The Things We Keep

by Sally Hepworth

  He half sits, half lies on the sleeping bench and looks at me. “I w-wish this were the beginning,” he says. “Like for the c … c … couple who got … marr … married.”

  In the moonlight, I see tears in his eyes. It’s the first time I’ve heard him talk in … I don’t know how long.

  “I was thinking that, too,” I say. “Imagining what our life would be like. We’d have a house, our own house, with no … helper-people.” I pull myself up on one elbow. “A cottage with a spare room that we’d say was a study, but we’d both know it would be the baby’s room. You’d pretend the idea of a baby terrified you when it actually thrilled you.”

  He smiles. A tear slides from the corner of his eye.

  “We wouldn’t have one of those after-wedding vacations because we’re flat broke, but you’d surprise me with a flying balloon ride over the city.”

  “I’m … don’t … heights.”

  “Which makes it all the more sweet,” I say. I’m starting to enjoy this fantasy.

  “We’d have a cat,” I say, and Luke pouts. “Who we’d call Dog. After we’d been married for a little while, I’d go off that drug that stops babies from being made, reasoning that it could take months or even years to make a child, and then we’d find out the very next month that we had made a baby. The baby is a boy and we’ll call him—”

  He holds up his hand, stopping me mid-sentence. “Only … one baby?”

  “I’m nearly forty. It’s unlikely we’ll have an army.”

  “Then—” He stops. It’s getting harder for him, this speaking. “—a girl.”

  I roll my eyes, even though I’m delighted that he is joining in. “Fine. A girl then. She has your eyes—”

  “And your…” He frowns, then grabs a piece of my hair and tugs it.

  “Curls,” I say, “which she hates!”

  He grins, indenting a dimple.

  “She has you wrapped around her little finger,” I say.

  He chuckles. And I can see it: Him and me and our little girl. And it’s the funniest thing—when I wrap my arms around my stomach, I can actually feel a little bump.

  33

  Eve

  It might be futile, but the night after I leave Anna and Luke in the room together, I allow myself to hope. Maybe it will all be fine? Maybe Anna and Luke will fall asleep in each other’s arms and I’ll be able to move them back in the morning before anyone notices? Maybe I’ve done them a service, allowing them to have an entire night together—probably the last they’ll ever have?

  I arrive as early as I can manage. The residents’ doors are all shut. The place is in silence. A good sign. I tap on Luke’s door quietly and hurry inside.

  My heart sinks. It’s empty.

  Anna’s room is empty, too. I creep around, looking for signs of them, but they are nowhere to be seen. Finally I go to the nurses’ room. As I enter, Rosie glances up. Anna and Luke sit opposite her, in a pair of armchairs.

  “Morning, Eve,” she says. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what is going on?”

  It could be worse, I tell myself. It could have been Eric who caught me, not Rosie. Then again, Rosie is probably the closest thing I have to a friend right now, apart from Anna, and I don’t feel good about betraying her.

  “How long has this been going on?” she asks when Anna and Luke are back in their rooms and we are in the hall.

  “A couple of weeks.”

  “A couple of weeks?” Rosie puts a hand to her temple and starts to pace. “Are you crazy? Do you realize you could get fired for this?”

  “Only if you tell Eric.”

  She stops pacing. “Are you serious?”

  “I know you should tell Eric,” I say. “But I’m hoping you don’t.”

  Rosie is incredulous. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because Anna and Luke should be allowed to be together. And you know it.”

  Her eyes flash. I’m taking a risk, saying this. I don’t know for sure that is how she feels, but it’s a pretty strong instinct.

  “So what have you been doing, exactly?” she says. “Going into Anna’s room every night, dragging her out of bed, and wheeling her into Luke’s room?”

  Sounds pretty crazy when she puts it like that. “Pretty much.”

  “And then?”

  “I leave her there for a few minutes, then bring her back. But last night, you interrupted, so I couldn’t take her back.”

  “So you don’t usually leave them overnight?”

  “No.”

