By the time I haul myself out of bed the next morning, Clem’s already dressed and sitting on the couch. It’s her first day back at school. She’s chosen an interesting outfit: stripy leggings, tutu skirt, a green long-sleeved T-shirt with DIVA written across the chest. And her sparkly sneakers. I pause when I see them. They’re hot pink with flashing lights that trigger when she jumps and they were a gift from her father for her seventh birthday.
“You okay, hon?” I ask, dropping a slice of raisin bread into the toaster.
Clem nods, still staring.
“You looking forward to seeing Legs today?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re going to say sorry to Miranda?”
Clem sighs. “Yes.”
“Good girl. It’s never okay to hit someone, is it?”
She shakes her head. At the sight of her solemn little face, the noose in my stomach that I associate with mother’s guilt pulls tight.
“I’ll be waiting outside when class is out, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And what will you say if someone says something about Daddy?”
“He was my daddy, so I know better than you,” she recites, just like we practiced.
“That’s right,” I say. Clem keeps staring at her shoes. “And Clem?”
I brace, waiting for her to tell me that her name is Sophie-Anne or Laila or Alice. But this time she lets it slide.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“When you say sorry to Miranda, be sure you keep one hand in your pocket, so you can keep your fingers crossed.”
Clem looks up, blinks. And finally, she gives me a big, beautiful smile. At the sight of it, the noose around my stomach releases. A little.
* * *
Of all my tasks at Rosalind House, I hate ironing the most. Firstly, I have to do it in a little cupboard of a room, with a fold-down board and an iron that fills the entire space with so much condensation that my hair frizzes. Secondly, it takes an exorbitant amount of time to do one shirt, even very badly. Thirdly, because I have a knack of zoning out to pass the time, I tend to have a fairly high incidence of, well, incidents.
This afternoon, I stand in the doorway to Bert’s room. He stares at the iron-shaped mark on his shirt and frowns. “It’s not good enough, Eve. It’s really not good enough.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll buy you another shirt.”
“I don’t want another shirt. I want this shirt. With no mark.”
“It’s just … I’m not a great ironer, is all.”
“You young folk, you’re so slapdash! You don’t take the time to do things properly.” He tuts and shakes his head. “Now, Myrna … she could iron. Never once made a mark on my shirt. Not once!”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, because there’s not a lot else to say. I can’t ask Myrna for an ironing lesson. I look out the window for Angus, and instead, I see Trish wheeling Gwen across the lawn in the whipping wind. That woman is crazy for fresh air, walking her in this weather. I look back at Bert. “Maybe I should ask Gwen for some tips?”
Bert shrugs, all indifferent, but a pair of rosy circles appear on his cheeks. “I suppose you could.”
“She’s very sweet, I’m sure she’d be happy to help.” I eye Bert closely. “Don’t you think she’s sweet, Bert?”
He keeps his head down. “Wouldn’t know.”
“She thinks you’re sweet.”
His eyes bulge. “Excuse me?”
“Gwen,” I say. “I think she likes you.”
Bert clears his throat, and it turns into a coughing fit. I pat him firmly while using the opportunity to tuck the ruined shirt into the back of my pants, out of sight.
“So?” I make my voice a little singsongy. “What do you say? You and Gwen?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. The rosy spots have disappeared from his cheeks and he’s all business again. “And stop trying to distract me! Next shirt you ruin, I’m telling Eric. No excuses.”
“Right,” I say. “Okay.”
With that, I trundle out of the room. But when I glance back from the doorway, Bert has swiveled his chair and is looking out the window. At Gwen.
* * *
At 3:30 P.M., when Clem bounds out of the school gates with a smile on her face, I think I might weep in relief. I’ve always thought Legs was a sweet kid, but when I see her little hand wrapped around Clem’s, I have an overwhelming desire to sweep her into my arms and kiss her.
On the way home, Clem is a lot cheerier than on previous days. She tells me how she went right up to Miranda and said sorry, and how afterwards Miss Weber said it was a very brave thing to do. Then she tells me that Miss Weber said she could sit next to Legs all day. I decide I’d quite like to kiss Miss Weber, too.
That night, after Eric, Carole, and Trish have left, I go right to Anna’s room. It’s earlier than usual, but since it was Clem’s first day back at school, I want to get her home so we can spend some time together before she goes to bed. Now, if I can just give Anna and Luke a little glimpse of each other before I go, I’ll have all my ducks in a row.
