Eve
“Clem’s not talking.”
It’s late afternoon, and I’m pressed into a corner of the cleaning cupboard, on my cell phone. I’ve already told Dr. Felder about Clem running away from school and seeing Angus kiss me in the garden. So far, Dr. Felder has just listened. It’s nice, the way she listens. It makes me realize how much I’ve missed having someone to talk to about Clem.
“I’ve tried bringing it up, but she says she doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Then you should listen to her,” Dr. Felder says. “Believe it or not, people—even kids—are pretty good at knowing what is best for them. If she doesn’t feel like talking, it means her subconscious is still processing everything. And that’s perfectly fine.”
“I know, but I worry. Clem is a talker. Usually my biggest problem is how to get her to stop talking.”
“Clementine will talk again. And when she does, she’ll know that she can go to you. In the meantime, you should think about what you’re going to say to her when she does go to you. She’ll definitely have questions, particularly about her father’s death, and his business activities that she perceives to be ‘bad.’ She’ll want to know how you are processing all of it. Have you considered having any therapy yourself, Eve?”
“Me? Oh no. I’m just worried about Clem.”
“I know. But sometimes the best way to look after other people is to look after yourself. Think about it, Eve.”
“I will.”
After I hang up the phone, I check on Clem in the parlor. She’s where I left her, beside Bert, talking. Clearly her desire not to talk doesn’t extend to him. The parlor has filled up in the last few minutes. Twelve out of the thirteen residents are in there, just staring at Clem as though she were the Mona Lisa herself. It’s like her presence has set off a radar—child nearby!—prompting them to wake up from their naps or send home their visitors and shuffle into the communal space. In fact, the only resident not in the parlor is Anna.
I’m in the hallway dusting the side tables when two men come out of her room. I recognize the young one as her brother, from a photograph in her room. And the older one bears such an uncanny resemblance to Anna that it has to be her father.
“Hello,” I say, smiling. “You must be Anna’s family. I’m Eve. The cook.”
“Jack,” says the brother. He shakes my hand, but he seems distracted.
“Peter,” says the father.
“How was Anna today?” I ask.
“Not bad,” Peter says. “Today was a pretty good day. She actually made a few jokes.”
“She does have a sense of humor, doesn’t she?” I say. “She had Luke and me in stitches the other day.”
I watch Jack and Peter closely, so I notice when a shadow crosses Jack’s face.
“They seem to have a special relationship, those two,” I continue. “Anna and Luke.”
“Well, it was good to meet you, Eve,” Jack says, and starts for the door.
I almost cry with frustration. Does he not care about the connection Anna and Luke have? Or does he simply not believe it? Suddenly, I have an idea.
“Oh, before you go,” I call after them. “There’s something I think you should see.”
By the time the men have turned around, I’m already reaching for my purse. I’d tucked Anna’s notebook in there earlier, to use as evidence with Eric if I needed it. I push it into Jack’s hands.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“A letter. Anna wrote it to herself last year.”
Anna’s father takes the notebook and reaches for his glasses in his breast pocket. As he does, Jack scans the page with quick, darting eyes.
“It’s quite romantic,” I say nervously, “the two of them finding love in here.”
I’m certain this letter will invoke a positive reaction in Jack. Maybe even cause him to change his mind about locking the doors. But instead, his face clouds over.
He takes the notebook from his father and closes it in one hand. “Do you mind if I take this,” he asks me, “or will Anna miss it?”
“I … I’m not sure,” I say. “I should probably put it back, just in—”
“I think it’s better if I take it.” His voice is firm. “Thanks, Eve.”
I’m stunned. He gives me a long, steady look. “I suspect, having read this, you’ve got ideas of what you would do for Anna if you were in my shoes,” Jack says. “But if you were in my shoes, you’d realize that fantasy scenarios don’t exist for Alzheimer’s disease. Your loved one is counting on you to keep them safe when they’ve lost the ability to do it themselves. And if you had all the information, you’d know that if I were to do what it looks like Anna wants, I wouldn’t be keeping her safe.” Jack remains calm and articulate as he delivers his speech, but I notice the color rising in his cheeks. “Anyway, it was nice to meet you. Dad? Let’s go.”
As they turn to the door, I remain where I am, shaking slightly. What information didn’t I have? And how could it possibly change everything to the point that they were willing to keep Anna unhappy rather than with the man she loved? I want desperately to ask Jack, to beg for the missing piece of the puzzle. But instead, I watch Anna’s memories disappear—this time out the front door.
* * *
After Anna’s dad and brother leave, I go to Anna’s room, tap on the door.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” she says.
She’s sitting by the window in her wheelchair, next to an empty chair. I have the strongest urge to sit in it. I want to tell her everything. About Jack and her notebook. About Clem. About Angus. About Eric. Somehow, over the past few months, Anna has become the person I talk to about things. She’s become my friend. But friendship works both ways. And today, I want to do something for her.
“Do you want to go and see Luke?” I ask.
It’s only 5 P.M. but Eric left early. I answer the usual questions about who Luke is, and then I wheel her over into his room.
