47

Eve

They say time gives perspective, and in a way it does. Christmas goes by. Clem and I spend it with Mother and Dad at their apartment. It’s different from past holidays—sadder, because of the empty space where Richard should have been—but it was surprisingly nice, all of us tucked up in one little room, eating and drinking and being together. Clem didn’t even seem to notice that she had only a few gifts. I’d been living paycheck to paycheck while working at Rosalind House, and now I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do. A lot of places were closed for the Christmas break, so I was banking on finding a job in the New Year. In the meantime, Mother and Dad wrote me a modest check for a Christmas present, which I hoped would tide me over.

Angus and I stay in touch, mostly via text message. He understands that Clem is my focus. Sometimes after she’s asleep, I lie on the couch and just talk to him on the phone. No matter what Clem is going through, I don’t think she would mind us talking. Mother and Dad are wonderful, offering to cook, clean, look after Clem. I accept all offers, with the exception of Clem. The best thing to come out of my forced sabbatical is time with her.

I withdrew her from school before Andrea could launch an investigation, and the timing allowed us to have Christmas break and then start her new school afresh in the New Year. At the news she was leaving Legs, she’d kept it together quite well. In fact, when I told her we were going to have some time at home together, just the two of us, she actually seemed happy.

“Why did Daddy have to be a bad man?” she asks on New Year’s morning, when I’m still yawning and stretching awake. Outside, fresh snow pats down for the third day in a row. We’d stayed up late to see in the New Year, watching movies and eating popcorn. Judging from the divots in my back, a few kernels still roam between the sheets.

“Sometimes I really hate him,” she says.

I think of my call to Dr. Felder. This is it, I realize. She’s having her moment. I roll to my side, then sit up. “Sometimes I hate him, too.”

“You do?”

“I do. Sometimes I want to slap his face and scream at him, and other times I want to hug him and tell him how much I miss him.”

“Me, too.” Her face starts to crumple. “I just … I don’t know how to remember him, Mom.”

I pull her into my arms and kiss her forehead. “You should remember all of him. All the memories you have are still true, no matter what he did.”

“But—”

“They’re all true,” I say firmly, almost as if I believe it. Maybe I do. I think of my conversation with Angus, about good things coming from bad. I think about Clara and Laurie, and the things we keep. “Daddy hurt a lot of people, Clem. But Daddy did good things, too. He was thoughtful and kind. And he was a good daddy, don’t you think?”

Through tears, she nods.

“So it’s okay to remember that. Our memories are ours to remember any way we want.”

In Clem’s eyes, the tears continue to fill and fall.

“Daddy loved you so much,” I say, and my voice cracks. “If there is only one thing you remember about him, make sure it’s that.”

Clem looks up at me. “Can you tell me some stories of him? Some that I don’t know?”

I wipe away a tear. “Actually, I have a good one.” I sniff. “About when you were a baby and I found you in the bath with Daddy. He was singing ‘I’m a Little Teapot’ to you.…”

Clem’s mouth starts to upturn cautiously, as though she’s not sure it’s allowed. But after I’ve told the story three times, she’s smiling properly. We stay there awhile, wrapped in each other, telling stories, laughing and crying. It’s sad and it’s horrible. But it’s also nice, being together in our grief.

*   *   *

The next day, Clem and I walk to Buttwell Road Elementary. As the building appears in my line of sight, my heart is in my throat. Visually, it’s not as appealing as her old school—it’s a plain, single-level, redbrick building—but by and large, the kids look the same. As we walk into the playground, Clem squeezes my hand a little tighter. It’ll be tough for her, starting halfway through the school year. A year ago, I wouldn’t have worried, knowing Clem would be the most popular kid in the class by the end of the day, but now I’m not so sure.

We meet her teacher, a grandmotherly sort called Mrs. Hubble, who puts her arm around Clem and instantly makes both of us feel better. She introduces Clem to a bouncy little girl called Billie with wild red hair, who will be Clem’s special friend for the day. The two girls start talking right away. When it’s time for me to go, I actually have to tap Clem on the shoulder. I half expect her to tell me, Yeah, okay—you can go, Mom, but she throws her arms around me and kisses my cheek.

