The Things We Keep by Sally Hepworth Page B

eyes are a striking blue, almost violet. The exact blue of her cardigan. I slide the cloth back and forth along the windowsill. It’s already pretty clean, and all I’m doing is dragging the little dust that is there back and forth.
    Behind me, pages of a notebook ruffle.
    â€œEve’s the new cook,” Clara says to Anna. “Started this morning.”
    I look over my shoulder in time to see Anna visibly relax. “ That’s why you’re not in my book.”
    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 don’t recognize, perhaps family members? Underscoring each photo is a name in a thick black pen, as well as a one-word explanation— Doctor. Resident. Friend. Farther below are a few other notes, scrawled in blue Biro.
    Anna looks at me. “But if you’re the new cook, shouldn’t you be cooking?”
    â€œYou would think so, wouldn’t you?” 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 “Help me” the other day. It’s a long shot, of course, but worth a try.
    â€œAnna, can I ask you something?” I say.
    She looks surprised. “Sure.”
    I squat to rinse out my cloth in the bucket. “The other day, when I was here for my interview, you asked me for help. We were out in the garden. Do you remember that?”
    She frowns. “No. I’m sorry.”
    â€œI was handing you your scarf,” I persisted, “and you grabbed my hands and said ‘Help me.’”
    There’s a flicker on her face, and I allow myself to hope. “Maybe I needed help registering for the New York marathon? I’ve been meaning to tick that off my bucket list.”
    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 don’t know what I expected. That Anna would be incapable of humor? That she wouldn’t be a real person? Yes, that’s exactly what I’d thought. And after all the trouble I go to, to make sure Clem treats people with an open mind, I should have known better.
    â€œDo we know each other?” Anna asks suddenly.
    My smile fades away.
    â€œYou know, you do look familiar, honey,” Clara says.
    I can’t believe my bad luck. A person with Alzheimer’s recognizes me.
    â€œYou probably recognize me from the newspaper,” I admit.
    â€œThe newspaper?” Clara asks. “Are you famous, Eve?”
    â€œInfamous, perhaps. My husband was Richard Bennett. You’ve probably heard of him.”
    â€œRichard Bennett was your husband?” Clara gasps. “Oh, you poor, poor dear.”
    â€œRichard was running an illegal Ponzi scheme,” I explain to Anna. “Because of him, lots of people lost a lot of money. And we, of course, lost our money. That’s why I’m working here.”
    â€œThat sucks,” Anna says.
    â€œYes, it does, rather.” I laugh.
    Anna’s face becomes thoughtful. Her eyes are on her lap, her brow is gathered, and her lips work around silent words—like a child reading from a book.
    Suddenly she looks up. “Did I see you,” she says, “in the … the garden?”
    â€œYes,” I say. “That’s when you asked me for help.”
    â€œAnd … he  … was there?”
    A feeling of dread creeps in. “Who?”
    â€œHim,” she says. Her forehead creases. Her eyes dart back and forth, searching.
    â€œDo you mean Luke, honey?” Clara asks.
    I start to shake my head, but Anna’s eyes go round like she’s seen a ghost. “Yes. Luke.”
    This isn’t what I expected.
    Anna’s gaze locks on mine. “Please.