  Rosie seems relieved to hear this. She thinks for a minute. “And … are they happier when they see each other, do you think?”

  “Infinitely happier.” A feeling of hopefulness starts to bubble up. “And they’ve been so much more settled during the daytime—”

  “Just to be clear, Eve, you shouldn’t have done this. You took this whole thing into your own hands, and it could have had disastrous consequences for everyone.”

  “What kind of consequences?” I ask. “And don’t give me the whole issue of consent, because I don’t buy it. Clearly both Anna and Luke would consent to this! I even—”

  “I agree they would consent,” Rosie says quietly.

  My mouth is already full of a retort, but suddenly, I stop. “You do?”

  She nods. “But, Eve, if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it my way.”

  I blink. “You mean…?”

  A small smile appears on Rosie’s lips. “Yes, we’re going to do it. But this time, we’re going to do it right.”

  * * *

  From that night on, it’s Rosie’s rules.

  Each night, Rosie locks Anna’s and Luke’s doors, and around five minutes later, before I leave, I unlock them again. It’s semantics, but it makes Rosie feel better to be able to tell Eric she has locked the doors if she’s asked a direct question. Then, once everyone is asleep, Rosie goes in and ushers one over to the other. She lets them have a visit, but she keeps the doors open and checks in on them regularly. This, she said, was a nonnegotiable part of the arrangement, and though I didn’t entirely understand it, I didn’t care. Anna and Luke are together. I am keeping my promise.

  Today, I’m wheeling the cleaning cart down the hall when I run into Angus. He’s holding an armful of flowers.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “You have some dirt on your face.” I reach out, wipe it off his cheek. Then I quickly take my hand back.

  “Gone?” he asks.

  “Sorry. I’m clearly the mother of a young child.”

  He laughs and I feel an overwhelming wave of pure lust.

  “Does the offer of dinner still stand?” I ask suddenly. Perhaps it’s the laugh, or maybe the fact that Anna and Luke’s connection has renewed my faith in love, but the words just tumble out of me.

  “Sure,” he says, startled. “Absolutely. But what about Clem?”

  “Clem wants me to be happy,” I say. “And life is … well, rather short. Isn’t it?”

  Angus’s eyes twinkle. “That it is.”

  “So, how’s Thursday night?” I ask.

  “Thursday night is good,” he says, and he tucks a flower behind my ear.

  I make a mental note to thank Anna.

  * * *

  At three P.M., I wheel the cleaning cart into Clara and Laurie’s suite. I’m supposed to make up all the residents’ rooms after breakfast each morning, but at this stage, it’s more of a goal than a reality. And with everything else that’s going on, it’s fallen even further down my list of priorities.

  I start with the bathroom to get it out of the way. I hate the bathrooms. The smells, the streaks, the smudges. I spray the shower screen, wipe the vanity. I pour a little bleach into the toilet, leave it for a minute or two, then flush it down. I rehang the towels squarely and neatly. The floor looks clean enough, so I leave it alone. Finally, I pick up the used towels and carry them out to the hamper.

  It’s a legal requirement
that each resident has a separate room, but because Clara and Laurie are married, they converted one bedroom into a living room, with a sofa and television and dressing table. When I get out of the bathroom, Clara is sitting at the dressing table, looking at the photographs that litter the countertop.

  “It’s just me,” I say. “Shall I keep cleaning, or would you like me to come back later?”

  Clara glances over her shoulder. “Oh, go ahead, honey, don’t mind me.” She picks up a photo frame, looks at it, puts it down again.

  I wipe down the tables, vacuum the floor, make up the bed. Then I get out my feather duster. “Okay if I dust?”

  “Of course.”

  I pick up a photo in a heavy silver frame to dust underneath. As I put it down, it catches my eye. “Is this you and Laurie?”

  “Our wedding day.” She throws me a smile. “Laurie and I have been together sixty-one years.”

  “Wow. What a wonderful achievement.”