I have to turn away so she doesn’t see me cry.

Later that morning, Rosie calls to tell me that Clara is nearing the end. She says Clara was at the hospital but has returned to Rosalind House. To die, she doesn’t say. She says she’s spoken to Laurie, and he wanted to know if I’d like to say good-bye. I head straight over.

Rosalind House looks different under snow. Prettier, if that’s possible. As I squeak along the snow toward the front steps, I remember Clara’s pact to reconcile Laurie and her sister. And I hope that, as Rosie suggested, she hasn’t had the chance.

I ring the doorbell and hold my breath, waiting for Eric. The last time I saw him, he was firing me. What would I say to him? But when the door swings open, an unfamiliar person stands there. A woman in her mid-forties with a bright smile and teased brown bob.

She smiles warmly. “Hello,” she says. “I’m Denise, the new manager.”

“The new…” I take this in for a second. “What happened to Eric?”

“Come in out of the cold,” she says, and I do. She shuts the door and takes my coat. “It’s my second day,” she tells me. “Do you have a family member here? We did send a letter explaining the change—”

“Oh no, I’m not family. I used to be the cook here. And the cleaner.”

Her expression becomes more guarded. “Oh. Well, Eric is … no longer with the business.”

“No longer with the business? What happened?”

“I’m sorry, I really can’t say.”

“Oh.”

“Can I help you with something? What was your name?”

“Eve,” I say, offering my hand. “Eve Bennett. Actually, I’m here to see Clara. Laurie called me.”

“Of course,” she says. “Come this way.”

We start down the hall. It’s strange, being a visitor here. I remember my interview, when Angus led me inside to Eric’s office. It feels like forever ago. As we walk, Denise waves at a family member coming out of Bert’s room and helps a young woman pushing the cleaning cart to pick up the pile of towels she has dropped. (They’d hired a cleaner!)

I stop suddenly. “Denise?”

“Yes?”

“Can you at least tell me … Eric wasn’t … up to anything untoward, was he? With the residents? I mean, can you at least tell me that?”

She gives me a long, assessing look. Then she exhales. “Let’s just say that Eric was far too busy doing creative accounting to be bothering with much else. And that, at least, is something to be grateful for.”

Creative accounting? All at once everything clicks into place. The tiny grocery budget. The merging of the cook and cleaner position. Eric’s fancy new car.

“That slimy rotten…”

As Denise’s lips start to upcurve, I feel a rush of relief. And I have a feeling that Rosalind House is now in exactly the right hands.

*   *   *

When I enter Clara’s bedroom, her eyes are closed. Laurie lies by her side, awake, staring as her face flickers and dances with new sleep. I watch for a moment from the doorway, then back away quietly.

“Eve.” Laurie spots me right before I disappear out the door. He smiles and starts to sit up.

“Stay where you are,” I say. “Please. Seeing you two lying there, it gives me faith in love.”

Laurie ignores me and pushes himself upright. “A pretty young girl like you, you shouldn’t need help finding faith in love.”

I laugh. “You might be surprised.”

Laurie watches me, waiting in that way I’ve become accustomed to these last few months. At Rosalind House, I’ve discovered a whole new way of being listened to.

“I don’t want to talk about me,” I say. “How is Clara?”

Laurie casts a glance down at her. “It won’t be long now.”

“Is she suffering?”

“I don’t think so. She’s asleep mostly. She’s been saying some strange things.” He continues staring at her, adoring, but his expression is mingled with puzzlement. “She told me about something she did, a long time ago. A secret she’s been keeping.” Finally he strips his eyes off her and looks at me. “A confession. She said she stole me from her sister—a hundred years ago, when we were kids.” His laugh is empty. “She said her death wish was to put things right, to”—he laughs again—“to reunite us.”

A knot ties itself, deep in my belly. She did tell him.

“It makes me sick to think that, when she knew she was going to die, this is what she was thinking about.”

“Is it true?” I ask. “Did she steal you … from her sister?”

