Eve
On our first morning in our new home, I wake early. Clem is beside me, sweaty and warm, and completely dead to the world. She’s flat on her back with her arms outstretched (“the crucifix,” Richard called it) while drool weeps slowly from her open mouth. Last night, once we’d got through the first twisty, turny hour, she’d been a delight to sleep with—a sweet-smelling deadweight to cocoon around. It was so welcome after four months of sleeping alone. So unbelievably welcome.
I decide to make poached fruit and muesli for breakfast, if only to mask the smell of salami. I gulp down some coffee, then peel my pears and apples, chop my rhubarb, get out my cinnamon and vanilla bean. It’s my first day of work. Surprisingly, I find that slightly thrilling. During my study at the cookery school, I’d looked forward to this. Not working at a residential care facility, obviously, but cooking for a living. I’d visualized it—the fresh produce I’d procure from markets; the bustling nights in a hot, hectic kitchen; the new twists I’d invent on traditional recipes.
Mother didn’t like it when I said things like “new twists.” “Why do you have to get all fancy all the time, Evie?” she’d say. “A bit of tradition never did anyone any harm!”
I grew up on meat and three vegetables, but I’m not sure which three, because Mother always cooked them until they were so gray and mushy, they were unrecognizable. Everything was drowned in ketchup and swilled down with soda or, in Dad’s case, a pint of Guinness. Condiments were used liberally, so were butter and cream. We lived by Dad’s foolproof equation: Salt plus pepper equals flavor.
I still remember the day I tasted my first spice, on a date when I was seventeen. I don’t remember the guy’s name, but I do remember the warmth that shot into my belly when we wandered into that Brick Lane curry house in London. The scent of turmeric and cumin—so thick, I could taste it. The colors—yellows, reds, and greens—of the food on the table. The burst of fire when I chomped down on a surprise chili, the relief of the coconut rice against the roof of my mouth afterwards. That was the moment I knew cooking was in my future.
Six months later, I packed up and moved to New York to attend the Institute of Culinary Education. It was a lifetime ago now and so much had changed. Perhaps the one thing that hadn’t changed was my love of cooking.
Once my fruit is poaching on the stove, I set out some bowls. I find the newspaper outside the door. The old tenants must have forgotten to cancel their subscription. I smile, thinking Clem will like it—a little like being at a hotel—until I see Richard’s face on the front page. Actually, the paper is folded in half, so all I see is his chin—that sweet cleft Clem has inherited. The one I used to squash between my thumb and forefinger teasingly … I’d know it anywhere. And although after four months, I should be used to seeing Richard’s face in the news, I feel the familiar flap of panic. What now?
I scoop up the paper and scan it quickly. I’ve probably got only another minute or so before Mother calls and tells me what it says anyway. And with the way Mother exaggerates, I’m better to read it direct.
RICHARD BENNETT’S ACCOUNTANT TO PLEAD GUILTY IN SCHEME
This was new. Ever since this whole thing blew up, Richard’s longtime tax accountant, David Cohen, had denied knowledge of Richard’s scheme. Most people were skeptical, but I’d given him the benefit of the doubt—after all, I’d shared a bed with Richard and had no idea what he was up to. Or did I? I’d been asking myself this lately. Is it possible that, on some level, I did know? Not the details, of course, but that something was up? Did I ask enough questions? Or had I been afraid that, if I did ask, I might uncover something I didn’t want to know?
The funny thing is; I still haven’t cried. I’ve started to—plenty of times—even set the stage for a proper weeping session, with wine and a warm bath and memories of good times. But the tears just don’t come. And before I know it, I am thinking of the bad times, reminding myself of irritating habits, turbulent fights. The way he used to say yes to everything in the moment, and then come up with last-minute excuses when the time came. That, in particular, drove me crazy.
“If I had known you were going to work late,” I used to cry, “I wouldn’t have said we’d both be there! They’ve probably catered for you!”
“I’d like to be there,” he’d reply stiffly, “but this is business.”
And business, of course, trumped everything.
I finish the article and the surrounding stories. Tales of people who lost money next to pictures of Richard boarding a private jet. Pictures of angry investors. Financial records. In one corner is a tiny studio shot of me. The media favors this photograph—young, doe-eyed, stupid—the kind of woman who doesn’t notice that her fraudulent husband is running the biggest Ponzi scheme since Bernie Madoff.
On cue, my phone rings. I shove the newspaper into a drawer where Clem won’t see it. “Hello, Mother.”
I picture her at the hall table in her apartment, twisted around her phone, which, amazingly, still has a cord. “Have you seen the newspaper?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Are you all right?”
I fall back into a squeaky armchair. “I’m fine.”
Mother is quiet a moment. “Good. And was your first night at the apartment … tolerable?”
I can tell Mother is thinking of the house Clem and I just vacated—its six bedrooms, its saltwater pool, its 1.5 acres of lush grounds.
“Perfectly tolerable,” I say.
There’s a short silence; a sharp inhalation. I brace myself.