Luke is sitting on the edge of his bed, admiring a bunch of flowers on his bedside table. Angus had helped him arrange them earlier. He looks up and smiles shyly. And that’s all the introduction they need.
When I return to the kitchen, my phone is ringing, and I snatch it up right before it goes to voice mail. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Bennett?”
“Yes?”
“It’s Kathy Donnelly calling. From Clementine’s school?”
I close my eyes. “Ms. Donnelly! I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls. It’s just … been a little hectic around here.”
“I understand,” she says. “Is now a good time to talk?”
“Actually, I—”
“I won’t take up much of your time. I heard Clementine left the school premises unaccompanied today, and I was very concerned. I want you to know that we are taking steps to ensure this never happens again.”
Relief floods me. She’s calling about Clem running away from school. Probably wanting to smooth things over. “I appreciate that.”
“How is Clem doing?” she asks.
I glance around to make sure she’s not nearby. “Actually … she’s been better. She’s not herself. Quiet. Teary. But I’ll get her through it.”
“I’m sure you will. It’s not easy, being a single mother.”
The way she says it makes me suspect that she does know. And for the first time it occurs to me that Ms. Donnelly, with her thick glasses and sensible haircut, might have a story of her own.
“Thank you,” I say. “It’s very kind of you to check in.”
“Actually, there’s another reason I’m calling. It’s about your address. It’s listed here as 82 Forest Hills Drive.”
My stomach plunges. “That’s right.”
There’s a pause. “Hmm. It caught my eye because, before she passed away, my mother was a resident at a care facility called Rosalind House, which is at 82 Forest Hills Drive.”
I scramble for an excuse, something plausible that could explain this turn of events, but my mind is blank and she is waiting. Finally I open my mouth, and a huge sob comes out.
This is it. Clem is going to be kicked out of her school. She’ll have to move mid school-year to a school in a rougher area with kids she doesn’t know. Worst of all, she won’t have Legs by her side anymore.
The silence, punctuated only by my sobs, continues for a perilously long time. I start to wonder if Ms. Donnelly is even still there when she clears her throat. “You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I keep telling my optometrist that I need new lenses.”
I take a breath. “Pardon?”
“My eyesight,” Ms. Donnelly explains. “It’s terrible. I’m always reading things wrong. Perhaps you’re not at 82 Forest Hills Drive. Perhaps you’re at 83? Or 87?”
I swallow. “Uh…”
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’m sure that’s what is says. Eighty-seven. I do apologize.”
“Ms. Donnelly—”
“Please,” she says. “Call me Kathy.”
“Kathy,” I say. If we weren’t on the phone, I’d have grabbed Ms. Donnelly and hugged her. “I don’t know what to—”
“It’s not easy, being a single mother,” she says, and I hear the kindness in her voice. “Tell Clementine we’re looking forward to seeing her on Monday,” and she hangs up the phone.
* * *
That afternoon, when Rosie arrives, she looks terrible. Blue circles ring her eyes, and her lips are peeling. Clearly I’m not the only one this has been taking its toll on. She gestures for me to follow her into the nurses’ room, and I do, passing Clem cartwheeling along the hallway on our way.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to Rosie as soon as the door shuts. “I feel terrible.”
“Why? You took all the blame.” She lifts her bag off her shoulder and falls into a chair. “I’m surprised to see you, actually. I thought Eric would have—”
“He gave me one last chance. He thought last night was the first time it happened.”
“Wow. That’s good, I guess.”
“Did you know about Clara?” I ask.
Rosie’s expression is guarded.
“It’s okay, she told me she’s dying,” I say.
Rosie’s head falls back in her chair, and her eyes close. “Yes, I knew. She has breast cancer. Very advanced.”
“How long has she got?”
“I’d like to say months,” Rosie says, her eyes still closed, “but I suspect it’s more like weeks.”
Even though Clara told me herself, it’s still shocking to hear. Weeks. Could it really only be weeks?
“She wants to reconcile Laurie with her sister,” I say. “Apparently, they dated before he met Clara and she’s been carrying the guilt around all these years for stealing Laurie away.”
Rosie opens her eyes. “I’m sorry to say it, but I doubt she’ll get the chance.”
It isn’t good news, not at all, but for some reason this pleases me. The idea of Clara handing her dying husband over to her sister in her final days is something I can’t seem to stomach. “So what happens now?” I ask.
“What do you mean, ‘what happens’?”
“With Anna and Luke,” I say. “What happens now?”
“Well, we don’t have a lot of choice, do we? We’re going to have to keep their doors locked. We can’t very well let them be together after what happened today.…”
When I don’t respond, Rosie looks up.
“Can’t we?” I whisper.
Her eyes bug. “You’re not serious, Eve? After all this trouble? After Eric said this is your last chance?”
“I know it’s not ideal but—”
“Eve, I like my job, okay? I can’t put it at risk anymore, I’m sorry.”
“But … I promised her.”
Rosie looks like she wants to see through the skin on my forehead and into my brain, where perhaps she’ll get a clue of what is going on in there. Perhaps for this reason, I decide to spit out the thought that’s been spinning around in my head all day.
“It’s just that … if another person kills themselves because I left when they needed me … It will kill me.”