Laurie shrugs like it’s the most insignificant detail in the world. “Probably. But if she did, it was the best thing that ever happened to me. What upsets me most is that she thought this would undo everything we had. Sixty years of marriage. Every memory … every moment.”

I think of Richard. Of all the time we spent together that I’d rendered meaningless because of how things went in the end.

“And”—I swallow—“it doesn’t?”

“Of course it doesn’t.”

“But if something starts on a lie—”

He makes a noise like bah. “You might start something on a lie, or finish it on a lie, but that doesn’t mean that everything in the middle isn’t the truth.” He smiles a sad smile. “Nothing can undo time.”

Finally, for both me and Laurie, the tears begin to roll.

“So what did you say?” I ask finally. “Did you … grant her wish?”

He laughs. “I told her I’m the husband, so my wishes come first.” He rolls back into a lying position and tosses an arm over Clara’s waist. “And my wish is to have the love of my life die in my arms.”

*   *   *

Clara didn’t wake while I was there. I stayed for half an hour, then kissed her papery forehead and told her to say hello to Richard for me. Then I let myself into the hallway.

Pots bang in the kitchen; someone is obviously packing up the lunch dishes. Doing my job, probably a lot better than I did it. I think of Anna and Luke. Rosie told me on the phone that Anna had received seven stitches in her hand but she would be fine. I glance toward her room and shift my stance, wondering if I should pop my head around the door. She won’t remember me, of course. But we’d had a rapport once. I can’t help but wonder if we’ll still have it.

Before I can decide one way or another, her door opens and her father walks out. “Hello,” he says. “It’s Eve, isn’t it?”

I hesitate on the spot. “Er, yes. That’s right.”

“I’m Anna’s dad. Peter.”

“I remember,” I say. “How’s Anna?”

“Not great, today.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Actually, I was hoping I would run into you,” he says. “Denise told me you aren’t working here anymore.”

“No, I’m just … visiting.”

“Have you got a minute?” he asks. “Could we talk?”

“Sure,” I say, surprised. “In the parlor?”

“After you.”

In the chairs by the window, he pulls Anna’s notebook from his bag. “I was going to give this back to Anna today. It just felt like the right thing to do. Then I realized, if she reads it, it will just remind her of a promise she can’t keep. So I kept it.” He looks at it sadly. “But I’m starting to wonder if Anna should be kept from this man.”

“Why is she kept apart from him?” I ask. There’s a note of begging in my voice. “Can you tell me?”

His gaze drops away. “I don’t see why it’s such a secret. Anna was pregnant.”

My mouth opens. I start to say something, but the words get stuck, and I can’t seem to project them.

“No one realized, not even Anna, until she was nearly halfway through the pregnancy. When Jack found out, he sat down with her and told her—then he marched into Eric’s office to unleash.” Peter pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “While Jack was with Eric, Anna took herself to the top floor of this building and jumped off the roof.”

I close my eyes. The final piece of the puzzle.

“Jack blames himself for leaving her alone after giving her that news, and he’s adamant he’s going to protect her from now on. He became the man of our house when I left his mother, so it’s tough for me to come in now and tell Jack what’s right for his sister.” His face is pained, like he might cry. “But then I read this notebook, and it says she wants to live out the rest of her days with this man, no matter what comes—”

“And instead she’s kept behind a locked door.”

He nods. “If it were up to me, I’d want Anna to squeeze every minute of joy out of the days she has left. If that meant unlocking the doors, that’s what I’d do. But I’ve tried talking to Jack, and it’s falling on deaf ears.”

I think about what Peter said, but it doesn’t make any sense. Anna could take birth control. The upstairs has already been blocked off for residents. Then I think about it again. Jack blames himself. Jack is adamant he won’t let anything like that happen again. That makes more sense. Suddenly I realize I might be the only person who can get through to him.

“Would it be all right with you, Peter,” I ask, “if I talked to Jack?”

*   *   *

The drive to Philly takes over an hour, but it feels like five minutes. As we drive, Peter tells me about his son. He uses all the adjectives of a proud parent—“intelligent,” “funny,” “calm”—but also a few other words like “headstrong” and “stubborn.” And “protective”—that’s the one that frightens me the most.

