Eric rests his hand dangerously close to my thigh. “Give us a chance, Anna. I won’t pretend I know what it’s like to be you. But I do know that your brother didn’t put you in here to wither away and die in your room. There’s still a lot of life to be lived, but you need to stay in the game.” He winks. “Jack told me you were an adrenaline junkie. I have to admit, I was pretty excited when I heard that. The most adrenaline we get around here is on bingo night.”
He grins and I think I might actually vomit. “You’re right,” I say. “You have no idea what it’s like to be me.”
* * *
They say when you lose some of your senses, others get heightened. I think it’s true. There was a time when I had a razor tongue. If there was a joke at the offering, I was the first to snap it up (and then deliver it with more pizazz than anyone else). Now I’m not as quick as I used to be, but I’m more observant, especially when it comes to people’s state of mind. So when a young woman with spiky blond hair bursts through my door, I know at a glance that she’s not only lost, but that there’s something on her mind.
“Oh, um,” she says. “Which way is the visitors’ bathroom?”
Obviously, I have no idea. When I was diagnosed, my neuropsychologist (Dr. Brain, I called him) explained that memories tended to evaporate in reverse order. This meant my oldest memories would be the ones to hang around the longest, and new information, visitor’s bathrooms included, were quick to disappear into the black hole of no return in my brain.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” I tell the woman. Her face, I notice, is crumpled and red. Wet. “Are you okay?”
She sighs, and I half expect her to turn and leave—continue on her search for the visitors’ bathroom. But she stays.
“Yeah.” She sniffs. “I mean no. It’s my grandpa. He’s … impossible.”
“Who’s your grandpa?”
“Bert. Bert Dickens.”
“Oh,” I say, though I have no recollection of meeting Bert. “Is he … okay?”
“He’s fine, physically. Mentally, not so much. Sorry, I shouldn’t have just barged in like this. Are you—?”
“I’m not busy.” It’s the understatement of the century. “What’s going on with Bert?”
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“Okay.” She comes farther into the room. “The thing is—” She extends a hand and wiggles her fingers. “—I’m getting married.”
I eyeball the diamond and smile like I’m supposed to, even though I’ve never seen what all the fuss was about when it came to those sparkly rocks. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
I glance at own my ring finger, naked for almost a year. The knuckle seems to protrude higher now, without its anchor weighing it down. “Does Bert not like the guy?”
“No. I mean, yes. He likes him. But he doesn’t want us to get married.”
“Why not?”
“He thinks our family is cursed. Yeah, and he’s not senile either. He’s always thought that. His wife, my grandma, died when my mom was a baby. And Mom died when I was four. He thinks if I get married, then the curse will continue.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks.”
“Why does he think it’s marriage causing the curse? Why not the baby?”
She gives me a strange look. This, I realize, is probably not helpful.
“Hey, I’m just pointing out that his theory isn’t watertight. Maybe you could convince him the baby part causes the curse?”
“But what happens when I have a baby?”
“You want a baby, too?”
She nods. Somewhere deep in my soul, I think she’s being a little greedy.
“Well, do you believe the curse?” I ask.
“No. I mean, my family has had bad luck, but … No. I don’t believe it. But I want Grandpa to come to the wedding, and he says he won’t. He says he can’t bear to watch me seal my fate.”
“Tell him if you don’t get married, your fate will be worse than death.”
She watches me through narrowed eyes.
“Tell him if you go to your grave with him as your husband, you’ll go a happy woman. Tell him that even if he’s right, you’d rather have a year of true happiness than die without knowing what happiness is.” I think for a moment. “If he says you’re wrong, ask him if he wishes he’d never married his wife.”
“Wow,” she says. “You’re good.”
There’s an expression that says this exactly, and I try to conjure it up. Slowly, it starts to come. “A life lived in…” I try to continue, but the rest slips away. Poof. Gone.
“A life lived in fear is a life half-lived?”
“Right. Exactly.”
