Anna
Twelve months ago …
My mother used to say, “If you give up too many things, you don’t live longer, it just feels like you do.” I think she’s right. Since I’ve been at Rosalind House, I haven’t denied myself anything. Cake. Red alcohol. (I was pleasantly surprised to find that they serve it with dinner.) Online shopping. (Jack still allows me one low-limit credit card, which I use to buy politically incorrect toys for the nephews—what’s the point in having a mentally ill aunt if she can’t buy you a Nerf Super Soaker Electrostorm Blaster?) I’ve downloaded countless books to my online-book-thingy even though I’m more of a TV watcher lately. (Novels seem to favor complex plots, and my mind can’t keep up.)
Also, I haven’t denied myself kissing.
Young Guy and I are in the upstairs room again, lying side by side on the floor. His lips are on mine, and my hands are on his face. Sometimes we just do this for hours. Sometimes I forget who we are and why we are here.
“I’m g-glad you’re … here,” he says, kissing my hair. I’m lying in the crook of his arm and I’ve just finished telling him about the time I punched Jack’s friend Greg for trying to kiss me in third grade. Old memories come to me the easiest these days, and I enjoy sharing them. And Young Guy, judging by his comment, enjoys hearing them.
“Well, I had a lot of other offers,” I tell him, “but I thought you’d be lonely, so…”
Young Guy twists to look at my face. He smiles. “No, I m-mean. I’m g-glad you didn’t…”
With a sinking heart, I realize what he means. “You should know,” I say, “that I haven’t made any final decisions about that.”
He disentangles from me a little. “But—”
“I’m sorry if you thought different. But the truth is, I have only a short window of time when I’ll be able to do this, and that window is closing fast. And I haven’t decided to slam it shut just yet. That’s all.”
He pales so much, I think he might be sick. And there’s no more kissing after that. After that we lie there in silence, and all I can think is, This is my future with Young Guy. Silence.
The strangest part is, it doesn’t seem so terrible.
* * *
In the big house with all the old people, it’s the little things that make people happy. Roast night. The day those animal-people come. Bingo. Tonight it’s movie night and they’re showing Romeo and Juliet. For the most part, the residents are excited, but Baldy has been whining all day. Apparently, we’re watching a modern version of the film, and Baldy doesn’t do modern. As for me, I wouldn’t say I’m excited but I am glad that, for once, people won’t be going to bed at 8:15 sharp. And Young Guy and I will have some company for the evening.
Young Guy picks me up at my door for the movie, which is pretty sweet. It is probably the closest thing to a date I’ll ever have again. But when he stares at me just a moment too long, I start to regret wearing makeup. Even before Alzheimer’s, I wasn’t much good at it, but now, it’s like a puzzle. All the compacts and tubes for the different parts of the face. Tonight, I opened a few compacts, smeared them on, and put it all away again but now I wonder if I should have taken a little more care.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. You just … look pr-pr-pr…”
“Pretty?”
Normally I don’t try to finish his sentences, but tonight he doesn’t seem to mind. He nods. I’m wearing black jeans and a stripy top. No heels or anything, though I am, I suppose, wearing shoes. And, yes, the makeup. But the way he is looking at me, you’d think I was in full war paint.
He holds my hand on the way to the parlor. Usually he and I sit in matching seats by the window, but tonight the room has been reconfigured so all the chairs face the white wall, where the film is being projected.
Young Guy and I sit in the back row. The love seat.
I’m just getting comfortable when Skinny glances over at me once, then quickly again. Her face tells me something is very wrong.
My stomach does a flip. “What?”
“Nothing, sweetie,” she says, but she beelines for me, pulling a scrunched-up white thing from her pocket and wiping it across her tongue. “You’ve just made a bit of a mess of yourself. Don’t worry. I’ll get you cleaned up.”
She rubs the white thing over my face and when she pulls it away, it’s covered in black and brown goo. Then she does the same again. All the oldies are staring right ahead as though they don’t notice, but how could they not? I look at Young Guy and he shrugs. Whatever, his shrug says. After that, I don’t worry anymore.
After three cloths have come away, stained, from my face, Skinny smiles and says, “There now. Much better.”
Then the film starts.
“What in God’s name!” Baldy exclaims, a few minutes in, “Since when did Romeo and Juliet have guns?”
“It’s a remake,” Skinny says hastily. She sounds nervous. “The story’s the same. Well, you know, basically.”
“It’s a load of rubbish,” he says. “I’m leaving.”
But Baldy makes no move to leave. In fact, his eyes are glued to the screen. It’s probably the most excitement he’s had in years.
I try to concentrate on the movie, but it’s too quick. Too loud.After a while, there’s too much noise, so I just lean back, close my eyes, and let the music wash over me. I feel Young Guy take my hand, intertwine it with his. It’s enough to drown out the yelling, the noise of the guns, the music, all of it.
In high school science, my teacher once told us that the brain was responsible for these kinds of lustful feelings. Apparently, during moments of intimacy, the brain sends messages to the heart to pump more blood and to the stomach to contract. If that’s true, then I’m grateful to have a faulty brain. Because if the burst of happiness that explodes inside me were any greater, I’d almost certainly need medical attention.
When the names of the actors start to roll, the room lights up again and we untangle our hands. Most of the residents, I notice, have nodded off. But Baldy’s still awake. Southern Lady. Really Old Lady. Young Guy and me.
“So?” Skinny says. Judging by her red eyes, she’s been crying. “What did you think?”
“I think,” says Really Old Lady, “that Romeo was a playboy. One minute he was in love with Rosaline, and the next he’d run off with Juliet!”
“Which one was Rosaline?” someone that I can’t see says.
“The one Romeo loved at the start of the film, before he met Juliet,” Southern Lady explains. “But surely you don’t hold that against Romeo, May? He met his true love. All’s fair in love and war.”
Really Old Lady folds her arms, decided. “If he’d stuck with Rosaline, became a one-man woman, he’d have been better off. Perhaps he even would have stayed alive.”
Baldy makes a noise, like a phwar. “You’re not suggesting Romeo should have forfeited his true love and settled for second-best in order to add a few more years to his clock? Time is important only if you’ve found the right person to spend it with. Romeo was better off having the love of his life for a few days than fifty years with the wrong gal.”
The conversation has a lot of participants, and it is moving pretty fast. But, using tremendous concentration, I manage to follow. And I find myself nodding to Baldy’s comment. The day I left Aiden was the day my diagnosis was confirmed. With time being cut so suddenly short, another day in the wrong relationship was simply too much.
“I hate to say it,” I say, “but I agree with him.”
Young Guy’s hand continues to stroke mine, and I realize he’s been silent. Southern Lady must notice, too, because she asks, “What do you think, Luke?”
Luke! I say it in my head three times. Luke. Luke. Luke.
Luke is typically thoughtful, taking a moment and shifting in his seat before he speaks. “I th-think,” he says, looking directly at me, “that it all became pointless when they decided to kill themselves.”