“Told ya,” I say proudly. “Your dad tried to beat me, but year after year, Anna Forster won for Weirdest. He’s always been pretty sore about it, too.”
“Yeah, well, Dad’s a sore loser. Sorry,” he says when Jack frowns at him, “but you are.” He looks back at me. “So you don’t hate it here?”
“Nope. It’s actually pretty nice. Don’t you think?”
“I guess. I like the garden. And that’s a good climbing tree.” He looks at me. “Remember when we told Dad that we were stuck up that tree at the park, and we made him climb all the way up to rescue us even though we were fine?”
His face is so happy that I have to smile back. But it’s a stretch. Because I have no recollection of what he’s talking about. Not even the foggiest, haziest hint of a memory.
“Now, that,” I say, giving him a high five, “was a fun day.”
I glance at the tree in this garden. Its long, thick arms are solid, forking out in different directions, many low enough even for Ethan to jump to from the ground. Once, I’d have noticed that tree immediately. I’d have been the one to suggest to Ethan that we climb it, all the way to the top, then throw acorns down on Hank and Brayden and Jack. Once, not so long ago.
When I look back at Ethan, he’s already looking at me. His joker-smile is a question: Are you game?
I know what Jack will say: It’s not safe. Anna can’t climb, her depth perception is off, she might fall. I’ll climb with you Eath, he’ll say. So I don’t look at Jack. Instead, I nod at Ethan infinitesimally. His smile widens. And together we sprint toward the low arms of the tree.
Now, this is the memory I want to leave my nephew with.
6
I sit in the parlor all afternoon. Southern Lady drifts off to sleep in the seat opposite me, and Young Guy stares out the window. It’s nice, not having to talk, especially today. In the real world, people talk a lot. Conversations move quickly. By the time I’ve caught up enough to ask a question or make a point, everyone has already moved on. But at Rosalind House, things move slower. Everyone takes the time they need to digest what’s been said. If I want to say something, I have time. And if I don’t want to say anything, I don’t.
Ethan and I had a good climb, and I managed to give Jack a hug without causing any suspicion (I think). It wasn’t the good-bye I would have liked, and I don’t think I had them utterly convinced that I was happy. But it will have to do. Because now I have a plan, tonight is the night.
“Visitors’ day wears people out.”
I look up. Young Guy is watching me, stretched out, dwarfing the small armchair he is sitting in. “No kidding,” I say. No one has said much all afternoon.
“You have a good visit?” he asks. He’s wearing a faded denim shirt with the sleeves rolled and jeans that are torn at the knees. It’s a nice look on him, I decide. Scruffy-chic.
“Sure,” I say, though I’m not sure it’s a good idea to be talking to him. At this point, the last thing I need is a distraction. And he—with his dimple and his scruffy-chic thing going on—is definitely a distraction.
“Who were they?” he asks. “Your v-visitors.”
“My brother,” I say. “And his family. Who were yours?”
Good one, Anna. So much for not talking to him.
“My mom.”
I picture the older woman, white-haired and stooped.
“Mom’s old,” he says, answering my unspoken question. Then his face sort of tenses. It’s virtually unnoticeable, just the slightest indication that speaking requires a little effort. “She was … fifty when she adopted me.”
“And … the other woman?”
Once I would have felt too direct asking this. I would have spent time talking around the issue and tried to slip in questions naturally. But I’ve lost patience for that stuff. It’s hard enough retaining new information without having to add in social graces. I can only hope he feels the same.
“Sarah,” he says, pushing his hair behind his ear. “My brother.”
“You have a brother called Sarah?”
He frowns, and immediately I want to take it back, pretend I didn’t notice. Then he shakes his head. “Sister. I meant sister.”
I don’t know much about Young Guy’s specific form of dementia other than what he told me at breakfast the other day, but from his expression, I can tell his slip is dementia-related. Idly, I wonder how many slips I have without noticing. Less idly, I think about how I’d like people to respond when I do.
“My sister was here today, too,” I tell him. “Jack.”
I watch as the joke connects with his brain and a smile wriggles onto his face.
“It looked intense,” I say. “Whatever you were discussing.”
“Just … who is in ch-charge of my affairs when I can no longer hold a pen.” He grimaces, trying to come up with the word. “You know the…”
“Power of attorney?” With an attorney as a brother, “power of attorney” is probably the last expression I’ll keep. After I was diagnosed, he bandied the word around more times than I could count, the one part of my disease that Jack could control.