The Things We Keep

by Sally Hepworth

  “I’m sorry, I really can’t say.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can I help you with something? What was your name?”

  “Eve,” I say, offering my hand. “Eve Bennett. Actually, I’m here to see Clara. Laurie called me.”

  “Of course,” she says. “Come this way.”

  We start down the hall. It’s strange, being a visitor here. I remember my interview, when Angus led me inside to Eric’s office. It feels like forever ago. As we walk, Denise waves at a family member coming out of Bert’s room and helps a young woman pushing the cleaning cart to pick up the pile of towels she has dropped. (They’d hired a cleaner!)

  I stop suddenly. “Denise?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you at least tell me … Eric wasn’t … up to anything untoward, was he? With the residents? I mean, can you at least tell me that?”

  She gives me a long, assessing look. Then she exhales. “Let’s just say that Eric was far too busy doing creative accounting to be bothering with much else. And that, at least, is something to be grateful for.”

  Creative accounting? All at once everything clicks into place. The tiny grocery budget. The merging of the cook and cleaner position. Eric’s fancy new car.

  “That slimy rotten…”

  As Denise’s lips start to upcurve, I feel a rush of relief. And I have a feeling that Rosalind House is now in exactly the right hands.

  * * *

  When I enter Clara’s bedroom, her eyes are closed. Laurie lies by her side, awake, staring as her face flickers and dances with new sleep. I watch for a moment from the doorway, then back away quietly.

  “Eve.” Laurie spots me right before I disappear out the door. He smiles and starts to sit up.

  “Stay where you are,” I say. “Please. Seeing you two lying there, it gives me faith in love.”

  Laurie ignores me and pushes himself upright. “A pretty young girl like you, you shouldn’t need help finding faith in love.”

  I laugh. “You might be surprised.”

  Laurie watches me, waiting in that way I’ve become accustomed to these last few months. At Rosalind House, I’ve discovered a whole new way of being listened to.

  “I don’t want to talk about me,” I say. “How is Clara?”

  Laurie casts a glance down at her. “It won’t be long now.”

  “Is she suffering?”

  “I don’t think so. She’s asleep mostly. She’s been saying some strange things.” He continues staring at her, adoring, but his expression is mingled with puzzlement. “She told me about something she did, a long time ago. A secret she’s been keeping.” Finally he strips his eyes off her and looks at me. “A confession. She said she stole me from her sister—a hundred years ago, when we were kids.” His laugh is empty. “She said her death wish was to put things right, to”—he laughs again—“to reunite us.”

  A knot ties itself, deep in my belly. She did tell him.

  “It makes me sick to think that, when she knew she was going to die, this is what she was thinking about.”

  “Is it true?” I ask. “Did she steal you … from her sister?”

  Laurie shrugs like it’s the most insignificant detail in the world. “Probably. But if she did, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. What upsets me most is that she thought this would undo everything we had. Sixty years of marriage. Every memory … every moment.”

  I think of Richard. Of all the time we spent together that I’d rendered meaningless because of how things went in the end.

  “And”—I swallow—“it doesn’t?”

  “Of course it doesn’t.”

  “But if something starts on a lie—”

  He makes a noise like bah. “You might start something on a lie, or finish it on a lie, but that doesn’t mean that everything in the middle isn’t the truth.” He smiles a sad smile. “Nothing can undo time.”

  Finally, for both me and Laurie, the tears begin to roll.

  “So what did you say?” I ask finally. “Did you … grant her wish?”

  He laughs. “I told her I’m the husband, so my wishes come first.” He rolls back into a lying position and tosses an arm over Clara’s waist. “And my wish is to have the love of my life die in my arms.”

  * * *

  Clara didn’t wake while I was there. I stayed for half an hour, then kissed her papery forehead and told her to say hello to Richard for me. Then I let myself into the hallway.