“You’re right. He adored Myrna. There’s no way he wishes he hadn’t married her. Besides, if I listen to his silly superstitions, I’m reinforcing the idea that this curse could actually be true.” She sighs. “Thanks for being the voice of reason. I’d better get back.” She cocks her head toward the closed bathroom door. “Do you think she’s okay in there?”
“Who?”
“Your … grandmother?” She squints at the silver name-thingy on the wall. “Anna, is it?”
I often have trouble understanding things, so I don’t worry too much that this goes over my head. I’m about to nod as if I understand completely—when suddenly, it dawns. She thinks I’m visiting an old person named Anna.
“Oh … yes. She’s fine.” I smile at the girl whose name I didn’t catch, if she told me at all. “She’ll be out of here really, really soon.”
2
There’s something in my soup, floating between a chunk of carrot and a green bean. It’s not a hair or a fly. It’s white. It’s about two inches long and curved around itself like a spiral. I reach into my bowl and give it a squeeze. It compresses between my fingers, then springs back like a piece of rubber. Before I even put it in my mouth, I know what it will taste like: bland, chewy, but appealing. I like this food. Why can’t I remember what it’s called?
“Tastes like an old boot, right?”
When I look over, the old lady next to me is watching me. I’m grateful it’s her speaking because the alternative, on my other side, is an old bald man who keeps referring to the empty seat beside him as “Myrna.” At one point, he even asked someone to pass Myrna the salt. So much for no crazies at Rosalind House.
“I’m sorry?”
“The pasta,” she says. “It tastes like an old boot.”
Pasta! I feel a thrill akin to finding a missing, well, boot.
“Actually, the pasta’s all right,” I say. “It’s the rest of it that’s the problem.”
“I s’pose you’re right,” she says, examining the spiral on her own spoon. “Beans and celery and watery soup—the pasta’s the savin’ grace, really.”
The woman has a Southern accent, which cheers me a little. After all, how could you not like someone with a Southern accent? Then again, there’s the rednecks and Ku Klux Klan, but this woman doesn’t look like she’s affiliated with either. She’s younger than the rest of the residents, who remind me of mottled pieces of driftwood ready to sink to the ocean floor. This woman, on the other hand, while probably eighty, seems able-bodied—verging on spry.
“I seem to have forgotten your name,” she says.
I nearly laugh. “It’s Anna.”
“I’m so forgetful these days, aren’t I, sweet thing?” Southern Lady looks at the old man next to her with such adoration that I feel something move in my stone-cold heart. Then she looks back at me. “I’m Clara. This here’s Laurie,” she says, pointing to the man next to her with a spoon, “my husband.”
I observe Clara’s face, looking for clues as to whether she actually forgot my name or if it was just a clever way of introducing herself. If it’s the latter, I like her even more.
“I’m glad you came out for lunch today,” she says. “I’ve been lookin’ forwar
d to having another young person to talk to.”
There’s something nice about a woman in her eighties referring to herself as a “young person.” I don’t see any reason to tell her that I came out here only because Jack is visiting this weekend, and I know he’ll ask me if I’ve ventured out of my room. If I can say yes, we’ll have a nice visit, a relaxed visit. Maybe we’ll even share a few jokes? In an ideal world, we’d also share a beer or two, but the world, of course, is not ideal.
“Have you met our Luke?” Clara asks, tipping her head toward the young guy opposite her. Somehow, I’d completely missed him. All at once, I realize Clara wasn’t talking about herself when she mentioned another young person. She was talking about the other person like me.
“I don’t think so,” I say, “which means it’s entirely possible.”
With his head down, he chuckles. I’m pleased to note he’s not so far gone that he can’t appreciate a little dementia humor. I give him the once-over. He has golden skin, straight white teeth, a dimple. His wavy hair is near black and long enough to tuck behind his ears, and his blue shirtsleeves are pushed up over his strong forearms. Well.
Clara lowers her voice, but not nearly enough. “Sexy, right?”
