Eve
“I probably should have explained something yesterday—” Eric perches on the edge of my desk and lets out a long, world-weary sigh. “—about Anna and Luke. What you saw the other night? It isn’t the first time.”
“I beg your pardon?” I hear him fine, but I want to hear him say it again.
“It’s a sensitive topic, and I didn’t know how much to say earlier. But I’ve spoken to Anna’s brother, and he agrees that I should fill you in. The truth is, Anna and Luke were friends.” He pauses, shakes his head. “They are friends. But shortly after they arrived, they developed quite an attachment. A romance, you might say. It was a great thing for both of them; it gave them a lift and possibly even extended their mental dexterity a little. We were going to let it run its course and we figured eventually it would take care of itself, that they’d forget their friendship. Usually that’s how these things play out.”
“These things?” I ask. “You mean … there have been other—?”
“—romances? Oh, yes,” Eric says, grinning. “There’s more lust at a residential care facility than in high school. Didn’t you know?”
There’s something about Eric’s obvious enjoyment of this that I find a little off-putting.
“It’s especially common with dementia patients,” he continues. “Human beings are programmed to form attachments in order to survive. So it makes sense that when you have dementia, new attachments are formed to replace those that are lost. It’s a good thing, it can reduce loneliness and depression. But in this case, it was a little more complicated.”
“Why?”
“We became aware that Luke and Anna were intimate. Which in itself is complicated, but for them, it opened up a host of other issues. For example, is Anna—or Luke, for that matter—of sound mind to consent to this?”
“But … you said they’d developed a relationship. Surely that implies consent?”
“Actually, it doesn’t. Among other things, as dementia develops, an individual’s inhibitions can become lowered, causing them to act uncharacteristically promiscuous or flirtatious. Even if they are saying yes, we can’t be sure they would be saying yes if their judgment wasn’t impaired. Then, of course, there was the other incident—Anna’s suicide attempt. After that, we had no choice but to start locking the doors. We didn’t come to that decision lightly. But all things considered, it made sense.”
“Are Anna and Luke okay with it?” I ask.
“As okay as you can expect, really. Sometimes they become upset at night, but again, that’s normal for people with dementia. Most likely, Anna’s distress is simply the night-restlessness and she doesn’t remember Luke at all. It’s possible Luke does remember, but even if he does, we can’t allow him free access to Anna’s room at night. They can spend time together during the day, but the staff try to keep them busy and redirect them if they try to go off privately together. I’ll ask you to do the same,” he says, “if you happen to see them together.”
I think of Anna asking for help. Of her asking if he was there, then saying she was talking about Luke.
“All right, Eve?” Eric repeats.
“Yes,” I say. “Okay.”
But my facial expression must give away my true feelings because Eric continues. “The important thing is that we abide by the families’ wishes, for everyone’s sake.”
“Of course,” I say, though I can’t help but wonder if abiding by the families’ wishes is really for everyone’s sake. Or just for everyone else’s sake.
* * *
Clem aka Alice is quiet on the way to school. I try to engage her by asking her if she wants a special dinner, but she just shrugs. Even seeing Legs on the way into the classroom isn’t enough to pep her up.
I have a quick word with Miss Weber, who says she’ll keep a special eye on her. She also asks for my change-of-address form, which I supply with a stomach full of knots. If she suspects anything, I can’t tell.
Then I have to run off to work. It strikes me that this is a cruel irony. Before, when I had the most well-adjusted, happiest little girl in the world, I had nothing but time to spend with her. Now, when she could really use her mother around, I have to work.
Back at Rosalind House, the parlor is full. Laurie is reading a newspaper, Bert is chatting quietly to himself. Gwen dozes. Luke and Anna are perched at opposite windows. As I wipe down the mantel, I can’t help stealing a look at them. They seem content enough, staring into the garden, but who knows? Do they wish they were side by side?
“That’s lovely,” Bert says, startling me. At first I’m not sure what he’s referring to; then I realize I’ve been humming.
“Oh,” I say. “Well … thank you.”
“That tune?” he says. “What is it?”
“It’s … Pachelbel’s Canon.” Why had I chosen to hum my wedding song? “Do you know it?”
“Of course. I like it.” He frowns. “Why did you stop?”
I smile and continue to hum. There’s something warm about Bert, gruff as he is.
“Are you all right, my love?”
I look around. This time it’s Laurie talking, and not to me.
Clara has drifted into the room, carrying a Maeve Binchy novel. “Fit as a fiddle,” she says, kissing him on the mouth. Her eyes close, and for a heartbeat, she looks completely blissed out. “Don’t you go worryin’ yourself.”
“You should tell the doctor when she gets here,” Laurie says.
“You think she’s interested in my headache?”
“Dr. Walker is interested in everything,” Laurie says. “At our age, anything is a symptom.”
Clara pffts, but with a smile. “At our age, a headache is still a headache.”
I give the coffee table a spritz. Spraying, I realize, is surprisingly pleasant—the shush sound it makes, the way the products mist out evenly over the surface, ready to make something clean. It’s impossible to be bad at spraying. Wiping, on the other hand, is loathsome. It makes no sound. It takes a lot of effort, and if you’re not any good at it, it shows you up as the amateur you are.