When we pull into the driveway, Jack is out front, shoveling snow. Hearing the car, he turns. He looks at me for a moment; then his gaze shifts to his dad. It’s accusatory. What have you done now?

“You remember Eve,” Peter says.

“Yes,” Jack says warily. “Hello, Eve.”

“Eve is here to talk to you about Anna.”

“Is she all right? I heard she cut her hand—”

“Physically, she’s fine,” I tell him. “It’s her emotional health I’m worried about.”

There is a moment’s silence. A gust of wind flutes past, chilling me to the bone.

“I’m sorry, aren’t you the housekeeper?” Jack asks.

“Yes, but I’ve spent a great deal of time with Anna over the recent months, and I care about her very much. Could I—?” I shiver and glance toward the door. “Could I come inside?”

“What’s this all about?” Jack asks, more to Peter than to me. Irritation, it seems, has taken the place of bafflement.

“I told you,” Peter says. “It’s about Anna. Come inside, Eve. This way.” Peter ushers me into the house while Jack reluctantly plants his shovel in the snow.

The house is magnificent. We walk into a high-ceilinged foyer with a marble floor. It reminds me more of a shopping mall than a house. Peter takes my coat and Jack shuts the door with a thud.

“All right,” Jack says. “Let’s get this over with.”

“This isn’t an intervention, Jack,” Peter says.

“It better not be. Because this isn’t a democracy. I have Anna’s power of attorney. So if this is about her boyfriend, forget it.”

Peter and I confer with our eyes. “It’s about the letter,” I say. “Anna’s letter.”

Peter gets the notebook out of his bag.

“Yes,” Jack says. “I read it.”

“Then you know it says Anna and Luke agreed they’d stay together until—”

“I know what it says. I also know Anna has not been true to this promise, because she did try to kill herself. That is a fact.”

“That is a fact,” I say. Already I can see that I am at a disadvantage, arguing with an attorney. “And I’ll admit, I don’t understand that part. Maybe we never will. But let’s look at all the facts. When you took Anna out of Rosalind House, she became so depressed that, despite your reservations, you returned her there and saw marked improvements in just a few days.”

“So love can work miracles, is that what you’re saying?” Jack laughs blackly. “What do you want me to do? I took her back there, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but they might as well be a world apart. Imagine the improvement if they were allowed to actually spend time together. If you unlocked the doors—”

Jack looks at me. “This may come as a surprise to you, but I love my sister. She’s the funniest, bravest, most extraordinary person you could possibly imagine.”

“I know she is.”

“She’s also the most vulnerable person you could imagine. And I am responsible for her. I let her down once. I’m not going to do it again.”

“I know you think—”

“Oh, you know, do you?” Jack’s eyes flash. “You know what it’s like to have a loved one try to kill themselves because you walked out when they needed you the most?”

“Yes,” I say. “Except in my case, they were successful.”

This stops him a second. Jack and Peter exchange a glance.

“You’ve probably heard of my husband, Richard Bennett?”

Jack stares at me. “You’re Richard Bennett’s wife?”

I nod. “You promised you would look after your sister. I promised I would support my husband in sickness and in health. And we did. Just because Anna and Richard made decisions we didn’t understand when we weren’t there, doesn’t mean we let them down. It just means … they did something we didn’t understand.”

I wait for Jack to lob back a retort, but he remains silent. Tears shine in his eyes.

“I admit, I still blame myself sometimes. But when I’m thinking clearly, I know that I had no control over Richard’s actions. And though you may have some control over Anna’s, she can still make her own decisions. And if I know anything about Anna, she’ll make them, with or without your support.”

At this, a soft laugh comes from Jack. “Wow,” he says. “You do know Anna.”

“Keeping her away from Luke won’t change what has already happened. But it might change what happens in the future.” I take the notebook from Peter and thrust it out for Jack to see. “Anna loves this man. At this stage of their lives, they are all each other has left. Let her be with him,” I say. “Because if you don’t, you might just end up blaming yourself for that. And as Anna would say, life’s too short.”