“So you’re my counterpart?” I say, ignoring Clara. “Young person, old mind.”
He laughs again. “I g-guess you could s-say that.”
My counterpart has a stutter, but otherwise he seems remarkably normal. He lifts his gaze. His eyes are the shade of weak black tea. The way I have it.
“How are you s-settling in?” he asks, and I shrug. “Takes some getting used to, this place,” he says. “The g-group meals, the activities, the showers…”
I wince, remembering the showers. Perhaps stupidly, it never occurred to me that I’d be assisted with those. But the laminated white square on my bathroom wall had other ideas. There, in erasable pen, I could find my scheduled daily wash time, and the moment the clock ticked over to that time, a helper lady barged in, ready to strong-arm me into the shower.
“It’s policy,” she’d say when I explained that I did not require a chaperone. “I’m not interested in peeking. I’ll just wait by the door in case you need me.”
Now I always consulted the laminated square and made sure to finish my shower by the time she showed up. When she asked me about it, I blamed the dementia. “Oh, I was meant to wait for you? Silly me.”
“I hate the showers,” I tell him.
“It’s t-tough, the first few weeks,” he says. “I remember.”
His dimple bobs on his cheek, and I can’t help but smile. I suppose he does remember. My eyes drift down to his hands, which are resting lightly on the table—large, masculine, yet somehow elegant.
Clara’s right. “Sexy” is the word for this guy.
The room has become conspicuously silent. Under the table, something is brushing against my leg. Something … hairy. I whoosh backwards.
“It’s … just Kayla,” Luke says. “Eric’s d-dog. She’s h-harmless.”
I nod, eyes on the dog.
“You don’t like dogs?” he asks.
“For someone with Alzheimer’s, you’re fairly perceptive.”
“Actually, I have fr-frontotemporal dementia.”
There’s another beat of silence, and I peel my eyes from the dog to look at him.
“You lose memories,” he says, answering my unspoken question. “I lose speech.”
I look back at the dog. Its tongue unrolls from its mouth, the most unwelcome welcome mat I’ve ever seen.
Luke’s hand curls around its collar. “You really don’t like d-dogs?” he asks. I can tell by the way his toes curl under the dog’s belly that he is a dog lover. “Not even … puppies?”
Now I’m definitely aware of his speech. It’s not only slow but also slightly slurred. And more than that, he seems to require an above-average amount of effort to project words from his throat. The disjointedness seems out of place, coming from such a young, healthy-looking man.
“Not even puppy embryos,” I say.
He gives the dog a pat, then guides her to the glass sliding door and lets her out. She pads outside, tail wagging.
“Was there an i-i-i-ncident?” he asks when he gets back. “With a dog. To cause your d-dislike.”
I nod, pointing to the faint pink stripe slicing my right eyebrow in half. “When I was three.”
“Family dog?”
“A neighbor’s. You’re clearly a dog fan.”
“Definitely. I used to—” He pauses, and his forehead creases like he’s thinking hard. “—give my time to the animal shelter a few years back. I was in charge of p-puppy adoption.”
“Oh yeah?” An image of him snuggling a puppy against his chest flashes into my mind.
“Last call for the afternoon bus!” A man in a white shirt and trousers with a large name badge that says TREV stands in the doorway. “Anyone need assistance?”
Luke turns to me. “Plans this afternoon?”
“Yeah.” I laugh. “My social calendar is packed.”
“Well, you heard the man. Last c … c-all for the afternoon bus.”
“Oooh!” Clara jumps up. “I’d better grab my purse. The afternoon bus waits for no one.”
Clara hurries off, and Luke leans forward in his chair. “She’s wrong, you know. The afternoon bus waits for everyone.”
I laugh. And I feel a tickle low in my belly.
“You need anything?” Luke asks me. He makes a gesture that looks like he’s hanging something invisible over his shoulder. “Your thingy that you put stuff in?”
“Oh…” I know exactly what he’s talking about, but in that instant, I can’t think of what it is called either. “Actually, I don’t think I’ll make it today.”
