I think of Richard, hanging from the ceiling beam in his study. I think of the moment I found him, the words that hung around me, useless and unsaid, the actions that floated in the air, undone. It was too late. But it isn’t too late for Anna.
I step forward, suddenly emboldened. I’d told Anna I’d help her. And I will.
27
Anna
Eleven months ago …
There are three doors in my room. One leads to the hallway, one to the bathroom, one to the closet. Each morning I pick one, a lottery of sorts, figuring I have a one-in-three chance of finding my clothes. At first I used to put the effort in—to use logic and reasoning and memory. The bathroom would probably be closer to the bed, that sort of thing. These days, though, it’s basically a crapshoot.
“Eeny meeny miney—” I point to door number two. “Mo!”
Young Guy (who showed up in my room a few minutes ago to take me to breakfast) flicks open the door, revealing a toilet. “Better luck next time.”
Some days, it drives me fucking crazy when I can’t find things. A few weeks ago, or maybe it was a few days ago, I picked up a glass thingy and hurled it against one of the doors because I couldn’t find the bathroom. When you need to pee as often as I do, you don’t have time to mess about, looking for the toilet.
“That one is definitely … the hallway,” I say, pointing to door number one. I have no idea if this is right, and I can’t be bothered to look for clues. But we’ve already found the toilet-room, so I figure I’ve got a good chance.
He peels open the hallway-door, revealing a row of clothes hanging from a pole-thingy.
“Damn!” I say, but as he pulls an item off the thingy (an item that may or may not be weather appropriate), I laugh. There was a time when I had no desire to live beyond a point when I couldn’t tell what was behind a door. But today I’m very glad to be alive.
* * *
We’re in the upstairs room again. Young Guy dips the stick-thingy on the record player and music starts playing. I wonder how long we will be able to find our way to this place, this upstairs room. It feels like our place. The idea that we won’t be able to remember it seems somehow more tragic than not being able to remember my own name.
He holds out his arms. “W … would you like to…?”
“What?”
He moves his arms and his hips jauntily. I know what he’s suggesting. I’m supposed to walk into his arms and hold his hands and jiggle about to the music. I can’t think what it’s called either.
He tries a few times to produce the word and then grimaces. “You kn-know,” he says finally, with effort. His eyebrows crease uncertainly. It also makes me laugh.
I stand and shuffle into his space, but instead of taking his hands, I lay my cheek right against his chest. Together we begin to move.
“Yes,” I say. “I do know.”
* * *
It’s that day when people visit. I hate that day. And I’m not the only one. Really Old Lady hates it because she rarely gets a visitor. Baldy doesn’t like it, because the middle-of-the-day meal is served earlier, and according to him, Myrna doesn’t like her schedule being messed with. More and more, I’m seeing the plus sides to Myrna. In fact, I think I might befriend her myself. Sorry, can’t play bingo today, Myrna doesn’t like it. Not my fault, I’ll say. Myrna’s.
Jack usually comes on his own these days, or with just one of the little boys. I haven’t seen his wife in a while. Even so, I find his visits stressful. Here, at this place where I live, when I forget something or say something weird, people either don’t notice or don’t react. But when I say something weird in front of Jack, he looks confused. Corrects me in a slow, simple voice. “Don’t you remember, Anna, it was Aunt Geraldine?” or “Yes, Anna, you already said that.” Worst of all is the long silence followed by the nod. The look that says, I have no idea what you’re saying, but it’s not worth my time to try to figure it out.
Today, I’m feeling pretty anxious. Not just because it’s the day when people visit but also because of Luke. (I know his name is Luke because he introduced himself to Jack a few seconds ago.) Luke has had the gloriously misguided idea that we should introduce each other to our families—you know, like a regular couple. Sometimes he has some pretty messed-up ideas. I told him that. I think.
So we’re in the big front room. Jack is sitting opposite us, staring at our joined hands. I have no idea what I am supposed to say. Eventually I decide, as I do so often these days, to say nothing. I have Alzheimer’s, after all. Surely that gets me out of uncomfortable small talk?