There are a few residents still milling around, and Rosie is in the kitchen making a coffee. It’s not ideal, but it will have to do.
“Hi, Anna,” I say, closing her door behind me. She’s by the window, gazing out at the night. “It’s Eve.”
She looks over her shoulder, frowns. “Hello.”
“I’m a bit early,” I whisper after I explain that we’re going to see Luke. “My daughter is having a tough time at school, so I want to get her home so we can hang out a bit.”
Anna doesn’t usually respond beyond the odd yes or no when I talk about my life, but I get the feeling she likes to listen. More and more, I’ve been confiding in her—complaining about the cleaning, telling her my little worries. She doesn’t remember what I’ve told her on previous visits, but she often manages to keep up pretty well with the conversation we’re having.
“I haven’t been the best mother lately,” I tell her.
She looks at me. I hesitate.
“Okay,” I say, “I have a confession. I kissed the gardener.”
I watch Anna for a reaction, but her expression remains neutral.
“Actually, he kissed me,” I correct. “But my daughter saw us. She asked me to promise never to kiss anyone ever again.”
Anna takes a minute. “Did you promise?”
I smile. She is following. “I did.”
There’s a couple of seconds’ silence, but I can tell by the way Anna’s forehead is pinched that she is still with me. So I wait.
“Is he cute, this gardener?” she asks, after a few moments.
“Gorgeous,” I say miserably.
“Then you’ll have to break that promise.”
I chuckle, but Anna remains deadpan. It makes me laugh more.
“Life is too short not to kiss,” Anna says.
“Maybe you’re right,” I say, wiping my eyes. I go around the back of her wheelchair and take the handles, still grinning. Then I check that the hallway is clear and hurry her across to Luke’s room. Once they’re settled, I head to the parlor to check on Clem.
“Are we leaving?” she says, looking up from the TV.
“Not yet. Just have a couple more things to do.”
“Mo-om!”
“Sorry, hon. I won’t be long, I promise.”
She sighs, looks back at the TV. I glance at my watch. It’s been only five minutes. That will have to do for tonight.
“Where are you going?” she asks as I leave the room.
“To take out the trash. I’ll be right back!”
I pass Rosie in the corridor. When she has disappeared into Bert’s room, I slip into Luke’s. Anna is on Luke’s bed, where I left her. It’s usually like this. They just talk, kiss, touch. Apart from my first night at Rosalind House, when I found them in bed together, the relationship seems fairly innocent.
When Anna hears me, her head snaps around. “Don’t you knock?” she says, frowning.
“Sorry,” I whisper, closing the door behind me. “But it’s—”
Anna holds up a palm. “We’d like some privacy, please.”
Anna’s voice is loud, but I fight the urge to shush her, certain it would only irritate her more. “We need to go, Anna. You have a motorcycle race tomorrow—”
“Cancel it,” she snaps. Then she turns back to Luke.
“But you’ve already paid your entrance fee. And—”
“I. Don’t. Care.”
I feel a flicker of panic. “Okay,” I say. “No race, then. But can you keep your voice down because … Jack is asleep.”
The other day I’d said “the residents” were asleep, and she’d become upset, asking “What residents?” When I mentioned Jack, though, she’d quieted.
Not today.
“Fuck Jack.” As she says it, Anna gives me a look of pure hatred. I stand there, wondering what to do.
“Mom. Mom! Where are you?”
I hurry into the hallway, closing the door behind me.
“There you are!” Clem says. “You said you were taking out the trash!”
“Sorry, hon, I had a couple other things to do first.”
“What things?” Rosie says, coming down the hall with a mug in her hands. She joins Clem and me in a three-point circle in the corridor. “I can finish them for you. You two go home.”
Clem beams.
“Oh no!” I say. “It’s cleaning stuff. I couldn’t ask you to do that, Rosie. Clem, I’ll just be another few minutes.”
“Believe it or not, I can unpack the dishwasher and take out the trash,” Rosie says. “I can even wipe down a counter. Go on. I insist.”
“But—”
“She insists, Mom.” Clem is holding my purse, and her own bag is perched on her shoulders. Her hand slips into mine. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Okay,” I say, but my voice is as thin as the strip of light I can see coming out from under Luke’s door. “Okay. We’ll go.”
Rosie smiles and I take my purse from Clem, put it over my shoulder. I thank Rosie and wish her good night. And then there is nothing left to do but leave.