In high school, we always had a week of class after our exams were over. There was nothing left in the curriculum, because we’d completed—and been tested on—it all, but the idea was to give us a chance to “finish off the school year right.” Whatever that meant. Most of the teachers played games with us. Some let us talk and hang out. One teacher, Mr. Kaiser, continued with lessons as usual. The whole thing was beyond pointless, yet year after year, that’s what we did. Heading to the mall with Luke now, ready to engage in getting-to-know-you conversation, feels just as pointless.
“So-socks to sort?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
He nods and drops his head again. “Looks like it’s just us, Clara,” he says when she returns.
“Well, that’s a right shame,” she says, looking at me. “Are you sure we can’t convince you to come, honey?”
There’s a beat of silence as they wait, long enough to make me second-guess myself. Maybe I should be doing these things? One last trip to the mall? A last first conversation with a sexy man? But I shake off the doubts. I have enough to worry about without creating a heap of new “lasts.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “You two have fun.”
But as they drift away, I realize that if I was trying to avoid creating a new last, I’d failed. The whole exchange was, in fact, a “last”: It was the last time I’d say no to something I really wanted to do.
* * *
Dr. Brain once told me that an Alzheimer’s brain was like the snow on a mountain peak—slowly melting. There are days when the sun is bright and chunks drop off all over the place, and there are days when the sun stays tucked behind clouds and everything remains largely intact. Then there are days—spectacular days (his words)—when you stumble across a trail you thought had melted, and for a short while you have something back that you thought was gone forever.
I get the feeling that since the analogy involved the words “mountain peak” and “spectacular,” Dr. Brain thought this news wouldn’t be depressing to hear, when in fact, the opposite was true. I think I’d have felt better about my prognosis if he’d reworded a little. Something like, The brain is like a filthy, stinking pile of crap. When the sun comes out, it stinks w
orse than you can imagine, and when it’s cold or cloudy, you can barely smell it at all. Then there are the days that, if the wind is coming from a certain way, you might catch the cold scent of a spruce for a few hours and forget the crap is even there. With that analogy, at least we’d have been calling a spade a spade. Because the truth is, if you have dementia, your brain is crap. And even if you can’t smell it right this minute, it still stinks.
* * *
A little while after Luke and Clara leave, I’m still in my seat, but it feels lonelier. Everyone has left the eating-room, except me and the old bald man. And, I suppose, Myrna.
I’m about to head back to my room when the old bald man slams his spoon into his bowl. A shower of soup rains over his face. “Hey!” he cries. “Who told you to take Myrna’s lunch away?” He’s staring at the cook-lady—a pretty Latina with dark hair and large hooped earrings. I’ve heard the other residents call her Gabriela.
She sighs. “I’m sorry, Bert,” she says. “I thought she was finished.”
“Well, she isn’t. So you’d better march on into the kitchen and bring it back.”
“I’ve already dumped it out, and there isn’t any left.” She doesn’t say it unkindly, more wearily. “How about I grab her a banana from the fruit bowl?”
Weird as it is, I kind of respect the fact that she’s playing along about Myrna. But Bert doesn’t seem charmed. “Myrna don’t like bananas.”
“A sandwich, then.”
“She don’t like sandwiches.”
Gabriela puts a hand on her hip. Her eyes narrow. “Well, what’s she like, then?”
Bert raises his chin; a challenge. “Soup.”
At this, I can’t help but smile.
“Well, you’ve still got a bit of soup left,” she says, throwing a dish towel over her shoulder. “You and Myrna will have to share.”
Bert mutters under his breath, and I feel a little sorry for him. He’s a grumpy old thing, that’s for sure, but I like his gumption. Standing up for his hungry (albeit fictional) woman like that? That’s gallant, in my book.
“Don’t you worry, love,” he says, pushing his own bowl toward the empty setting. “You have mine. There’s a good girl.”
The Things We Keep Page 2
