*
When Luke enters me, we knock heads—my chin into his nose. It’s amazing how something can feel awkward and wonderful all at once. There’s laughter, and a shudder. And then we’re off.
Luke holds my hands beside my ears as he rocks against me. Yes. I look at his face. A face so new, yet so familiar. A face soon to be unfamiliar, but for now, I don’t care. Not about anything that’s happened, or anything that’s going to happen. Why should I, when all either of us has is right now?
His breath becomes rough and raw, and a deep noise rolls from his throat. Here, nothing about him stutters or stammers. I don’t feel disoriented or confused. I’m not worried about what I might say or do wrong. I feel like I might die from the loveliness of it.
I might not remember this. But I’m glad I got to live it.
19
Eve
It takes a few weeks, but I get to know each of the residents. I even have a few favorites. Clara, of course, is easy to love, with her Southern accent and her penchant for calling everyone “honey.” Her husband, Laurie, is equally delightful, if only for the way he adores his wife. There’s May, quiet and so old, I often find myself checking her breathing when she falls asleep in her chair. There’s Gwen, stout and cheerful, and always knitting. Then there’s the perpetually grumpy Bert, who somehow is still a favorite. Perhaps it’s the fact that Clem has taken a shine to him? Or maybe it’s that he’s still head over heels for the wife he lost fifty years ago? Whatever it is, I get the feeling he’s a favorite of Gwen’s, too, if the way she looks at him is anything to go by.
I’ve been at Rosalind House about a month now, and there’s no denying that the place is starting to look shabby. The mirrors have little specks of God-knows-what all over them, and the carpets are covered in hair and dirt. And, as Eric has yet to hire a cleaner, it is my responsibility to do something about it. Still, I continue to find excuses to cook rather than clean. If the ladies notice, they don’t say anything. Bert, however, is a different story.
“You realize my bathroom’s not self-cleaning, right, girlie?” he says one afternoon within earshot of Eric. After that, I know I can’t dillydally any longer. And that’s where Eric finds me: on my knees, scrubbing Bert’s toilet.
“What’s that cooking in the kitchen?” he asks, hanging around the bathroom door. “It smells incredible.”
“Ground beef and spinach parcels,” I say. “There’s plenty if you’re interested.…”
“Better not.” Eric pats his stomach, which is hanging proudly over the top of his belt buckle. “Actually I just wanted a quick chat. I understand you’ve been doing the grocery shopping at Houlihan’s.”
I sit back on my haunches, cringing. He must have heard about the slap.
“The thing is,” he says, “the last bill was nearly twice our weekly food budget.”
This is not what I was expecting. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Eric says. “I should have specified where we go to buy groceries. I just … didn’t expect you to go to Houlihan’s!”
He lets out a short laugh and I feel a pulse of shame. Clearly being married to Richard had left me out of touch. But twice the weekly food budget? Was that possible?
“You mean … your previous cook managed to feed everyone for a week on half that amount? All twelve residents, three meals a day, seven days a week?”
“She did.”
“Wow.”
“Going to a regular or discount grocery store extends the budget quite a bit,” he says pointedly. “And buying seasonal items, items on special.”
“Okay well.… where shall I go? Houlihan’s is … the only one I know in the area.”
“You could try Food Basics or Aldi,” he says. “Or Bent and Dent.…”
I laugh, assuming Bent and Dent is a joke. But Eric nods and smiles like it’s a done deal.
“Oh and I nearly forgot!” he says, handing me a letter bearing Clem’s school emblem. His frown, when it appears, bears a trace of curiosity. “This came for you yesterday. Sent to this address—”
“Oh!” I take it and drive it deep into my own pocket. “Sorry, I didn’t have a fixed address when I enrolled Clem, but this, uh … this is great.”
I smile. Eric continues to stand there. I start to sweat.
“Was there anything else, Eric?”
“Actually there is one other thing. It’s May’s birthday tomorrow—one hundred years old. Her family is planning a party for the weekend, but I’d like to do something with the residents tomorrow. Just some balloons and maybe”—he looks coy—“a cake?”
“I’m sure I can throw something together,” I say.
“Carrot cake is her favorite,” he says. “And I’d like it to be a surprise, if possible.”