eyes are a striking blue, almost violet. The exact blue of her cardigan. I slide the cloth back and forth along the windowsill. Itâs already pretty clean, and all Iâm doing is dragging the little dust that is there back and forth.
Behind me, pages of a notebook ruffle.
âEveâs the new cook,â Clara says to Anna. âStarted this morning.â
I look over my shoulder in time to see Anna visibly relax. â Thatâs why youâre not in my book.â
I glace at the spiral notebook in her lap. Three rows of Polaroid photos line the double page. I recognize Eric, and a bunch of the residents. A few of the people I donât recognize, perhaps family members? Underscoring each photo is a name in a thick black pen, as well as a one-word explanationâ Doctor. Resident. Friend. Farther below are a few other notes, scrawled in blue Biro.
Anna looks at me. âBut if youâre the new cook, shouldnât you be cooking?â
âYou would think so, wouldnât you?â I smile.
Anna smiles back and I get a strange feeling that somehow, she feels my pain. And for the first time, it occurs to me that perhaps I could just ask Anna what she meant when she said âHelp meâ the other day. Itâs a long shot, of course, but worth a try.
âAnna, can I ask you something?â I say.
She looks surprised. âSure.â
I squat to rinse out my cloth in the bucket. âThe other day, when I was here for my interview, you asked me for help. We were out in the garden. Do you remember that?â
She frowns. âNo. Iâm sorry.â
âI was handing you your scarf,â I persisted, âand you grabbed my hands and said âHelp me.ââ
Thereâs a flicker on her face, and I allow myself to hope. âMaybe I needed help registering for the New York marathon? Iâve been meaning to tick that off my bucket list.â
She holds my gaze for a moment, deadpan, then chuckles. A laugh bursts out of me. And something inside me, something that was tightly clenched, unspools. I donât know what I expected. That Anna would be incapable of humor? That she wouldnât be a real person? Yes, thatâs exactly what Iâd thought. And after all the trouble I go to, to make sure Clem treats people with an open mind, I should have known better.
âDo we know each other?â Anna asks suddenly.
My smile fades away.
âYou know, you do look familiar, honey,â Clara says.
I canât believe my bad luck. A person with Alzheimerâs recognizes me.
âYou probably recognize me from the newspaper,â I admit.
âThe newspaper?â Clara asks. âAre you famous, Eve?â
âInfamous, perhaps. My husband was Richard Bennett. Youâve probably heard of him.â
âRichard Bennett was your husband?â Clara gasps. âOh, you poor, poor dear.â
âRichard was running an illegal Ponzi scheme,â I explain to Anna. âBecause of him, lots of people lost a lot of money. And we, of course, lost our money. Thatâs why Iâm working here.â
âThat sucks,â Anna says.
âYes, it does, rather.â I laugh.
Annaâs face becomes thoughtful. Her eyes are on her lap, her brow is gathered, and her lips work around silent wordsâlike a child reading from a book.
Suddenly she looks up. âDid I see you,â she says, âin the ⦠the garden?â
âYes,â I say. âThatâs when you asked me for help.â
âAnd ⦠he  ⦠was there?â
A feeling of dread creeps in. âWho?â
âHim,â she says. Her forehead creases. Her eyes dart back and forth, searching.
âDo you mean Luke, honey?â Clara asks.
I start to shake my head, but Annaâs eyes go round like sheâs seen a ghost. âYes. Luke.â
This isnât what I expected.
Annaâs gaze locks on mine. âPlease.
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