“Oh, Evie, it just makes me so angry! You and Clem stuck in that awful place when you two are innocent in all this! I swear if I could get my hands on that man I’d—”
I tune out. I can’t bear to listen to it all again. While Richard did some terrible things, I still feel surprisingly uncomfortable hearing her slam him, particularly after she’d allowed Richard to move her and Dad over from England and set them up very nicely. I also feel uncomfortable since she spent a decade kissing his ass so wholeheartedly that even Richard felt awkward. (And Richard never felt awkward around adoring women.)
“Thanks, Mother, but we’re fine. Really.”
“You’re hardly fine, Evie. You’ve taken a job in a residential care facility! I must admit, I still don’t understand why. Even if you didn’t have the experience to become a head chef at a restaurant, surely you could … I don’t know … open a little catering business or something?”
I don’t bother to point out that in order to start any kind of business, I’d need money, something that was in desperately short supply for me right now. Instead I remind her that if we don’t want Clem to be moved to Buttwell Elementary we need an address in the area. When I finish talking I notice Clem standing in the doorway of the bedroom, holding her tatty pink bunny by the ears.
“Clem’s awake, Mother. I have to go.”
“Hold on a minute,” she says. “Your father wants to speak to you.”
There’s a shuffle, and then I hear Dad clear his throat. “Saw the paper. You hang in there, baby. People will realize that you were dealt a rough card, too. The only one who should be suffering is your low-down scumbag of a husband.…”
Clem climbs onto my lap, and I smile brightly. She watches me intently, her radar for knowing when people are talking about her father in perfect working order. “Don’t worry about me, Dad,” I say brightly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re a special girl, Evie,” he says softly. “More special than you know.”
It’s a sweet sentiment, but all the same, it makes me cringe. “It takes a special kind of person to make someone else great,” Mother said to me in the early days with Richard. “To lift them up and help them achieve their dreams.” I wonder what it says about me that the person I was supposed to be “helping” and “lifting up” is dead.
* * *
As Clem and I arrive at Rosalind House in the morning, Rosie, the night nurse, is scampering down the front steps. Even in an obvious hurry, she grins. “Sorry,” she pants. “Gotta flight to catch.”
“Where are you off to?” I ask as she skips past me.
“Jamaica for a week with the girls.” She turns and starts jogging backwards. “Sorry I won’t be around for your first week. Eric should be here any minute, so make yourself at home. Hey—cool dancing last night,” she says to Clem. “You gotta show me your moves when I get back.”
Clem beams, and Rosie turns and jogs away before she can find out she has a friend for life.
Inside, a couple of residents mill about in the parlor, and Clem wastes no time launching into conversation with an old man named Laurie. She tells him about school; her best friend, Legs; the fairy princess party she had for her birthday. I sit beside them.
“Hey! Is someone going to help me out of bed, or am I going to spend the day in my jammies?”
The voice that fills the hallway is brittle and irritated. “That’s Bert,” Laurie explains. “He needs a little push to get him on his feet. His walker is beside the bed. Trish or Carole usually do it, but I think they’re helping other residents right now.”
I nod, trying not to let my uncertainty show. “Well … I suppose I could do it.”
“Second door on the left,” he says helpfully.
I head in the direction the man pointed, and peek around the corner. Thankfully, Bert greets me with an expression much warmer than his voice. “Oh, it’s you. Just a little push, then, girlie. And don’t go getting any ideas just because I’m a good-looking son of a gun. I’m a married man.”
He’s either joking or senile, because Eric told me the only married couple at Rosalind House was the Southern couple, Clara and Laurie. Either way, I decide to leave the “married” comment alone. “You’re safe with me,” I say, shoving him to his feet. “I’m off men. Even good-looking ones.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, out with you. I have to get dressed.”
Out in the corridor, I hesitate. Are any other residents stuck in bed? Am I supposed to be tapping on all the doors, opening blinds, and wishing all a good morning? There’s still no sign of Eric, so I have to improvise. The door next to Bert’s is still closed, so I tap lightly. When there’s no answer, I open the door. “Good morning. It’s Eve, the … cook. Do you need any—? Oh!”
I jump back when I see the Southern woman—Clara?—standing inside, in front of a mirror, naked from the waist up. I pull the door closed again, leaving it only slightly ajar. “I’m so sorry,” I say into the crack, and at the same time, I hear keys rattling in the front door.
I race to the foyer.
“Sorry I’m late,” Eric says. “How’s it been going?”
“Actually,” I say, “Bert needed help getting out of bed, and afterwards, I thought I’d check on the others. But then I walked in on one of the ladies half-dressed. I did knock, but I suppose she didn’t hear.”
Eric chuckles. “First of all, breathe. And try not to look so worried. You’re probably more embarrassed than she is.” I wonder how Eric figures this, since I didn’t mention which resident I walked in on. “And it’s my fault, really, for being late,” he continues, looking at his watch. “Speaking of which, I don’t mean to drop you in the deep end, but I only have about an hour until my first appointment. How about we get started?”