“This m-m … ust be weird for you, Jack,” Luke says finally. He’s trying hard, and though his words are slightly labored, he’s doing a wonderful job. “I’m sure you … thought your days of meeting your … twin sister’s boyfriends were over.”
Jack’s eyes seek mine, a little incredulous. I force a smile.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he continues, wobbling on the word “better.” “I can promise I’ll be the l … last.”
I can’t help myself, I laugh. For someone with dementia, Luke is pretty smooth. He smiles a little shyly and glances at me. I’m impressed. I haven’t heard him speak so many words without pausing in a while. But Jack doesn’t so much as crack a smile.
Luke, I notice, keeps glancing at his hands. He has a few little tics, but this one is new. It’s not until he tips his palms upward that I notice the blue ink scrawled across them. I see the words Jack, twin, and boyfriend. My heart breaks a little.
Jack looks like he wants to respond, but he’s thinking very carefully before he does. I’m happy to wait. But before he can get his thoughts together enough to speak, a woman sweeps into the room, kisses Luke’s cheek, and falls into the sitting-thing beside Jack.
“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “You must be the brother. I’m Sarah. The sister.”
This woman is as blond as Luke is dark. She wears jeans and a thin-jacket with lots of shiny stuff at her wrists and neck. Her face is upturned, suggesting friendliness. She looks from Luke to me and then finally to Jack. “So? They’ve told you?”
Jack stares at her. “You know about this?”
“Of course. Luke tells me everything.”
“Terrific,” Jack mutters. “Anna tells me nothing.”
“Look, there’s no reason to be upset,” she says. “My brother is a wonderful guy.”
Luke’s sister sounds remarkably calm, even happy. This, I know, will rile Jack no end.
“I’m sure he is,” Jack says. “I just don’t want him taking advantage of my sister so he can live out his last wish to have a girlfriend.”
There’s a short silence. “Luke’s had plenty of girlfriends,” the sister says. “He doesn’t get into anything unless he is serious.”
“Great!” Jack says. “That’s just great.”
“Besides,” she continues, “why shouldn’t they have a little happiness in here?”
“It all depends,” he says, his voice a little louder now, “on what kind of happiness they are having—”
“They’re adults! It’s none of our business what they do!”
“Whose business is it if Anna gets pregnant? Hmm? Theirs? Maybe they could raise the baby together in this place? You’re right, this is a fantastic idea—”
Jack’s face is red and his voice is loud. The sister’s face closes over. I shrink back into my sitting thing, away from them.
“St-st-st … Stop it!”
I blink up at Young Guy, who’s standing now. Jack and the sister are wide-eyed, blinking but silent. It’s lovely, the silence. I’m grateful to Young Guy—I want to say thank you, but the words drift away from me before I can catch them and use them.
“Anna?” A helper-lady jogs into the parlor, frowning. She doesn’t usually jog. Or frown, for that matter. She squats beside me. “You have a visitor.”
I hear, but it doesn’t make sense. Don’t I already have visitors? “I’m sorry.”
&nbs
p; Jack’s eyes are focused beyond me, and for this reason, I turn around. There’s a tall man behind my chair, dressed smartly in black pants and a white shirt. A thick brown coat is tucked under one arm. The man is, all at once, familiar and unfamiliar.
Behind me, I hear Jack clearing his throat. “Dad,” he says. “You’re here.”
28
Anna
Dad isn’t an attractive man. He has height, but the skinny kind, rounded at the shoulders so he curves forward like a wilting flower. His eyes are pale blue and his gray-orange fuzz is combed to hide a bald spot. All this information is apparent to anyone in the room, though. The things that I should know about Dad—the day of his birth, his baseball team, whether his stoop is old or new—are not there. Or perhaps they are, but deep down, hazy, as though he were a character from a novel I read a few years ago rather than the man who gave me life. He looks at me closely, perhaps for signs of my dementing. I wonder if he’s finding any.
“Anna,” he says, “I can’t believe it.”