  It is an achievement; I’ve always thought so. All marriages, even good ones, involve a lot of work, a lot of compromise. It says a lot about a person, I think, if they make it to the end with the one person.

  Then, as it happens every so often, I’m thinking about Richard.

  “I’m sorry,” Clara says. “I shouldn’t be saying this, with your husband and all.”

  “It’s all right. I like hearing about happy endings. Even if I don’t get to have one.”

  “Oh, honey.” She sighs. “There’s nothing happy about endings.”

  I replace the photo. Clara doesn’t seem herself. She’s holding a string of pearls in one hand, rolling a single fat pearl between her fingers, and I notice that she looks terrible—somehow puffy and gaunt all at once. Her makeup is too dark for her complexion, and her pink lipstick bleeds into the lines of her mouth.

  “Are you all right, Clara?” I ask.

  “Course I’m all right, honey,” she says. “Just … a headache, is all.”

  “Shall I get Laurie for you?”

  Clara makes a gesture with her hand, dismissing the idea, and I catch a waft of her scent: lavender and talcum powder. “Do you have any sisters, Eve?” she asks.

  “Me?” I say, surprised. “No. No brothers or sisters.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Lucky?” I laugh. “Do you know what it’s like eating your dinner every night for twenty years under the watchful eye of two parents who have nothing they’d rather do than talk—at length—about your day? With no one to interrupt, no one who’s failed a math quiz to steal their attention. Just you. And them. What I would have done for a sister!”

  From the way Clara smiles, I think I’ve got her. But then she says, “Sisters aren’t always the way they look on TV, Eve, with all the hugging and the sharing secrets and the swapping clothes. Sometimes sisters can be treacherous.”

  I think back to the day in the parlor when Laurie said Clara’s sister was coming to visit. Clearly things aren’t particularly harmonious between the two of them.

  “Have you ever wondered if your whole life was a lie?” Clara asks.

  “Yes,” I say.

  She looks at me, nods. “Yes, I s’pose you have.”

  My cell phone rings in my pocket and I snatch it and glance at the screen, ready to silence it. Then I notice the call is coming from Clem’s school. “Sorry, Clara, I have to take this.”

  “Yes, of course. Go ahead, honey.”

  I punch the button. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Bennett, this is Kathy Donnelly from Clementine’s school. I’m afraid we have a little problem.”

  34

  Clementine

  “Clementine, it’s Miss Weber. Can you open the door, sweetheart?”

  I put down the toilet seat and sit. I’ll wait here until everyone has gone home, and then I’ll come out. By that time, Mom will be here, and she’ll take me home and I’ll tell her I never want to come back to school again.

  “It’s just me,” Miss Weber says. “All the other kids have gone back to class. Why don’t you come out and tell me what happened?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Clementine, something must have happened for you to lock yourself in here. I want to help you, but you have to talk to me. Did someone say something to upset you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Can you tell me what they said?”

  Your daddy was a bad man. Everyone hated your daddy.

  “They told lies.”

  “What kind of lies?”

  There’s writing on the toilet door:

  I suddenly want to write something. Miranda stinks. Or maybe, Miranda is a liar. But I don’t have a pen.

  “Clem?” It’s another voice; not Miss Weber. Immediately I feel a rush of tears.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  Everyone hates your mom, too.

  I throw open the door and run headlong into Mom’s belly. “What is it?” she says, cradling my head. “What happened?”

  “I haven’t gotten to the bottom of it yet,” Miss Weber tells her. “Something happened at lunchtime. Clem didn’t come back to class, and I found her in here. I’ve tried to get her to talk, but she hasn’t said anything except that someone said something to upset her.”

  Mom stands back and looks at me. There is a wet patch on her shirt from my tears. “Who said something to you?” she asks. “Was it Miranda?”

  I’m crying too much now to get any words out, so I just nod. Mom kneels down in front of me and makes her voice all quiet. “What did she say, hon?”

  I know how he died. He wasn’t old or sick.

  “I want to go home,” I say. “Can we go home?”

