“Oh.”
“So, if I want to talk to someone invisible … is there anything I need to do? Touch my nose? Blink twice?”
“Touch your nose?” he says, then waves his hand. “No. No.”
“Okay,” I say. “What then?”
“Well, I suppose I think about how Myrna looks. The way she used to curl up her hair. The kind of rouge she wore on her cheeks. Once I do that for a while, I guess, I can see her.”
I nod, my chin cupped in my hand. “Okay.”
“I think about what she would have said. Would she have laughed, screamed, cried … that sort of thing. And then, well, then I can hear her.”
I repeat it all in my head, so I don’t forget. Think about how they look. Think about what they would have said. I notice that Gwen is still smiling at Bert.
“Have you ever thought about any other ladies?” I ask. “Ones that aren’t invisible?”
Bert coughs again. “The sun will shine out of my nether regions before that happens, young lady.”
I frown, curling my mouth around the words. The sun will shine out of my nether …
“Oh,” I say eventually. I think it means no.
*
“Daddy?”
I’m in the garden, by the tree. A few old people are across the yard, but I don’t look at them. I really don’t know what is supposed to happen, but I close my eyes and concentrate really hard. In my mind, I can see him, holding a bunch of flowers out to me. But when I open my eyes, poof. He’s gone.
“Daddy?” I try again. “Are you there?”
I try to remember what Bert said about Myrna. “I see her because I really, really want to see her.”
“The Family Dance Night is next week,” I tell him because even though I can’t see him, he might be listening. “Remember we went last year? That was fun, right? Remember you brought me flowers?”
Legs had really liked my flowers, so I asked Daddy if we could give her one and he said yes. Daddy liked Legs. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine,” he said.
“Mom is going to take me this year,” I say. “But I wish you could take me.”
I squeeze my eyes closed and I remember last year. After I’d danced around the room on his feet, Daddy had watched Legs and me do Irish dancing while he clapped and clapped. He said that was his favorite part.
“Show me your dancing.”
My eyes fly open again. I don’t see him. I don’t even hear him, exactly. It’s weird, but I kind of feel the words. I feel them from the tips of my toes all the way up to the hairs on my head.
“Please,” he says. “Show me?”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “Are you watching?”
I step into position and give myself a little shake. Come on, Clem. He’s watching. I put my arms by my sides, then start my routine. Three skips, two point-hop-backs, two side-sevens. Repeat. It’s the same dance I did for Daddy at the dance last year. At the other end of the garden, I see Clara and May and Laurie clapping.
“Bravo,” Daddy says in my mind. “Bravo, my sweet Clementine.”
“Take a bow!” Laurie shouts when I stop spinning. And I do. But the bow isn’t for him. It’s for Daddy.
17
Anna
Twelve months ago …
My mother used to say, “If you give up too many things, you don’t live longer, it just feels like you do.” I think she’s right. Since I’ve been at Rosalind House, I haven’t denied myself anything. Cake. Red alcohol. (I was pleasantly surprised to find that they serve it with dinner.) Online shopping. (Jack still allows me one low-limit credit card, which I use to buy politically incorrect toys for the nephews—what’s the point in having a mentally ill aunt if she can’t buy you a Nerf Super Soaker Electrostorm Blaster?) I’ve downloaded countless books to my online-book-thingy even though I’m more of a TV watcher lately. (Novels seem to favor complex plots, and my mind can’t keep up.)
Also, I haven’t denied myself kissing.
Young Guy and I are in the upstairs room again, lying side by side on the floor. His lips are on mine, and my hands are on his face. Sometimes we just do this for hours. Sometimes I forget who we are and why we are here.
“I’m g-glad you’re … here,” he says, kissing my hair. I’m lying in the crook of his arm and I’ve just finished telling him about the time I punched Jack’s friend Greg for trying to kiss me in third grade. Old memories come to me the easiest these days, and I enjoy sharing them. And Young Guy, judging by his comment, enjoys hearing them.
“Well, I had a lot of other offers,” I tell him, “but I thought you’d be lonely, so…”
Young Guy twists to look at my face. He smiles. “No, I m-mean. I’m g-glad you didn’t…”
With a sinking heart, I realize what he means. “You should know,” I say, “that I haven’t made any final decisions about that.”
He disentangles from me a little. “But—”