Tears shimmer in her eyes. “To see him.”
“That’s right. We’re going to see Luke. Is that what you want?”
She nods. I half expect her to wheel herself to Luke’s room; that’s how present she seems. Instead, she takes my hands. “Thank you,” she says.
I try to respond but my words get stuck in my throat, underneath a deadweight of emotion.
“I won’t remember this, will I?” she says.
I shake my head and she nods, lets out a long, wobbly breath. I see so much courage in that breath. I see the person Anna was. No. The person Anna is.
“Oh well,” she says. “Live for the moment, right? It should be easy when that’s all you’ve got.”
“Anna,” I say, finding my tongue. “For the record? You might not remember this. But I promise you that I’ll never forget it.”
30
By the time I haul myself out of bed the next morning, Clem’s already dressed and sitting on the couch. It’s her first day back at school. She’s chosen an interesting outfit: stripy leggings, tutu skirt, a green long-sleeved T-shirt with DIVA written across the chest. And her sparkly sneakers. I pause when I see them. They’re hot pink with flashing lights that trigger when she jumps and they were a gift from her father for her seventh birthday.
“You okay, hon?” I ask, dropping a slice of raisin bread into the toaster.
Clem nods, still staring.
“You looking forward to seeing Legs today?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re going to say sorry to Miranda?”
Clem sighs. “Yes.”
“Good girl. It’s never okay to hit someone, is it?”
She shakes her head. At the sight of her solemn little face, the noose in my stomach that I associate with mother’s guilt pulls tight.
“I’ll be waiting outside when class is out, okay?”
“Okay.”
“And what will you say if someone says something about Daddy?”
“He was my daddy, so I know better than you,” she recites, just like we practiced.
“That’s right,” I say. Clem keeps staring at her shoes. “And Clem?”
I brace, waiting for her to tell me that her name is Sophie-Anne or Laila or Alice. But this time she lets it slide.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“When you say sorry to Miranda, be sure you keep one hand in your pocket, so you can keep your fingers crossed.”
Clem looks up, blinks. And finally, she gives me a big, beautiful smile. At the sight of it, the noose around my stomach releases. A little.
*
Of all my tasks at Rosalind House, I hate ironing the most. Firstly, I have to do it in a little cupboard of a room, with a fold-down board and an iron that fills the entire space with so much condensation that my hair frizzes. Secondly, it takes an exorbitant amount of time to do one shirt, even very badly. Thirdly, because I have a knack of zoning out to pass the time, I tend to have a fairly high incidence of, well, incidents.
This afternoon, I stand in the doorway to Bert’s room. He stares at the iron-shaped mark on his shirt and frowns. “It’s not good enough, Eve. It’s really not good enough.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll buy you another shirt.”
“I don’t want another shirt. I want this shirt. With no mark.”
“It’s just … I’m not a great ironer, is all.”
“You young folk, you’re so slapdash! You don’t take the time to do things properly.” He tuts and shakes his head. “Now, Myrna … she could iron. Never once made a mark on my shirt. Not once!”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, because there’s not a lot else to say. I can’t ask Myrna for an ironing lesson. I look out the window for Angus, and instead, I see Trish wheeling Gwen across the lawn in the whipping wind. That woman is crazy for fresh air, walking her in this weather. I look back at Bert. “Maybe I should ask Gwen for some tips?”
Bert shrugs, all indifferent, but a pair of rosy circles appear on his cheeks. “I suppose you could.”
“She’s very sweet, I’m sure she’d be happy to help.” I eye Bert closely. “Don’t you think she’s sweet, Bert?”
He keeps his head down. “Wouldn’t know.”
“She thinks you’re sweet.”
His eyes bulge. “Excuse me?”
“Gwen,” I say. “I think she likes you.”
Bert clears his throat, and it turns into a coughing fit. I pat him firmly while using the opportunity to tuck the ruined shirt into the back of my pants, out of sight.
“So?” I make my voice a little singsongy. “What do you say? You and Gwen?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. The rosy spots have disappeared from his cheeks and he’s all business again. “And stop trying to distract me! Next shirt you ruin, I’m telling Eric. No excuses.”
“Right,” I say. “Okay.”
With that, I trundle out of the room. But when I glance back from the doorway, Bert has swiveled his chair and is looking out the window. At Gwen.
*