*
That night, Clem and I stay a little later than usual. She doesn’t have school tomorrow, so I don’t see the harm in letting her watch a little TV while I finish things up. The residents all head off to bed—they may be early risers, but in this place everyone is asleep by 8:15 P.M. Once the dinner has been cleared up, I grab my purse and start down the hallway. The dishwasher is humming, the floors are clean(ish), and the meals have been planned for the week. Clem is in the parlor in front of the TV, and I am outside Anna’s door.
I think of Richard, hanging from the ceiling beam in his study. I think of the moment I found him, the words that hung around me, useless and unsaid, the actions that floated in the air, undone. It was too late. But it isn’t too late for Anna.
I step forward, suddenly emboldened. I’d told Anna I’d help her. And I will.
27
Anna
Eleven months ago …
There are three doors in my room. One leads to the hallway, one to the bathroom, one to the closet. Each morning I pick one, a lottery of sorts, figuring I have a one-in-three chance of finding my clothes. At first I used to put the effort in—to use logic and reasoning and memory. The bathroom would probably be closer to the bed, that sort of thing. These days, though, it’s basically a crapshoot.
“Eeny meeny miney—” I point to door number two. “Mo!”
Young Guy (who showed up in my room a few minutes ago to take me to breakfast) flicks open the door, revealing a toilet. “Better luck next time.”
Some days, it drives me fucking crazy when I can’t find things. A few weeks ago, or maybe it was a few days ago, I picked up a glass thingy and hurled it against one of the doors because I couldn’t find the bathroom. When you need to pee as often as I do, you don’t have time to mess about, looking for the toilet.
“That one is definitely … the hallway,” I say, pointing to door number one. I have no idea if this is right, and I can’t be bothered to look for clues. But we’ve already found the toilet-room, so I figure I’ve got a good chance.
He peels open the hallway-door, revealing a row of clothes hanging from a pole-thingy.
“Damn!” I say, but as he pulls an item off the thingy (an item that may or may not be weather appropriate), I laugh. There was a time when I had no desire to live beyond a point when I couldn’t tell what was behind a door. But today I’m very glad to be alive.
*
We’re in the upstairs room again. Young Guy dips the stick-thingy on the record player and music starts playing. I wonder how long we will be able to find our way to this place, this upstairs room. It feels like our place. The idea that we won’t be able to remember it seems somehow more tragic than not being able to remember my own name.
He holds out his arms. “W … would you like to…?”
“What?”
He moves his arms and his hips jauntily. I know what he’s suggesting. I’m supposed to walk into his arms and hold his hands and jiggle about to the music. I can’t think what it’s called either.
He tries a few times to produce the word and then grimaces. “You kn-know,” he says finally, with effort. His eyebrows crease uncertainly. It also makes me laugh.
I stand and shuffle into his space, but instead of taking his hands, I lay my cheek right against his chest. Together we begin to move.
“Yes,” I say. “I do know.”
*
It’s that day when people visit. I hate that day. And I’m not the only one. Really Old Lady hates it because she rarely gets a visitor. Baldy doesn’t like it, because the middle-of-the-day meal is served earlier, and according to him, Myrna doesn’t like her schedule being messed with. More and more, I’m seeing the plus sides to Myrna. In fact, I think I might befriend her myself. Sorry, can’t play bingo today, Myrna doesn’t like it. Not my fault, I’ll say. Myrna’s.
Jack usually comes on his own these days, or with just one of the little boys. I haven’t seen his wife in a while. Even so, I find his visits stressful. Here, at this place where I live, when I forget something or say something weird, people either don’t notice or don’t react. But when I say something weird in front of Jack, he looks confused. Corrects me in a slow, simple voice. “Don’t you remember, Anna, it was Aunt Geraldine?” or “Yes, Anna, you already said that.” Worst of all is the long silence followed by the nod. The look that says, I have no idea what you’re saying, but it’s not worth my time to try to figure it out.