The Things We Keep

by Sally Hepworth

  49

  Eve

  Three months later …

  It’s like a déjà vu. I’m standing in front of Rosalind House, my stomach a bundle of nerves. The only difference is, this time, I already have a job. Not at Benu or an up-and-coming Manhattan restaurant. A brand-new restaurant in the suburbs. It’s not particularly fashionable and its patrons aren’t photographed on their way in. The food is good, though, and I intend to make it better. I’m only the junior chef now. But that’ll change.

  At the moment, I do lunches at the restaurant, so I can drop Clem off at school every morning and pick her up every afternoon. We’ve moved into a house, a small one with two bedrooms, but Clem and I still sleep together most nights.

  I’ve seen quite a lot of Angus, too, these past months. First a few trips to the grocery store, then a movie. Then another proper date. Then he started calling around the house every so often with a plant or some herbs. Clem has been warming to him. The pair of them started a vegetable patch in the garden at our house, and I’ve heard her giggling while they tend it together. Once, Clem even asked if he wanted to watch her Irish dancing.

  Now, when the front door of Rosalind House swings open, Angus is standing there. I see him for only a second before he pulls me onto the step and into his arms. He bends to kiss me, but at the last minute he pauses, looks over my shoulder. “No Clem?”

  “She’s at school.”

  “Then—” He kisses me in a way that makes me think I might faint. When he stops, I feel boneless, like I might slide down his body and end up as a puddle on the floor.

  “Well.” He smiles. “Welcome to Rosalind House. Won’t you come in?”

  Inside, people buzz about. In the entrance to the parlor, I catch the pleasant scent of cinnamon and yeast, and I marry it to the plate stand of buns on the coffee table. My relief that they’ve found a good cook is only slightly marred by feelings of inferiority; after all, I never made cinnamon buns for visitors’ day.

  Bert is in the love seat between his granddaughter and her husband and their new baby, a girl if the bow around her head can be trusted. Laurie is surrounded by middle-aged men, possibly his sons, wearing earpieces and carrying pocket radios, listening to some kind of sport and announcing it for him. May is sitting with two women carrying rosary beads. Everyone is absorbed with their families, and they don’t look up when Angus and I appear. There’s a gentle hum of chatter, and I think of Anna. She won’t like the noise. Then I realize she’s not here.

  “Where’s Anna?”

  “In her room, love,” says the woman pushing past, “with Luke.”

  The woman carries with her the yeast scent I caught earlier. The cook. I crane my neck as she whizzes away, trying to get a good look. She’s short and thick and in a hurry—yet even from that quick glimpse, she radiates warmth. Then again, it’s no surprise. What person who bakes cinnamon buns doesn’t radiate warmth?

  Angus has told me a little about how Anna and Luke have been these last few months. The confusion. The repetition. Now her memory is less than two minutes long. At least she has round-the-clock access to Luke, though. They’ve moved into Clara and Laurie’s suite now. Instructions to separate them have been rescinded. They are allowed to live and move as they see fit.

  I reach Clara and Laurie’s suite—now Anna and Luke’s suite—and peer inside. Peter, Jack, and a little boy around Clem’s age are gathered near Anna and Luke. The boy is sitting on Anna’s lap, chatting nonstop about baseball, about his friend Tom, about the dinosaur he wants for his birthday.

  Peter glances up first and smiles. Then he looks at his daughter. “Anna?” he says. “You have a visitor.”

  Jack offers a small smile of his own. “Come on in, Eve.”

  I remain in the doorway, inexplicably nervous. Angus steps forward, but I hold him back. “There are too many people,” I whisper. “She won’t like it.”

  “Hey, Eath,” Jack says. “Why don’t we go climb that tree in the garden?”

  The little boy slides off Anna’s lap. After kissing Anna’s forehead, Jack guides his son out of the room by the shoulders. Peter follows close behind.

  When they are gone, I enter. “Hello,” I say.

  Anna blinks up at me.

  I scan her face for recognition, but I don’t find it. “I’m Eve. This is Angus.”

  “Is it breakfast time?”

  I have no idea if she recognizes me or associates me with cooking or what. In any case, it’s two thirty in the afternoon, so breakfast isn’t likely. “Not yet,” I say. “But I can get you a cinnamon bun, if you like.”

  “No.” She looks at Luke and suddenly, inexplicably, she breaks into a smile. “Would you like a cinnamon bun?”

  He shakes his head, smiling back.

  She’s changed, even in the few months since I left. She looks older. Her face is more vacant and her shoulders have taken on a slight hunch. Still, there is a beauty to her. I think back to the day I met her, on the grass in the garden. “Help me,” she’d said. I hope, in some way, I did.

  When Anna looks back at me, her expression is puzzled. I can almost hear her unspoken question. When did you get here? She cocks her head, perhaps searching for the information that her brain refuses to give her.

  Instead of filling her in, reminding her of my name, I stay silent. Deep down, selfishly, I want the moment of recognition.

  “Oh,” she says finally. “Is it breakfast time?”

  We stay for fifteen minutes. And when we say our good-byes, Anna barely notices.

  “Are you sad?” Angus asks me in the foyer. His face is concerned. “That she didn’t remember you?”

  “No,” I say. “Why would I be sad? Anna and Luke got what they wanted—they’ll be together till the end.” I take Angus’s hand and lead him toward the door. “If only everyone could be so lucky.”

  50

  Anna

  Six months ago …

  I think I’m in a garden. It’s warm and bright and there’s a pattern of light on the green spike-thingies at my feet. There is a man next to me. A young guy. He smiles a little, so I smile back. It makes me feel happy.