Eric and I go over mealtimes, appropriate food, and location of utensils, but that takes less than ten minutes. For the rest of the hour, Eric details the cleaning instructions. He has a nervous habit, I notice, of glancing around every few seconds, which has the unfortunate side effect of making him appear shifty. Worse, on a couple of occasions, I noticed his gaze lingering near my chest. I give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it’s an accident.
He shows me my “office,” which is also the room where the mops and buckets are kept, and he reminds me to wear a mask and gloves while dealing with urine or feces. When he sees my face, he reminds me that the cleaning job will be just for a little while, but when I ask if he’s had any applications yet, he’s swift to move onto another topic. I’m introduced to twelve residents. Luke and Anna, the young ones. Clara and Laurie, the Southern couple. Bert who still talks to his wife, even though she is fifty years dead. May, ninety-nine years old. Gwen. A handful of others. I’m also introduced to the care manager, Trish, a brisk, forthright woman in her early forties who would be pretty if she weren’t so alarmingly thin, and Carole, her assistant, a blond, thick-waisted woman in her fifties with a droning, adenoidal voice.
We do a lap of the grounds again, and when we’re done, Eric glances at his watch and assures me that everything we haven’t covered is outlined in the 150-page manual. Five minutes later, Eric is back in his office and I’m ready to cry. But the residents are hungry. So I have to do what I do best.
I put out cereal, fruit, and orange juice, then I scramble some eggs and smoked trout. I make a side of spinach and mushrooms, but when it comes time to garnish, I can’t find a single herb. I make a mental note to talk to Angus about starting a vegetable and herb garden; then I head out to the dining room.
The room is surprisingly loud, and I’m pleased to see they’re eating and, by the look of it, enjoying the meal. Even though she’s already eaten, Clem is sitting at the head of the table like the lady of the house. I try to remove her, but when I do, the residents give me such dirty looks, I have no choice but to back away.
While they eat, I take a plate into Eric’s office. “Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all. What’s up?” Eric swivels around, and his eyes widen in faux alarm. “You’re not quitting, are you?”
“No.” I laugh. “I just brought you some breakfast.”
Eric’s face is a blend of surprise and delight as I place it on the desk in front of him. “For me?”
I smile. “Usually I use fresh parsley, but I couldn’t find any.”
“Smells great.” He waggles his eyebrows, which is vaguely disconcerting. “Are you joining me?”
“I can’t, I’m afraid. I have to get Clem to school.”
He pouts, picking up his knife and fork. “Oh, but before you go, there’s something I forgot to mention. Each night before bed, Luke’s and Anna’s doors need to be locked. Rosie usually does it, but she’s on vacation this week. Tonight there’s an agency nurse on duty, so you’ll need to let her know. It’s all spelled out in the manual, but an extra reminder doesn’t hurt. Usually I’m gone by the time they clock on, so that will be up to you.” Eric pushes a mound of eggs onto his fork and buries it in his mouth.
“Oh,” I say. “Oh-kay.”
“They get night-restlessness,” he explains, his mouth still half-full. “It’s common for people with dementia to be wakeful at night and go wandering. It’s not safe for them to be roaming the halls of this house. They could hurt themselves.”
“But … isn’t it dangerous to lock them in? What if there’s a fire?”
Eric loads up his fork again. “Our fire safety plan includes evacuating Luke and Anna.”
“I see.”
We’re silent for a moment or two, then Eric puts down his cutlery. “The truth is, a few months back, Anna went to the top floor of the house and jumped off the roof.”
Without intending to, I gasp. “You mean … a…?”
“Suicide attempt.” Eric nods. “Afterwards, I met with Anna’s brother, and we agreed that locking the doors was the best way to keep her safe. And we didn’t want to take any chances with Luke.”
I swallow, wetting my inexplicably dry throat. “Is that why she’s in a wheelchair? Because she … jumped off the roof?”
“Yes. It was a big fall. It’s amazing she survived it.”
“Yes,” I say. “Amazing.”
I’m trying to take this all in when I notice the time blinking at the bottom corner of Eric’s computer. “Shoot! I have to get Clem to school.”
“Go ahead,” he says. “But it goes without saying that what we’ve discussed is confidential, Eve.”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course.”
“And thanks for the eggs.” Just like that, his gormless smile is back. “They really are delicious.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ve got a plate for Angus, too. Is he in the garden?”
“I think he’s somewhere about.” Eric looks at his breakfast. “Though … I’m not sure we need to be feeding the gardener breakfast! We’re not running a soup kitchen, after all.”
I think of the mound of leftover eggs I have already cooked. “Oh. Right. I won’t bother, then.”
Back in the kitchen, I stack the dishwasher and wipe down the kitchen bench. Above the sink is a sash window with a view to the garden bed, where Angus kneels, weeding. I glance at the eggs.
“Clem?” I call down the hall. “Can you come here for a sec?”
I pop a couple of slices of bread under the grill and flick on the stove to heat up the eggs.
Thirty seconds later, her head peeks around the corner. “My name’s not Clem, it’s Sophie-Anne.”
“Sophie-Anne?” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I’m making Angus a breakfast sandwich. Would you do me a favor and run it out to him?”