“But—”
“She insists, Mom.” Clem is holding my purse, and her own bag is perched on her shoulders. Her hand slips into mine. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Okay,” I say, but my voice is as thin as the strip of light I can see coming out from under Luke’s door. “Okay. We’ll go.”
Rosie smiles and I take my purse from Clem, put it over my shoulder. I thank Rosie and wish her good night. And then there is nothing left to do but leave.
31
Anna
Eleven months ago …
I was right about Mustache Man. When he said we were going to ‘sort this whole thing out’ he did mean Me and Young Guy. As for the ‘sort’ part—that must have meant he was going to call Jack and the sister. Now all of us gather in a small room and they shout over our heads as if we aren’t even here at all.
“They were in bed together,” Jack cries.
“Yes, Trish found them this morning,” Mustache Man says. His eyes dart around like flies in a jar. “But Anna didn’t seem distressed.”
“Am I supposed to be grateful?” Jack says. “How could you let this happen?”
“What do you suggest?” the sister cries. “That we tie them up like dogs?”
“For God’s sake,” Jack says. “Did I say that? Surely there’s a middle ground between tying them up and letting them roam wild.”
“We don’t tie anyone up at Rosalind House,” Mustache Man says, wiping his brow for the fiftieth time. “And no one is roaming wild.” He looks at me. “The last thing we want is to take away your freedoms, Anna, or yours, Luke. We want you to be happy.” He looks at Jack. “And safe.”
I roll my eyes. Mustache Man should be a diplomat.
“So why don’t we discuss that and see if we can find a solution that is comfortable for everyone?” he says.
I tell Mustache Man that Young Guy and I are comfortable with the current arrangement, and Jack groans. “I don’t doubt that Luke’s comfortable with it,” he says, and then the sister starts going crazy again.
I put my hands over my ears, but it doesn’t stop the noise. It feels like a radio is on in my head, loud, on a talk-back channel in a language I don’t understand. If they’d speak one at a time, and slowly, I might be able to keep up, even join in. Like this, I’ve got no chance. So when Mustache Man asks if Young Guy and I would like “a little break,” I don’t see any point in protesting.
“I’m scared,” I say to Young Guy when we’re in the big front room, sitting side by side on the … giant long chair. My head is resting against him.
“What … w-why?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
With him, I don’t waste brain energy on trying to say the right things or make sense of my feelings. I simply say what’s on my mind. Sometimes it feels scary, being so stripped bare with someone. Sometimes it feels good.
“I do know that I’m happy now,” I say. “So if we keep doing this, we’ll be okay.”
He pulls me tighter and I hear what he is no longer able to tell me: Yes. We will.
*
There’s a new guy at Rosalind House. Old, obviously. Mostly bald. Wearing a bow tie with a short-sleeved shirt. He’s tall and skinny at the head and shoulders and wider around the middle and legs. Mr. Pin, I dub him, because he reminds me of a bowling pin. He obviously isn’t happy to be here, but I think we can all sympathize with that.
He noses his pushy-wheeler into the big front room, muttering as he goes. The woman who follows him bears a striking resemblance, only with more hair and fewer liver spots. Probably his daughter or granddaughter. Maybe even a young wife. Once, I was pretty good at telling people’s ages at a glance. These days, well … Take this woman, for example. She could be thirty-five or sixty-five. Together, they head for the floral armchair by the bookcase.
“Can’t sit there,” Baldy says, before Mr. Pin even gets close. He taps his head in the direction of the chair without so much as lifting his eyes from his book. “That,” he says, “is Myrna’s chair.”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Pin says.
Baldy repeats himself.
“Well, as Myrna isn’t currently sitting in it, I’m sure she won’t mind.” Mr. Pin rotates with his walker, ready to plant his bony butt right on Myrna. The room silently goes on full-alert.
“Are you blind?” Baldy splutters. “She’s right there.”
Mr. Pin looks at the empty seat and then at Baldy. Finally, he looks at his young look-alike. “Louisa,” he says, “do something.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Louisa says to Baldy in an over-the-top polite voice. “You must be mistaken. There’s no one sitting here.”
“There is,” Baldy says. His voice is typically grumpy, but there’s a waver to it. “Myrna’s sitting there. And she’d appreciate not being sat on.”