“Tell the doctor,” Laurie orders.
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“I am,” he replies. “I’m your husband.”
I continue to hum, soothed by the pleasant squabble of a couple who’ve been married sixty years.
“Ah, I nearly forgot,” Laurie says. “Enid called.”
The silence that follows is long enough for me to look up.
“When?” Clara asks.
Laurie shrugs. “Before.”
“Before when?”
“I’m an old man.” He waves his hands about as if that emphasizes his point. “Keeping track of time is too depressing.”
He winks at me, and I hum louder—proof that I’m not eavesdropping.
“What did my sister have to say for herself?” Clara asks.
“Just that she’s coming to visit.”
“From Charlotte?” Clara’s voice rises like a Chinese sky lantern. “Why?”
The coffee table is nice and shiny, and I really should move on to the kitchen. But I get out my bottle and give it another spray. I’ve missed my daily gossip sessions with Jazz. Hearing about who has had Botox, who is leaving her husband for the personal trainer. While this conversation isn’t anywhere near so scandalous, I feel myself getting sucked into it. I’d have expected someone like Clara to talk to her sister every day, to send cards and gifts and exchange photos of respective grandchildren. But by the way she’s acting, you’d have thought Laurie had said Satan himself was coming to visit.
“Enid comes every year,” Laurie says slowly. “Why not this year?”
Clara shrugs. “It’s a long way for her to travel, is all.”
“As you point out every time. Now, are you going to get all worked up as usual, planning activities for every solitary second of her trip, or are you going to let her have a nice visit this time?”
Clara narrows her eyes. “Since when are you so worried about my sister getting a nice visit?”
“Staying out of it,” Laurie says.
“You do that.”
Clara thumps down her book and heaves herself out of her chair.
“Where are you going?” Laurie asks.
“Where do you think? I’m going to call Enid. Get this visit planned and over with.”
Clara disappears and the room falls silent again, apart from my humming. Laurie starts whistling, so comfortable as to his place in Clara’s life, he doesn’t need to waste his time worrying. I’d always thought that one day, Richard and I would be old and comfortable in our ways, after a lifetime of marriage. We would have been. But Richard ruined it.
I finish dusting some books on the coffee table, then tuck my cloth into my apron. That’s when I notice Anna.
“Anna?” I say cautiously, edging toward her. “Are you … all right?”
Her face is slick with tears. She’s staring right at me, but unseeing, so I squat down in front of her and take her hands. “Anna?”
Finally she sees me. Her eyes go round, panicked. “They’re having us followed.”
“Who is having you followed?”
She tips her head toward the doorway. “Them.”
I look at the doorway, which is empty. I shake my head. “No one is having you followed, Anna.”
“They are,” she says. Her hands are fists, pounding against her knees. Her face becomes twisted with frustration. “And soon, I’m going to forget him.”
She isn’t making any sense. I glance around, looking for Carole or Trish or Eric, but they’re nowhere to be seen.
“Anna, I promise you no one is—”
“They are!” In a sudden movement, she throws her hands up, and I lose my balance and tumble backwards onto the rug. I’m just getting up again as Carole and Eric come jogging in.
“See?” Anna says, pointing at them. Her face is almost victorious. “I told you! They’re following us. Where’s Jack?” she asks Eric snippily. “Where’s your partner in crime?”
Eric runs over to me. “Are you all right?”
I stand upright. “I’m fine.”
“It’s all right, sweetie,” Carole says to Anna. She approaches her quickly, getting right up in her face. “Everything is all right.”
“No, it’s not!”
Unlike my push, which I think was unintentional, this time Anna gives Carole an almighty shove. Carole hits the ground with a thud, landing awkwardly on her elbow.
“We need to restrain her,” Eric says. “Trish?” he calls out.
“Oh no,” I say, “I don’t think—”
But Trish is already jogging into the room.
“Anna is getting agitated,” Eric says. “She’s just pushed Eve and Carole.”
“She didn’t mean to push me,” I say. “It was an acciden—”
“Do you need a tranquilizer?” Trish asks.
“No!” I say at the same time as Eric says, “Probably best to be safe.”
I can’t believe this is happening. Anna still seems agitated, but she’s not exactly wielding a knife. She’s just in her chair, looking at her lap, muttering quietly. I hear what she’s saying, but it doesn’t make any sense. It sounds like “beat the bomb, beat the bomb.”
Before I know what’s happening, Trish is back with a syringe. She approaches Anna from the side, so she doesn’t see it coming. When she drives the needle into her arm, Anna lets out a high-pitched, pained wail.
My hands find my mouth. I want to look away, but for some reason, perhaps out of solidarity with Anna, I can’t. Help me. They are following us. Beat the bomb. I search her words for a common thread, a clue to what she’s trying to tell me. But they just sound like the words of someone at a disconnect with reality. Someone with Alzheimer’s.
“There you go, sweetie,” Trish says as Anna sinks back into her chair. Anna continues to stare at me for a few seconds with something like pleading in her eyes. But as the tranquilizer works its way into her system, her expression dulls away to nothing.