  Pots bang in the kitchen; someone is obviously packing up the lunch dishes. Doing my job, probably a lot better than I did it. I think of Anna and Luke. Rosie told me on the phone that Anna had received seven stitches in her hand but she would be fine. I glance toward her room and shift my stance, wondering if I should pop my head around the door. She won’t remember me, of course. But we’d had a rapport once. I can’t help but wonder if we’ll still have it.

  Before I can decide one way or another, her door opens and her father walks out. “Hello,” he says. “It’s Eve, isn’t it?”

  I hesitate on the spot. “Er, yes. That’s right.”

  “I’m Anna’s dad. Peter.”

  “I remember,” I say. “How’s Anna?”

  “Not great, today.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Actually, I was hoping I would run into you,” he says. “Denise told me you aren’t working here anymore.”

  “No, I’m just … visiting.”

  “Have you got a minute?” he asks. “Could we talk?”

  “Sure,” I say, surprised. “In the parlor?”

  “After you.”

  In the chairs by the window, he pulls Anna’s notebook from his bag. “I was going to give this back to Anna today. It just felt like the right thing to do. Then I realized, if she reads it, it will just remind her of a promise she can’t keep. So I kept it.” He looks at it sadly. “But I’m starting to wonder if Anna should be kept from this man.”

  “Why is she kept apart from him?” I ask. There’s a note of begging in my voice. “Can you tell me?”

  His gaze drops away. “I don’t see why it’s such a secret. Anna was pregnant.”

  My mouth opens. I start to say something, but the words get stuck, and I can’t seem to project them.

  “No one realized, not even Anna, until she was nearly halfway through the pregnancy. When Jack found out, he sat down with her and told her—then he marched into Eric’s office to unleash.” Peter pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “While Jack was with Eric, Anna took herself to the top floor of this building and jumped off the roof.”

  I close my eyes. The final piece of the puzzle.

  “Jack blames himself for leaving her alone after giving her that news, and he’s adamant he’s going to protect her from now on. He became the man of our house when I left his mother, so it’s tough for me to come in now and tell Jack what’s right for his sister.” His face is pained, like he might cry. “But then I read this notebook, and it says she wants to live out the rest of her days with this man, no matter what comes—”

  “And instead she’s kept behind a locked door.”

  He nods. “If it were up to me, I’d want Anna to squeeze every minute of joy out of the days she has left. If that meant unlocking the doors, that’s what I’d do. But I’ve tried talking to Jack, and it’s falling on deaf ears.”

  I think about what Peter said, but it doesn’t make any sense. Anna could take birth control. The upstairs has already been blocked off for residents. Then I think about it again. Jack blames himself. Jack is adamant he won’t let anything like that happen again. That makes more sense. Suddenly I realize I might be the only person who can get through to him.

  “Would it be all right with you, Peter,” I ask, “if I talked to Jack?”

  * * *

  The drive to Philly takes over an hour, but it feels like five minutes. As we drive, Peter tells me about his son. He uses all the adjectives of a proud parent—“intelligent,” “funny,” “calm�
��—but also a few other words like “headstrong” and “stubborn.” And “protective”—that’s the one that frightens me the most.

  When we pull into the driveway, Jack is out front, shoveling snow. Hearing the car, he turns. He looks at me for a moment; then his gaze shifts to his dad. It’s accusatory. What have you done now?

  “You remember Eve,” Peter says.

  “Yes,” Jack says warily. “Hello, Eve.”

  “Eve is here to talk to you about Anna.”

  “Is she all right? I heard she cut her hand—”

  “Physically, she’s fine,” I tell him. “It’s her emotional health I’m worried about.”

  There is a moment’s silence. A gust of wind flutes past, chilling me to the bone.

  “I’m sorry, aren’t you the housekeeper?” Jack asks.

  “Yes, but I’ve spent a great deal of time with Anna over the recent months, and I care about her very much. Could I—?” I shiver and glance toward the door. “Could I come inside?”

  “What’s this all about?” Jack asks, more to Peter than to me. Irritation, it seems, has taken the place of bafflement.

