Page 14

FOURTEEN

E ddie’s been out for a few hours, running errands for Cookie: a box of black licorice from the tobacco shop, a tin of lavender lip salve from Bigelow Pharmacy, and a tub of borscht from Veselka, the Ukrainian restaurant in the East Village. He takes Polaroids at each place. Lots of them. He still doesn’t know what he’s doing, really. Just aiming aimlessly and snapping. But maybe taking lots of pictures, dozens, will increase his chances of catching it by accident. He changes film cartridges several times.

At each location, Eddie stands across the street from whatever he’s shooting to fit more into each frame. Maybe if he captures the shop, and the shops next to it, and the sky, and the trees, and the people on the sidewalk, and of course, their dogs, then maybe something remarkable will sneak into a corner of the image, and when he’s back at the apartment for sherry hour, and sits on the edge of her bed to show her the photos, then maybe she will see something, and point it out to him, and then maybe he’ll see it, too.

He keeps shooting photographs. Strength in numbers, he figures. The more photos, the better chance he’ll bring something that Cookie will like. And he really, really wants to do that. He wants to make her happy. That’s really the core of his job here isn’t it? Yes, he has to keep an eye on her, make sure she takes her medicines, and run her errands. But none of that is as important as making her happy.

But Eddie loses track of time, and is careless on his walk back to the apartment. He gets tangled up in the Village streets. Not lost, exactly, just distracted. Photo after photo.

It’s nearly four thirty when he arrives, a half hour late for sherry hour. And Cookie’s not in her bed.

He finds her in the kitchen, standing in bare feet, her dressing gown hanging off one shoulder, the paisley wrap on the floor next to one of her berets. He can hear the crackle of the record player in Cookie’s room, the needle scraping across the end of a record that’s long since finished playing. The sound gives the air a disturbing, sinister tint. His head swirls into confusion.

“Cookie?” he asks. “Is everything all right?”

She turns to him slowly, first her eyes, then her head. She glares not at his face, but his throat. “Where did you come from?” She spits the words, as if she’s disgusted. “What are you doing here? I didn’t ask for you.”

“I, um—” Eddie holds up the take-out bag from Veselka. “I brought the borscht you wanted,” he says, trying to sound cheerful.

She sneers at it. “I hate borscht,” she hisses, swatting at his hand. “Get it out of here.”

Eddie takes a step back. Steady, he tells himself. You’ve seen this before, back at Sunset Ridge. Remember? This disorientation, this sharpness. Cookie was probably asleep and woke up a little bit disoriented. She got out of bed, still half asleep, and lost her way. That’s all. It’s not a big deal. Everyone wakes up cloudy sometimes, even you. Right? The important thing is to stay calm. Don’t startle her. You don’t want her to fall. Move slowly. Speak clearly but gently. Maybe hum a tune. Project confidence, kindness, refuge, like everything is okay. If she sees you panic, or hears it in your voice, or senses it in your touch, this could get worse. Much worse. Swallow that anxiety, that acid gathering in your throat. Stay calm.

He pulls out one of the chairs at the little kitchen table and reaches for her shoulder to guide her into it. To his relief, she allows him to touch her, and she sits without protest. He picks up the wrap and drapes it across her shoulders.

“I thought you’d be in your room,” he says, trying to maintain his cheerfulness. “It’s sherry hour.”

“No, it’s not. Sherry hour is over.”

He notices a tiny bruise on her face, just below the temple. “What happened to your cheek?”

She ignores his question. “I was going to make us a cup of tea.”

“Oh, thank you, Cookie, but I don’t need—”

“Not for you! Tea for Tallulah and me.” She points at a portrait of a droopy-eyed woman with a long cigarette holder on the wall above the table. “I had to talk to Tallulah.”

“Who is Tallulah?” he asks gently.

“Tallulah Bankhead. Are you daft?” The coldness of her voice cuts straight through him, shocking him. He knows she has a sharp edge, but he hasn’t seen it in a while. What triggered it today? Did he do something wrong? He feels his heart begin to race, and his mind. He holds his breath, pinches his finger, swallows the bile, the panic, the fear.

He squares his shoulders and digs deep for the firm-but-warm tone he practiced so often at Sunset Ridge. “I don’t think you’re supposed be out here in the kitchen. I think you’re supposed to be in bed.”

She scoffs. “Supposed to be, supposed to be,” she says, mocking him. She glares at his chin with bloodshot eyes. “Says who? You’re not the boss here. This is my home.”

“Yes,” he says. “I know. It’s your home, Cookie. And I’m so glad to be here with you.”

“My home,” she repeats. “I can do what I want.”

“Of course you can. You’re the boss. But let’s go back to your room anyway. Why not? I’ll come with you.”

He reaches for her shoulder, but she swats him away. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re right,” he says, putting his hand back on her shoulder. He’s pulled another Sunset Ridge crisis card: Acknowledge the frustration, but stay consistent. Get them back to where they’re safest. For Cookie, that means her bed. “I can’t tell you what to do. And I won’t. But why don’t we—”

“I want to talk to Tallulah.”

“I understand,” he says, still on script. But it’s a lie. Eddie doesn’t understand what’s happening in her mind at all. It was easy enough to make peace with the imaginary midnight chats—after all, who is Eddie to judge someone else’s extensive and elaborate inner life?—but this, today, is different. This is perplexing. Even scary.

“This is my home,” she repeats, wriggling her shoulder away from him.

“Yes.”

Eddie reaches for her hand, but she pulls it away. She looks so tired. Like she’s been wandering through an endless fog, like she is lost, like hope is lost.

She turns back to the photograph of Tallulah. Her glossy eyes linger there for a moment, then move across the wall, filled with portraits. She scans the faces, some of which she’s taught to Eddie already. He follows her eyes as she says the names, slowly.

“Billie Holiday. Anna May Wong. Oscar Wilde. Marlene Dietrich.” Her eyes return to Tallulah, and then they close. Her shoulders relax. She exhales. “Tallulah.”

This time, when Eddie takes her hand, she lets him. He curls his fingers into hers and she grasps back. The pressure of her touch, weak but present, reassures him.

“I’m cold,” she says. She looks at her feet, a puzzled expression. “Where are my slippers?”

“I tell you what,” he says. “Let’s take Tallulah back to your room. You two can catch up in there while I fix a hot water bottle to tuck underneath, by your feet, to warm them up.”

“Is it sherry hour?” she asks, her voice smaller now, almost timid, like a child’s.

“It sure is,” he lies. He takes the photograph of Tallulah Bankhead off the wall. “Let’s have it in your room.”

She blinks slowly. “You better move Bette Davis out of the bedroom first. She and Tallulah aren’t speaking.”

“All right,” Eddie says as relief washes through him.

He helps Cookie back into bed. She reaches out to touch a petal of the alstroemeria in the pop-art vase, then closes her eyes and, almost immediately, before he can pour the sherry, she falls into a soft, shallow sleep. He watches her for a while until her breath finds a rhythm. Then he gathers up the open envelopes and greeting cards on the floor next to her and tucks the paisley blanket gently around her feet.

It’s begun to rain outside. He closes the window, then goes back to the kitchen to fix her hot water bottle. He will never be late for sherry hour again. Never.