In a place like this where nothing ever happens, this sort of confrontation is as good as a Fourth of July fireworks display. People appear from all over the place, coming to check out the action. Even I feel a little thrilled. But also worried. Like something bad is about to happen.
“It’s the only seat available,” Mr. Pin says. He starts to remove his outer-shirt thingy, and the color leaches out of Baldy’s face. “So unless you can—”
Before I know it, I’m out of my chair and standing beside Baldy. I may not love the guy, and I definitely think he’s bonkers, but Mr. Pin is new, and I can’t help feel a certain loyalty.
“Roast night tonight, Myrna,” I hear myself say. I stare at the empty chair, trying to bring up an image of an old lady in my mind’s eye. “Your favorite.”
The entire room is silent. Mr. Pin freezes with one arm out of his outer-shirt thingy.
Baldy stares at me, then gives me a slight nod. Mr. Pin looks at us for a moment, then starts to lower himself into the chair.
“P-Pet therapy t-today, Myrna,” Young Guy says suddenly. “You can hold a h-h-hamster!”
All the heads in the room spin toward Young Guy. Baldy finally starts to crack a smile. Mr. Pin stands and squints at the chair, confused.
“It’s all right, love,” Baldy says to Myrna. “No kitchen mice at pet therapy.” He shakes his head and laughs. “When we were first married, I came home one day to find her standing on the kitchen bench after seeing a mouse. She was white as a sheet. Been there for hours, she said. They didn’t have cell phones in those days, of course.”
“That happened to Clara once, didn’t it, love?” Southern Lady’s husband says. “She said it was the size of a cat! I came racing home from work, and it was no bigger than my thumb.”
Southern Lady—Clara—crosses the room and, elbowing Mr. Pin out of the way, she perches on the arm of Myrna’s chair. “It was the size of a cat, Myrna,” she whispers, elbowing Myrna’s nonexistent shoulder. “These men have no idea what we put up with.”
We form a little circle around Myrna’s chair, and I can’t keep the grin off my face. Baldy, I notice, is also grinning, and so is Young Guy. He offers me a wink.
Mr. Pin and the young woman shuffle away from the chair. Away from me, probably. Away from the lot of us.
*
The “solution,” apparently, is to have Young Guy and me followed. Since our meeting with Mustache Man, every time I so much as look at Young Guy, he is whisked away. At mealtimes, Skinny goes into passive-aggressive overdrive. “There’s a lovely view of the garden from this seat, Anna,” she’ll say if I sit next to Luke. “Why don’t you pop over here?” I politely decline, of course, and generally she won’t force it, but it’s a small win. We have no time alone together. At night, the nurses roam the halls, which limits our meetings. When it’s the nice nurse—Blondie—she looks the other way for a few minutes before moving us along. Anyone else, and we’re practically mown down before we crack open the door.
I had it out with Jack, of course. I don’t remember the details, but I do remember shouting until he threatened to request a sedative. Jack worked in a court as one of the arguing people, but up until recently, I could argue him under the table. Not anymore. He was fast—really fast—ready with a reply before I’d even thought of the question. He also knew how to work the emotions. He didn’t just yell at me—no, that would have made it too easy to hate him—he cried, the son of a bitch. Real streaming tears. Told me this was killing him. “Funny that,” I’d told him, “because this memory-disease is killing me. And for the first time in forever, I wish it would hurry up and get it over with.”
32
Anna
Ten months ago …
You know what’s sadder than the fact that I haven’t laid a finger on Young Guy in forever? Soon I won’t know him. Yeah, that’d be true even if it wasn’t for Project Watch Us All the Time, but in light of Project Watch Us All the Time, well … not even a super-strength pink pill can make me feel better about that.
But time ticks on, slower than before. Every now and again, I think about that window in the upstairs room. About how I could go up there and end it, just like that. Then I see him in the big front room or out on the lawn, and I decide: Not today. I won’t do it today.
*
I’m flat on my sleeping-bench, where I’ve been all day. What I’d give for a drink of water! I threw up this morning and I can still taste sick in my mouth. I’m hungry, too, but every time I try to think what I’d like to eat, I think I might be sick all over again. So I just stay where I am, on my sleeping bench.
When Skinny walks in, I give her the barest glance, then look back at the wall. She’ll just be reminding me about fresh air again. Fuck fresh air.
“Coming?” she says. “It’s about to start.”
“What is?”
“The wedding.” Skinny’s voice is over-the-top patient, making clear the fact that she has told me this before, perhaps very recently. “Bert’s granddaughter’s wedding. In the garden.”