  “I told you,” Peter says. “It’s about Anna. Come inside, Eve. This way.” Peter ushers me into the house while Jack reluctantly plants his shovel in the snow.

  The house is magnificent. We walk into a high-ceilinged foyer with a marble floor. It reminds me more of a shopping mall than a house. Peter takes my coat and Jack shuts the door with a thud.

  “All right,” Jack says. “Let’s get this over with.”

  “This isn’t an intervention, Jack,” Peter says.

  “It better not be. Because this isn’t a democracy. I have Anna’s power of attorney. So if this is about her boyfriend, forget it.”

  Peter and I confer with our eyes. “It’s about the letter,” I say. “Anna’s letter.”

  Peter gets the notebook out of his bag.

  “Yes,” Jack says. “I read it.”

  “Then you know it says Anna and Luke agreed they’d stay together until—”

  “I know what it says. I also know Anna has not been true to this promise, because she did try to kill herself. That is a fact.”

  “That is a fact,” I say. Already I can see that I am at a disadvantage, arguing with an attorney. “And I’ll admit, I don’t understand that part. Maybe we never will. But let’s look at all the facts. When you took Anna out of Rosalind House, she became so depressed that, despite your reservations, you returned her there and saw marked improvements in just a few days.”

  “So love can work miracles, is that what you’re saying?” Jack laughs blackly. “What do you want me to do? I took her back there, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but they might as well be a world apart. Imagine the improvement if they were allowed to actually spend time together. If you unlocked the doors—”

  Jack looks at me. “This may come as a surprise to you, but I love my sister. She’s the funniest, bravest, most extraordinary person you could possibly imagine.”

  “I know she is.”

  “She’s also the most vulnerable person you could imagine. And I am responsible for her. I let her down once. I’m not going to do it again.”

  “I know you think—”

  “Oh, you know, do you?” Jack’s eyes flash. “You know what it’s like to have a loved one try to kill themselves because you walked out when they needed you the most?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Except in my case, they were successful.”

  This stops him a second. Jack and Peter exchange a glance.

  “You’ve probably heard of my husband, Richard Bennett?”

  Jack stares at me. “You’re Richard Bennett’s wife?”

  I nod. “You promised you would look after your sister. I promised I would support my husband in sickness and in health. And we did. Just because Anna and Richard made decisions we didn’t understand when we weren’t there, doesn’t mean we let them down. It just means … they did something we didn’t understand.”

  I wait for Jack to lob back a retort, but he remains silent. Tears shine in his eyes.

  “I admit, I still blame myself sometimes. But when I’m thinking clearly, I know that I had no control over Richard’s actions. And though you may have some control over Anna’s, she can still make her own decisions. And if I know anything about Anna, she’ll make them, with or without your support.”

  At this, a soft laugh comes from Jack. “Wow,” he says. “You do know Anna.”

  “Keeping her away from Luke won’t change what has already happened. But it might change what happens in the future.” I take the notebook from Peter and thrust it out for Jack to see. “Anna loves this man. At this stage of their lives, they are all each other has left. Let her be with him,” I say. “Because if you don’t, you might just end up blaming yourself for that. And as Anna would say, life’s too short.”

  48

  Clementine

  When Legs visited yesterday, I thought I was going to burst with all the stuff I had to tell her. It’s weird, not going to school together, but it’s great to have so much to talk about. I tell her about my new teacher, Mrs. Hubble, who is nearly as nice as Miss Weber, and my new friends, Billie and Scarlett and Pippa. What’s so good about Legs is that she wants to hear everything. She’s still my very best friend. She came to our apartment and we ate pizza and did each other’s hair and danced around while we watched Frozen. Then Mom helped us make orange and poppy-seed muffins.

  Today, Mom and me go to Rosalind House. The people at Rosalind House must not have many visitors, because when I walk in the door, it’s like the man from the ice cream truck has showed up. Everyone grins like crazy. Angus is there and he gives Mom a kiss on the cheek when he thinks I’m not looking. It’s a little weird, but it makes Mom smile. And I want Mom to smile. Anyway, Angus is pretty nice.