At the sound of his voice, my brain releases a select few, seemingly unimportant memories. The way he used to eat ice cream with a fork. The way he used to drink his … morning caffeine drink … so hot, it should have taken the skin right off his mouth.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“What do you think?” he says. “I came to see you.”
Jack walks out from behind me, reminding me that he is here too. “Dad,” Jack says, “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
Another memory is niggling at me, but just out of my reach like an itch I can’t scratch. It’s as if my brain has pulled a curtain over the memories area. And not even the VIPs are getting in.
“Dad,” Jack tries again, “how ’bout we go outside?” Jack catches Dad’s elbow, not waiting for an answer.
I look at Dad, at the jacket under his arm with its wide, diagonal hip-pockets.
“Chocolate cigars!” I cry.
Dad stops. “You remember those, huh?”
I am practically jubilant at unearthing this memory. Chocolate cigars. They were always in Dad’s pocket when I was a kid. “Take a load off,” he’d say to Jack and me, handing us one each and igniting it with his thumb-lighter. “Have a cigar.” I have to fight a smile and remind myself that the man with the chocolate cigars in his pockets is the same man who up and left his wife when she got sick. The same man who left me.
“I don’t have any today, I’m afraid,” he says. “But if you’ll see me again, I’ll bring some next time.”
“Dad!” Jack says. “You can’t just show up here and—”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”
Jack looks uncertain. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Let’s go to my room, Dad.”
It feels strange saying the word “Dad.” I haven’t called anyone that since I was a teenager. As I start down the hall, I pray that I can find my way, and for once (hey, the gods aren’t usually that kind to me) I’m shown some mercy. Inside, we sit.
“So … you have it, then?” Dad says. “Alzheimer’s?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I would have supported you.”
“Thanks,” I say evenly, “but I don’t believe you.”
He nods. “I deserve that. And anything else you have to dole out. I’ve already missed so much. Now, even if it’s insults, I don’t want to miss another second.”
I stare at him, all self-assured. I can’t believe he has the nerve to show up here like this, after all this time. Did he think that I would just open my arms and let him back in my life? And why would he want to be back in it, anyway? If he ran away from a wife with Alzheimer’s, what did he want with me? “What are you doing here, Dad?”
“I let your mother push me away when she got sick,” he says after a moment. “I’ve always regretted it. And I’ve no intention of letting history repeat itself.”
I stare at him.
“I’m not making excuses,” he says, “just trying to explain. Your mother was a proud woman. She didn’t want me to watch her decline. I never intended to leave you and Jack, but—”
“Surely you didn’t expect us to have a relationship with you after you abandoned our Alzheimer’s–ridden mother? The irony is that you were the one who taught us to have more integrity than that.”
“I messed up. And you paid the price. But there’s nothing you can say to stop me coming back, Anna. I am going to repair our relationship.”
“Repair our relationship?” I snort. “Don’t hold your breath.”
He stands. “I’ve no intention of it. At my age, holding one’s breath is a bad idea.”
I feel a surprising urge to laugh. But I refrain. That could be construed as letting him off the hook. “Suit yourself.”
Dad plants an awkward kiss on my forehead, and then shuffles toward the door. I want to tell him to get out. I want to tell him to stay.
“When I found out I had Alzheimer’s, I left my husband,” I blurt out, when he reaches for the door handle. “The marriage wasn’t happy, and Alzheimer’s seemed as good a reason as any to call it a day. So we’re alike in that way, I guess. Running away when things get tough.”
Dad’s eyes have become soft and shiny. “That doesn’t make us alike, Anna. You left an unhappy marriage when you were most vulnerable, which shows courage. I left a woman and two children when they were most vulnerable, which shows the opposite. A better man would have stayed.”
“Are you a better man now?” I ask. I’m angry at myself when I realize my face is wet.
“Trying to be.” He laughs softly, shakes his head. “And looking at you, honey, perhaps I did do something right.”
