Rosie speaks gently, without judgment, but still, the words feel like a sucker punch. When I open my eyes, they’re full of tears.
“In the morning, Anna won’t remember that I promised to take her home. All she will know is how she feels. And with any luck, she’ll be feeling safe, secure, and happy.” Rosie watches me, looking for comprehension in my face. “We can make each moment frightening for her with the truth. Or we can lie to her and make each moment happy and joyous. I know what I’d prefer if it were me.”
20
I arrive at work four minutes late the next morning, which isn’t disastrous apart from the fact that my eyes feel scratchy and I can’t stop yawning. It had been a late night. Through the window, I can see Angus in the garden with Clem on his heels, catapulting questions at him. He smiles at something she says, then points off at a bush in one corner of the garden. I am grateful that he likes kids, or at least appears to, because this morning I can use all the help I can get.
I rub my eyes and look at a bowl of fruit on the counter, trying to remember what I’m supposed to do with it. After a few minutes, I yank open the refrigerator and bury my head, hoping the cool air will snap me awake.
“I hear there was some commotion last night.”
I grab a carton of milk and reverse out of the refrigerator. Eric is leaning against the doorjamb.
“Morning,” I say. “Yes. Rosie told you?”
Eric nods. “I’m sorry Anna disturbed you.”
“Don’t be.” I set the milk on the counter. “Actually, I can’t stop thinking about it. She was quite upset.”
“It’s very sad,” Eric says. “A tragic disease, Alzheimer’s.”
“It is. Last night Anna asked for her mother. She also kept asking, ‘Where is he?’”
“She did?”
I nod. “Clearly she was talking about Luke. And I wondered, I mean, is there any reason why she can’t at least visit him?”
“Why do you think she was talking about Luke?” Eric asks.
“I don’t,” I admit, “but who else would she mean?”
Eric shrugs. “You said yourself that she asked for her mother, who is long dead. ‘He’ could have been her father, her brother. Anyone. Anyway, it’s the families’ decision to keep the doors locked at night. There’s nothing we can do.”
“Yes, but—” A thought rushes at me. Eric said Anna tried to kill herself and then they started locking the doors, but what if that wasn’t the sequence of events? What if the suicide attempt was because they locked the doors? “Was Anna’s suicide attempt before or after you started locking the doors?” I ask. I pause only a second before continuing, so certain I’m right. “It was after, wasn’t it?”
“No,” Eric says, frowning. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh.” I pluck a pear and an apple from the fruit bowl and begin slicing them, trying to hide my disappointment. “I just thought it might have explained things. I mean, if I were separated from the one I loved, I’d probably—”
“Loved?” Eric exhales. “Eve, falling in love requires memory, communication, reason, decision making. It’s very unlikely that people with dementia have these capabilities.”
I think about Rodney and Betty, the couple Rosie told me had held hands every day. They didn’t need memory to have a connection.
“But—”
“Look,” Eric says, “this job can be difficult. These people are at the end of their lives, and it’s sad. Particularly for Luke and Anna, being so young. But in order to do this job, you need to keep a certain distance. You are, first and foremost, a staff member here. And while it’s wonderful that you care so much about the residents, your job is to cook and clean. So leave things to the night nurse from now on, eh? After all, that’s what she’s paid for.”
“Okay.” It’s hard, but I force myself to meet his eye. “I will.”
Eric claps his hands, indicating a change of topic. “Anyway, I should get my day started.” He turns toward the door, then pauses. I have an almost overpowering urge to give him an almighty shove to get him out of my sight.
“So we’re clear about Luke and Anna, then?” he says.
“Perfectly clear,” I say, even though the one thing I am not clear on is Luke and Anna.
21
Anna
Twelve months ago …
“P-promise me something,” Young Guy says as I pull a sheet over my chest. We’re in my bed, a squeeze for two grown bodies, but we are managing pretty well. I don’t know what time of day it is, and I don’t care. I don’t have anywhere to be. I have Alzheimer’s disease.
“Sure.”
He watches me carefully, his face becoming hard-lined. “Promise we’ll … be together. R-right until the end?”
I smile, because I can’t help it when I look at him. “I can’t promise that. And neither can you.”
“I c-can.”
“Okay, you can. But just because you say it doesn’t make it so. When we get worse, they could separate us very easily and we’d have no idea.”
“We would.” He props himself onto an elbow. “We’ll … make an order. Do not s-separate.”
“Like ‘do not resuscitate’?”
“Y-yes.”
I laugh. “Who will we leave the orders with?”