  “I’d really rather know what happened,” Miss Weber says. “Then we can deal with it. If Miranda did say something to Clem, I’ll talk to her, talk to her mother—”

  I squeeze Mom’s hand. “Please can we go?”

  “Actually, Ms. Donnelly wanted to speak to you, Mrs. Bennett,” Miss Weber says to Mom. “She said it’s important.”

  Mom’s face goes white.

  “Please!” I cry.

  Mom looks at Miss Weber. Finally Miss Weber nods.

  “Tell Ms. Donnelly I’ll call her,” Mom says.

  Miss Weber gets my bag and then walks with us to the parking lot. At Mom’s car, she squats down and gives me a hug. “We’ll work this out, Clementine. It makes me very sad to think that someone has upset you. I’m going right back to class now and I’m going to talk to everyone about how we shouldn’t say things to upset our friends.”

  “Even if they’re true?” Mom says quietly.

  Miss Weber and I look up, but I don’t think Mom is talking to me. Not to Miss Weber either. She’s just kind of talking to the air.

  * * *

  On the way home, Mom calls Eric to say she’s not coming back to Rosalind House. She says she’s sorry, but it’s a family emergency. I want to tell her that I don’t mind, that I like being at Rosalind House, but then she says, “I’m taking my daughter home, and that’s that,” and hangs up the phone.

  At home, Mom makes her homemade mac ’n’ cheese, and she lets me eat it on the couch.

  “I know you don’t want to talk about it,” she says, sitting beside me. “But I would really like to know what Miranda said to you.”

  “I don’t want to tell you.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Well, is there anything you want to ask me?”

  I dig my fork into my bowl. “Was Daddy a bad man?”

  I don’t look at her. She is quiet for a few seconds, then I do look.

  “Daddy did do some bad things,” she says finally.

  “What things?” I ask.

  “Well. He took other people’s money and he lied about it.”

  “Oh.”

  I start to look down, but Mom lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. “Is that what Miranda said? That Daddy was a bad man?”

  “And … other stuff.”<
br />
  “What stuff?”

  I push my macaroni around, say nothing.

  “You don’t want to tell me?” Mom says, and I nod. “Okay, you don’t have to tell me now. But maybe later, when you’ve thought about it, you might tell me then.”

  I swallow. “Yeah, maybe.”

  I don’t feel like eating anymore, so Mom and I watch some TV. I don’t really pay attention. I’m thinking about what Mom said. Daddy did bad things.

  Later, when we’re in bed, I’m still thinking about it. Mom falls asleep quickly and I watch her for a while. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open.

  “Mom?” She doesn’t answer, so I tap her shoulder. “Mom?”

  Her eyes fly open and she jerks upright. “What is it? Are you all right?”

  “Miranda said Daddy killed himself.”

  Mom blinks; then her eyes get wide and sad. She sits up.

  “Did he?” I ask. “Kill himself?” I wait with my heart booming in my chest.

  Mom tries to cuddle me, but I sit back. I need to see her face. Finally she says, “Yes, Clem. He did.” Her eyes are shiny. She reaches for me again, but I move even farther back.

  He did.

  Daddy killed himself. Daddy was a bad man.

  I dive under the covers and cry and cry.

  35

  It’s hot in Dr. Felder’s office, hot enough to make me want to go back out into the rainy, horrible day. Outside, people scrunch their faces against the wind. Mom is waiting in the room outside. I had an appointment with Dr. Felder anyway, she said, but we were able to move it up, probably because I cried so much last night. Last night, I thought I might never stop crying. Then, this morning, I stopped crying all at once, like I’d suddenly run out of tears.

  Dr. Felder is a therapist. She has spiky black hair and red glasses that hang on a chain around her neck. Her nails are painted red, and she has lots of silver rings on her fingers. She also has a lot of toys. A huge dollhouse with lots of rooms, and lots of dolls to go inside it.

  She sits on the beanbag next to me, her hands folded in her lap.

  “How are you today?” she asks.

  “I’m okay.”