging by his comment, enjoys hearing them.

  “Well, I had a lot of other offers,” I tell him, “but I thought you’d be lonely, so…”

  Young Guy twists to look at my face. He smiles. “No, I m-mean. I’m g-glad you didn’t…”

  With a sinking heart, I realize what he means. “You should know,” I say, “that I haven’t made any final decisions about that.”

  He disentangles from me a little. “But—”

  “I’m sorry if you thought different. But the truth is, I have only a short window of time when I’ll be able to do this, and that window is closing fast. And I haven’t decided to slam it shut just yet. That’s all.”

  He pales so much, I think he might be sick. And there’s no more kissing after that. After that we lie there in silence, and all I can think is, This is my future with Young Guy. Silence.

  The strangest part is, it doesn’t seem so terrible.

  * * *

  In the big house with all the old people, it’s the little things that make people happy. Roast night. The day those animal-people come. Bingo. Tonight it’s movie night and they’re showing Romeo and Juliet. For the most part, the residents are excited, but Baldy has been whining all day. Apparently, we’re watching a modern version of the film, and Baldy doesn’t do modern. As for me, I wouldn’t say I’m excited but I am glad that, for once, people won’t be going to bed at 8:15 sharp. And Young Guy and I will have some company for the evening.

  Young Guy picks me up at my door for the movie, which is pretty sweet. It is probably the closest thing to a date I’ll ever have again. But when he stares at me just a moment too long, I start to re
gret wearing makeup. Even before Alzheimer’s, I wasn’t much good at it, but now, it’s like a puzzle. All the compacts and tubes for the different parts of the face. Tonight, I opened a few compacts, smeared them on, and put it all away again but now I wonder if I should have taken a little more care.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing. You just … look pr-pr-pr…”

  “Pretty?”

  Normally I don’t try to finish his sentences, but tonight he doesn’t seem to mind. He nods. I’m wearing black jeans and a stripy top. No heels or anything, though I am, I suppose, wearing shoes. And, yes, the makeup. But the way he is looking at me, you’d think I was in full war paint.

  He holds my hand on the way to the parlor. Usually he and I sit in matching seats by the window, but tonight the room has been reconfigured so all the chairs face the white wall, where the film is being projected.

  Young Guy and I sit in the back row. The love seat.

  I’m just getting comfortable when Skinny glances over at me once, then quickly again. Her face tells me something is very wrong.

  My stomach does a flip. “What?”

  “Nothing, sweetie,” she says, but she beelines for me, pulling a scrunched-up white thing from her pocket and wiping it across her tongue. “You’ve just made a bit of a mess of yourself. Don’t worry. I’ll get you cleaned up.”

  She rubs the white thing over my face and when she pulls it away, it’s covered in black and brown goo. Then she does the same again. All the oldies are staring right ahead as though they don’t notice, but how could they not? I look at Young Guy and he shrugs. Whatever, his shrug says. After that, I don’t worry anymore.

  After three cloths have come away, stained, from my face, Skinny smiles and says, “There now. Much better.”

  Then the film starts.

  “What in God’s name!” Baldy exclaims, a few minutes in, “Since when did Romeo and Juliet have guns?”

  “It’s a remake,” Skinny says hastily. She sounds nervous. “The story’s the same. Well, you know, basically.”

  “It’s a load of rubbish,” he says. “I’m leaving.”

  But Baldy makes no move to leave. In fact, his eyes are glued to the screen. It’s probably the most excitement he’s had in years.

  I try to concentrate on the movie, but it’s too quick. Too loud.After a while, there’s too much noise, so I just lean back, close my eyes, and let the music wash over me. I feel Young Guy take my hand, intertwine it with his. It’s enough to drown out the yelling, the noise of the guns, the music, all of it.

  In high school science, my teacher once told us that the brain was responsible for these kinds of lustful feelings. Apparently, during moments of intimacy, the brain sends messages to the heart to pump more blood and to the stomach to contract. If that’s true, then I’m grateful to have a faulty brain. Because if the burst of happiness that explodes inside me were any greater, I’d almost certainly need medical attention.

  When the names of the actors start to roll, the room lights up again and we untangle our hands. Most of the residents, I notice, have nodded off. But Baldy’s still awake. Southern Lady. Really Old Lady. Young Guy and me.

  “So?” Skinny says. Judging by her red eyes, she’s been crying. “What did you think?”

  “I think,” says Really Old Lady, “that Romeo was a playboy. One minute he was in love with Rosaline, and the next he’d run off with Juliet!”

  “Which one was Rosaline?” someone that I can’t see says.

  “The one Romeo loved at the start of the film, before he met Juliet,” Southern Lady explains. “But surely you don’t hold that against Romeo, May? He met his true love. All’s fair in love and war.”

  Really Old Lady folds her arms, decided. “If he’d stuck with Rosaline, became a one-man woman, he’d have been better off. Perhaps he even would have stayed alive.”

  Baldy makes a noise, like a phwar. “You’re not suggesting Romeo should have forfeited his true love and settled for second-best in order to add a few more years to his clock? Time is important only if you’ve found the right person to spend it with. Romeo was better off having the love of his life for a few days than fifty years with the wrong gal.”

