“But … you said they’d developed a relationship. Surely that implies consent?”
“Actually, it doesn’t. Among other things, as dementia develops, an individual’s inhibitions can become lowered, causing them to act uncharacteristically promiscuous or flirtatious. Even if they are saying yes, we can’t be sure they would be saying yes if their judgment wasn’t impaired. Then, of course, there was the other incident—Anna’s suicide attempt. After that, we had no choice but to start locking the doors. We didn’t come to that decision lightly. But all things considered, it made sense.”
“Are Anna and Luke okay with it?” I ask.
“As okay as you can expect, really. Sometimes they become upset at night, but again, that’s normal for people with dementia. Most likely, Anna’s distress is simply the night-restlessness and she doesn’t remember Luke at all. It’s possible Luke does remember, but even if he does, we can’t allow him free access to Anna’s room at night. They can spend time together during the day, but the staff try to keep them busy and redirect them if they try to go off privately together. I’ll ask you to do the same,” he says, “if you happen to see them together.”
I think of Anna asking for help. Of her asking if he was there, then saying she was talking about Luke.
“All right, Eve?” Eric repeats.
“Yes,” I say. “Okay.”
But my facial expression must give away my true feelings because Eric continues. “The important thing is that we abide by the families’ wishes, for everyone’s sake.”
“Of course,” I say, though I can’t help but wonder if abiding by the families’ wishes is really for everyone’s sake. Or just for everyone else’s sake.
*
Clem aka Alice is quiet on the way to school. I try to engage her by asking her if she wants a special dinner, but she just shrugs. Even seeing Legs on the way into the classroom isn’t enough to pep her up.
I have a quick word with Miss Weber, who says she’ll keep a special eye on her. She also asks for my change-of-address form, which I supply with a stomach full of knots. If she suspects anything, I can’t tell.
Then I have to run off to work. It strikes me that this is a cruel irony. Before, when I had the most well-adjusted, happiest little girl in the world, I had nothing but time to spend with her. Now, when she could really use her mother around, I have to work.
Back at Rosalind House, the parlor is full. Laurie is reading a newspaper, Bert is chatting quietly to himself. Gwen dozes. Luke and Anna are perched at opposite windows. As I wipe down the mantel, I can’t help stealing a look at them. They seem content enough, staring into the garden, but who knows? Do they wish they were side by side?
“That’s lovely,” Bert says, startling me. At first I’m not sure what he’s referring to; then I realize I’ve been humming.
“Oh,” I say. “Well … thank you.”
“That tune?” he says. “What is it?”
“It’s … Pachelbel’s Canon.” Why had I chosen to hum my wedding song? “Do you know it?”
“Of course. I like it.” He frowns. “Why did you stop?”
I smile and continue to hum. There’s something warm about Bert, gruff as he is.
“Are you all right, my love?”
I look around. This time it’s Laurie talking, and not to me.
Clara has drifted into the room, carrying a Maeve Binchy novel. “Fit as a fiddle,” she says, kissing him on the mouth. Her eyes close, and for a heartbeat, she looks completely blissed out. “Don’t you go worryin’ yourself.”
“You should tell the doctor when she gets here,” Laurie says.
“You think she’s interested in my headache?”
“Dr. Walker is interested in everything,” Laurie says. “At our age, anything is a symptom.”
Clara pffts, but with a smile. “At our age, a headache is still a headache.”
I give the coffee table a spritz. Spraying, I realize, is surprisingly pleasant—the shush sound it makes, the way the products mist out evenly over the surface, ready to make something clean. It’s impossible to be bad at spraying. Wiping, on the other hand, is loathsome. It makes no sound. It takes a lot of effort, and if you’re not any good at it, it shows you up as the amateur you are.
“Tell the doctor,” Laurie orders.
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“I am,” he replies. “I’m your husband.”
I continue to hum, soothed by the pleasant squabble of a couple who’ve been married sixty years.
“Ah, I nearly forgot,” Laurie says. “Enid called.”
The silence that follows is long enough for me to look up.
“When?” Clara asks.
Laurie shrugs. “Before.”
“Before when?”
“I’m an old man.” He waves his hands about as if that emphasizes his point. “Keeping track of time is too depressing.”
He winks at me, and I hum louder—proof that I’m not eavesdropping.
“What did my sister have to say for herself?” Clara asks.
“Just that she’s coming to visit.”