  Mom scuttles off to see the new manager lady, and I do an Irish dance for Gwen in the hall. I give Laurie a high five and May a kiss. Then I have to excuse myself because, actually, I don’t have all day.

  Bert is in the parlor. “There you are!”

  Bert looks up, blinks his yellow eyes, and after a million years, smiles. He needs to go to a dentist, but I don’t tell him this, because it would be rude. “Well, hello there, young lady.”

  I guess Bert still doesn’t remember my name. And for the first time in ages, this makes me a bit sad. “I’m Clementine,” I say.

  He nods.

  I point to the chair next to him. “Is Myrna sitting there?”

  “No. Would you like to sit down?”

  “Yes. I’d like to talk to you about something.” I settle myself in the chair. “It’s about Myrna.”

  Bert’s whiskery eyebrows shoot up. “Oh?”

  “Well, it’s about Myrna and my daddy. You know how I’ve been talking to my dad sometimes, these last few months? Well it’s been good, but I think I need to stop now. You see, I’ve got all these other people to talk to, like my mom, Legs, and my other friends. So I probably should talk to them, since they’re alive and stuff. And I thought maybe you should stop talking to Myrna, too.”

  Bert frowns.

  “So,” I ask, “what do you think?”

  It takes him a long time to answer.

  “You’re very lucky to have all those people who love you,” he says finally. “Your mom and your friends. But the thing about me is that I don’t have a lot of people like that.”

  “But you do.” In the very next chair, on the other side of Bert, is Gwen, so I lower my voice. “How about Gwen? If you’d just speak to her, you wouldn’t need to speak to Myrna.”

  “I don’t need to speak to Myrna,” Bert says. His voice is quieter than it was a moment ago. “I want to. And I’m not willing to let her go. Maybe I’m a foolish old man, but”—he smiles—“I’m an old dog, it’s too late to start learning new tricks.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about—dogs and tricks—but I’m pretty sure he’s saying he
wants to keep Myrna. I shrug. “Well, if you’re sure.”

  “I am.”

  I slide off the chair onto my feet. “In that case, I guess I’d better get going. Bye, Bert.”

  “I hope I’ll see you again, young lady,” Bert calls after me.

  When I turn back, Bert is giving me the biggest, brightest, crooked-toothed smile I’ve ever seen. If Myrna makes him feel like that, I decide, she can’t be such a bad thing.

  “Clementine,” I say. “My name is Clementine.”

  He smiles, nods, tells me he’ll try to remember that. And as I walk to the garden, I decide I want everyone to call me that from now on.

  * * *

  The sky looks like a huge white sheet. I can’t even remember the last time I saw blue sky. Out here in the garden, it’s cold and the snow drenches right through my shoes. I know I don’t have to be in the garden at Rosalind House when I talk to Dad, but there’s something about this garden that feels right, even with wet feet.

  “Daddy? I need to talk to you.”

  I close my eyes and bring him into the center of my mind. He’s sitting in a chair with one leg crossed over the other and watching me really close.

  “I’m still angry with you,” I say, “but I’m not as angry. Because everyone does bad things sometimes.”

  Daddy doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s listening. His face looks like it did when he listened, tilted a little, soft eyes, smiling. I used to love it when Daddy looked at me like that.

  “And you did good things, too. You were good at dancing. And … you used to sing to me in the bath when I was a baby.” My eyes get blurry and then I’m crying. “I love you. But I’m going to stop talking to you now. And Mom and I are going to look after each other.” I feel a tug of hurt in my heart. “If you ever need anyone to speak to, I’ll be here. Or you can try ghosts.” Suddenly, an idea comes to me. “Or Myrna. I don’t think Bert would mind.…”

  I keep talking to Daddy for a little while, until my socks are wet through and I can’t feel my toes. Then, slowly, I let him slip out of my mind, and I open my eyes. And right at that moment, there’s a break in the white sky. And the sun comes shining through.