  The conversation has a lot of participants, and it is moving pretty fast. But, using tremendous concentration, I manage to follow. And I find myself nodding to Baldy’s comment. The day I left Aiden was the day my diagnosis was confirmed. With time being cut so suddenly short, another day in the wrong relationship was simply too much.

  “I hate to say it,” I say, “but I agree with him.”

  Young Guy’s hand continues to stroke mine, and I realize he’s been silent. Southern Lady must notice, too, because she asks, “What do you think, Luke?”

  Luke! I say it in my head three times. Luke. Luke. Luke.

  Luke is typically thoughtful, taking a moment and shifting in his seat before he speaks. “I th-think,” he says, looking directly at me, “that it all became pointless when they decided to kill themselves.”

  18

  Tonight, when Young Guy walks me to my door, I feel distracted.

  “Are … you…?” he asks at my door.

  “I’m okay,” I say. I don’t need to ask what he means anymore; usually I just know. His comment plays in my mind on repeat. “It all became pointless when Romeo and Juliet decided to kill themselves.” I wonder if that’s true. I wonder if the fact that they died changed what they shared when they lived.

  A few months ago, presented with the knowledge that life wasn’t going to be what I’d planned, I wanted to check out, close the book. But now, it’s like suddenly I’ve found a few more pages. And it feels like, against all likelihood, the last chapter might be the best one of all. The last chapter, in fact, might be something great.

  “U-upstairs?” he says.

  I reach for Luke’s hand and it slides into mine: a perfect fit. “I have a better idea,” I say, and pull him into my room.

  * * *

  The last time I had sex was the night I left my husband. I packed my bags while he was at work and loaded most of them into the car. The furniture, the mementos, everything except my clothes was his to keep—where I was going, I wouldn’t need them. Then I waited in the hallway, sitting on a suitcase.

  Aiden arrived home at the usual time. The door jammed on my suitcase as he flicked on the light. “Hey,” he said, “what are you doing?”

  “Leaving you,” I said.

  Aiden continued hooking his coat on the hall tree. “Oh yeah?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I said. “You seem to be taking it well.”

  He turned, taking in my suitcase and somber expression. “You’re … serious?”

  I’d never threatened to leave him before, but we had a certain way of talking, a light way, that made everything seem like a joke. As I held his gaze and nodded, realization dawned.

  “Shit, Anna.” He raked his hands through his hair. “I know we have problems but—”

  “I have Alzheimer’s.”

  There I went again, dropping a bombshell. Somehow it helped me feel in control of this conversation and I wanted to be in control of something.

  “Seriously?” Aiden sank to his knees. “Oh God. I’m … I’m so sorry.”

  We’d talked briefly about the possibility early in our relationship, but never since. Aiden was like me—if there was something unpleasant to be thought about, he found something else to do.

  “But … you’re leaving? Now?”

  Admittedly, it didn’t make much sense. Many people would have stuck in a failing relationship upon the diagnosis of a terminal illness, but I was not most people. The only way I knew to deal with this was to leave. And though he never said so, I suspected Aiden was relieved.

  I drove straight to the bar. A cliché thing to do, but I was too thirsty to care about cliché. And, as it turned out, I only had to pay for one drink.

  I don’t remember the guy’s name, though I blame the Jack Daniel’s rather than
the Alzheimer’s. I do remember the scramble of hands and clothes—the fevered desperation to be free of my clothing. I remember the gravel in the parking lot rolling under his feet as he pinned me against the cold brick wall. I remember the bliss and agony of being ridden by a stranger who didn’t care a thing about me. I remember the awkward aftermath of rising zippers and buttoning shirts.

  Afterwards, the bartender called me a cab.

  “Where to?” the cabdriver asked, hanging his arm over the back of the bench seat. I rattled off my address and dozed on the way home, drunk and spent and sore. When I got home, Aiden looked up from the sofa and stared at me as though I were a ghost.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” I’d said, headed for the fridge. “I live here.”

  Aiden made me a bed on the sofa that night. And the next day, I had to leave all over again.

  * * *

  When Luke enters me, we knock heads—my chin into his nose. It’s amazing how something can feel awkward and wonderful all at once. There’s laughter, and a shudder. And then we’re off.

  Luke holds my hands beside my ears as he rocks against me. Yes. I look at his face. A face so new, yet so familiar. A face soon to be unfamiliar, but for now, I don’t care. Not about anything that’s happened, or anything that’s going to happen. Why should I, when all either of us has is right now?

  His breath becomes rough and raw, and a deep noise rolls from his throat. Here, nothing about him stutters or stammers. I don’t feel disoriented or confused. I’m not worried about what I might say or do wrong. I feel like I might die from the loveliness of it.

  I might not remember this. But I’m glad I got to live it.

  19

  Eve

  It takes a few weeks, but I get to know each of the residents. I even have a few favorites. Clara, of course, is easy to love, with her Southern accent and her penchant for calling everyone “honey.” Her husband, Laurie, is equally delightful, if only for the way he adores his wife. There’s May, quiet and so old, I often find myself checking her breathing when she falls asleep in her chair. There’s Gwen, stout and cheerful, and always knitting. Then there’s the perpetually grumpy Bert, who somehow is still a favorite. Perhaps it’s the fact that Clem has taken a shine to him? Or maybe it’s that he’s still head over heels for the wife he lost fifty years ago? Whatever it is, I get the feeling he’s a favorite of Gwen’s, too, if the way she looks at him is anything to go by.