  And just like that, a memory is coming at me. Sweeping through my mind and collapsing every part of my brain until there’s nothing but a cloud of images. I’m as powerless to stop these visions as I am to, uh … what’s the word, conjure?… them up. I’m in bed. This man and I lie tangled in each other. It’s new, our relationship, maybe our first time together. He is smiling and I am happy.

  “P-promise me we’ll be together in the end,” he says. “No switching a button, no ending it. Promise?”

  I groan, but his face is determined. There’s no arguing.

  “Fine,” I say.

  “Say … it.”

  I roll my eyes. “I promise. We’ll be together in the end. Batshit crazy. And together. I promise.”

  I swim out of the memory, and when I do, the man—Luke—is still smiling. I remember, I want to tell him. But for how long? If the memory starts in clouds, it finishes off a precipice, gone into blackness. This is what terrifies me.

  Suddenly, a woman appears in front of me, planting a colorful thing on my lap. She smells of cream and cake. “You dropped this,” she says.

  I don’t think I know this woman, but she has kind eyes. She’s waiting for me to say something, but my mind is somewhere else. I need to tell someone something before the memory goes. Maybe this woman? Maybe she can help me keep my promise to Luke? But my thoughts come slowly, and before I can ask her, she is removing her hand from my lap.

  I lunge forward and clasp on to it.

  “Oh.” The woman pulls back, but I just hold her tighter. In a minute, the memory will be gone, and who knows when it will be back? It may never come back. “I didn’t mean to alarm you,” she says, “I … I just didn’t want you to lose your lovely scarf.”

  “Please,” I say. “Help me.”

  The woman’s eyes grow round. There’s something about h
er. Do I know this woman? Was she once my friend? She looks like a friend.

  “What did you say? Anna?”

  Anna. She knows my name. I must know her. She will help me. I know she will.

  The woman is waiting for a reply, but suddenly, I don’t remember the question. It makes me feel nervous, and I look away from her, at the smiling man beside me. Immediately, I feel better.

  The woman leaves, and I keep looking at the man. As long as I stick with him, I decide, things will be all right.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, thank you to my editor, Jennifer Enderlin, for knowing how to take my words and ideas and shape them into something resembling a book. Thank you also to the talented and hardworking team at St. Martin’s Press who, I suspect, love books even more than I do (and that is saying something). To my publishers around the world, particularly Haylee Nash and Alex Lloyd at Pan Macmillan Australia, thank you for all that you do. As an aspiring author I used to dream about having a team of people who believed in my book, and now it’s fair to say I have the “dream team.”

  To my agent and friend Rob Weisbach, thank you for tirelessly advocating for me and, more important, for showing me where to spot celebrities in L.A. (Next time I’m not leaving until I meet Kevin Spacey.)

  To those who helped with my research, especially Clare Dyer, for giving so generously of your time and resources—this book is so much richer for it. In particular, thank you for showing me the difference a good nurse can make, and how “stepping into their reality” can mean the difference between joy and terror for a person with dementia. You must have brought a lot of joy to patients and their families over your career.

  To Belinda Nixon at Alzheimer’s Australia Vic, thank you for meeting with me on several occasions, and for reading this manuscript in its early form and providing feedback.

  To the Hanrahan family, particularly Therese, for sharing your Alzheimer’s experiences and always answering my questions. The way you keep your grace and humor through the seemingly endless challenges of life is truly extraordinary. I suspect you get this from your mother.

  To Rosie Brennan, for sharing the true story that would become the heart and soul of this book—the story of “Rodney” and “Betty,” the residents who held hands in the TV room of their nursing home every single day, not because they remembered to, but because they wanted to. Thank you also to Rosie for being my right (and left) hand when it comes to social media. If it weren’t for you I’d still think LOL stood for “Lots of Love.”

  To my critique partners, Anna George and Meredith Jaeger, and my beta reader, Jacquelyn Sylvan—thank you for being the brilliant writers and astute readers that you are. Every piece of feedback is a gift, honestly. Also to my first readers, Geraldine Carrodus, Angela Langford, Dagmar Logan, Inna Spitskaia, and Jane Wharton, thank you for your insane positivity (something every insecure author needs).

  To my friends Emily Makiv and Kena Roach, who proofread for me in exchange for an early look at my books—the job is yours for life, if you want it.

  To my great aunty Gwen, who wanted a mention in one of my books. Here it is. Go tell your friends.

  To Mum, for making me love words, and Dad, who always taught me to never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

  To Oscar and Eloise—I adored creating the character of Clementine, but no one could be weirder or more wonderful than the two of you.

  Finally, to Christian for being my fiercest champion, and for being man enough to admit that this book made him cry.

  About the Author

  Sally Hepworth is a former event planner and human resources professional. A graduate of Monash University in Melbourne, Australia, Sally started writing novels after the birth of her first child. She is the author of Love Like the French, published by Random House Germany in February 2014. Sally has lived around the world, spending extended periods in Singapore, the U.K., and Canada, and she now writes full-time from her home in Melbourne, where she lives with her husband and two young children. Visit Sally’s Web site at www.sallyhepworthauthor.com or find her on Facebook (www.facebook.com/sallyhepworthauthor) and Twitter (www.twitter.com/sallyhepworth). Or sign up for email updates here.

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Sally Hepworth

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE THINGS WE KEEP. Copyright © 2015 by Sally Hepworth. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover design by Elsie Lyons

  Cover photographs: strings © Yuji Sakai/Getty Images; cloth © vata/Shutterstock

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-05190-5 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-10196-9 (International Edition)

  ISBN 978-1-4668-5264-8 (e-book)

  e-ISBN 9781466852648

  Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

  First Edition: January 2016