* * *
That night, Young Guy buries his head in my hair, and I wrap a leg around his waist and pull him closer. It’s mostly dark, but a thin line of light shines in from somewhere.
Wow. I blink into the semidarkness. That’s … weird.
I blink again. There’s a person in the bed next to us. Actually, more than one person—there’s people—moving briskly under the covers.
“Holy—” I push him off and jump up. The people next to us do the same. “Who the fuck are they?” I whisper.
Am I hallucinating? But no … they’re right there. They’re black, not just their skin but their eyes, their hair—all of them. I must be hallucinating.
“Do you see that?” I say to Young Guy. “There! Look!”
I fling out an arm, and one of the phantom people flings their arm out at the same time. I jump backwards. At that exact moment, so does she.
Young Guy slides slowly out of bed and stands beside me. He looks as freaked out as I feel. This is … too strange. I turn to face the black woman and she matches my stance. I wave. She waves. Slowly, the pieces click together. I edge forward, reach out to touch the face of the black person in front of me. It’s smooth, flat. And then, ching. The penny drops.
“The people,” I say, “the black people … they’re us. They’re our shadows.”
For a moment, all I can do is stand there. Holy moly. I actually thought my shadow was some kind of crazy mutant alien. Is that how far gone I am? Young Guy’s hand curls around mine, and I realize it is shaking. And not just that—he’s making a noise, too. In the dark, it’s hard to tell what he’s doing, but finally, I realize. He’s laughing.
Chuckles start to bubble up in me too, slowly at first, and then a full-on manic giggling explosion. Beside me, Young Guy laughs. And so do our shadows.
* * *
I jolt awake. Something isn’t right. Young Guy’s cheek is resting on my torso just below my chin and … Skinny is towering over us.
“I just found them like this,” she is saying to someone. Her face is bent and twisted and her voice is high-pitched. “I don’t know where Rosie is. Carole, would you just find Rosie?”
“Bert’s twisted his ankle,” someone else says. “She’s bandaging it.”
Skinny pul
ls back the thin-blanket that’s covering us and peers under. “They’re partially clothed, at least. Thank God! Oh, Anna’s awake.”
I lie very still as the guy with the mustache comes into view. His eyes roll over my body slowly. “Are you all right, Anna?” he asks.
I nod, shrinking farther under the thin-blanket, wishing they would get out of my room.
“Did you know Luke was here with you?” he asks, his eyes still wandering.
I glance at the top of Young Guy’s head and then back at the man. “You know I have dementia, right? I’m not blind.”
Mustache Man’s eyes narrow. He wipes at his forehead with his arm.
There’s something majorly unsettling about lying flat while people hover over you, but Young Guy is heavy on my upper torso, so I’m stuck.
“We’ll have to call her brother,” Skinny says. “And Luke’s sister. Do you want me to do it?”
“I’ll do it,” Mustache Man says, but he keeps looking at me. “Anna, do you need help getting dressed?”
I shake my head so hard, I get dizzy.
“Fine. Trish will wait outside until you’re dressed and then bring you to my office, okay?”
I don’t really want to get dressed or go to Mustache Man’s office, but I don’t see what choice I have, so I nod.
“Good,” he says, exhaling. “Then we can sort this whole thing out.”
Mustache Man and Skinny finally leave and I shimmy Young Guy’s head off my body and rise into a sitting position. That’s when it dawns on me, what Skinny and Mustache Man want to sort out. It’s us. Me and Young Guy.
29
Eve
As I push Anna’s door open, my whole body is trembling. Questions—and doubts—loop in my head so fast, I feel giddy.… Will she be awake? Will she be startled? Will she remember our conversation? The last thing I want is to terrify her. But before I can rethink anything, Anna sits up in bed.
“Hey, Anna,” I whisper, taking a couple of cautious steps toward her. Like any person woken at night, she blinks, rubs her eyes. Assesses her surroundings. Looks at me warily. “I’m Eve,” I say. “Would you … um … like to see Luke?” I smile, hoping his name will stir something in her. It doesn’t.
The Things We Keep Page 17