The Memory Keeper's Daughter

  “Don’t be,” Caroline said, reaching to take Phoebe back. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, she is. But Caroline. What will become of her?”

  Phoebe was warm and heavy in her arms, her soft dark hair falling against pale skin. Caroline, fierce, protective, touched her cheek so gently.

  “What will become of any of us? I mean, tell me honestly, Doro. Did you ever imagine that this would be your life?”

  Doro looked away, an expression of pain on her face. Years ago, her fiancé had been killed while jumping from a bridge into the river on a dare. Doro had mourned him and never married, never had the children she longed for.

  “No,” she said at last. “But this is different.”

  “Why? Why is it different?”

  “Caroline,” Doro said, touching her arm. “Let’s not. You’re tired. So am I.”

  Caroline settled Phoebe in her crib as Doro’s footsteps sounded faintly down the stairs. Asleep in the dull glow of the streetlight, she looked like any child, her future as unmapped as the ocean floor, as rich with possibility. Cars rushed over the fields of Doro’s childhood, their headlights playing on the wall, and Caroline imagined herons rising from the marshy field, their wings lifting in the pale gold light of dawn. What will become of her? In truth, Caroline sometimes lay awake at night, struggling with this same question.

  In her own room the curtains, crocheted and hung in the windows decades ago by Doro’s mother, cast delicate shadows; the moonlight was strong enough to read by. On the desk there was an envelope with three photographs of Phoebe, next to a paper folded twice. Caroline opened it and read what she had written.

  Dear Dr. Henry,

  I am writing to say that we are well, Phoebe and I. We are safe and happy. I have a good job. Phoebe is generally a healthy baby, despite frequent respiratory concerns. I am sending photos. So far, touch wood, she does not have any problems with her heart.

  She should send this—she had written it weeks ago—but each time she went to mail it she thought of Phoebe, the soft touch of her hands or the cooing sounds she made when she was happy, and she could not do it. Now she put the letter away again and lay down, drifting quickly to the edge of sleep. Once she half dreamed of the clinic waiting room with its drooping plants, heat stirring the leaves, and started awake, uneasy, unsure of where she was.

  Here, she told herself, touching the cool sheets. I’m right here.

  • • •

  When Caroline woke in the morning, the room was full of sunlight and trumpet music. Phoebe, in her crib, was reaching, as if the notes were small winged things, butterflies or lightning bugs, that she might catch. Caroline got them both dressed and took her downstairs, pausing on the second floor, where Leo March was ensconced in his sunny yellow office, books tumbled all around the daybed, where he lay with his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Caroline watched him from the doorway—she was not allowed to enter this room except by invitation—but he did not acknowledge her. An old man, bald with a fringe of gray hair, still wearing his clothes from the day before, listening intently to the music that blared from his speakers, shaking the house.

  “Do you want breakfast?” she shouted.

  He waved his hand, indicating that he’d get it himself. Well, fine.

  Caroline descended another flight to the kitchen and put the coffee on. Even here the trumpets sounded, faintly. She put Phoebe in her high chair, feeding her applesauce and egg and cottage cheese. Three times she handed her the spoon; three times it clattered on the metal tray.

  “Never mind,” Caroline said out loud, but her heart numbed. Doro’s voice echoed: What will become of her? And what would? At eleven months, Phoebe should be able to grasp small objects.

  She cleaned up the kitchen and went into the dining room to fold the laundry from the line; it smelled of wind. Phoebe lay on her back in the playpen, cooing, batting at the rings and toys Caroline had hung above her. Now and then Caroline paused in her work and went to adjust the bright objects, hoping that Phoebe, lured by their glitter, would roll over.

  After about half an hour the music stopped abruptly, and Leo’s feet appeared on the stairs in precisely tied and polished leather shoes, a swatch of pale undressed ankle flashing beneath his pant legs, which were several inches too short. Bit by bit he came entirely into view—a tall man, once thickly built and muscular, flesh now hanging loosely from his bony frame.

  “Oh, good,” he said, nodding at the laundry. “We’ve been needing a maid.”

  “Breakfast?” she asked.

  “I’ll get it myself.”

  “Go right ahead, then.”

  “I’ll have you fired by lunchtime,” he called from the kitchen.

  “You go right ahead,” she said again.

  There was a cascade of falling pots, the old man swearing. Caroline imagined him stooped over to push the tangle of cookware back into the cupboard. She ought to go help him—but no, let him cope by himself. In her first weeks she’d been afraid to talk back, afraid not to jump whenever Leonard March called, until Doro had taken her aside. Look, you’re not a servant. You answer to me; you don’t have to be at his beck and call. You’re doing fine, and you live here too, she had said, and Caroline had understood that her period of probation was over.

  Leo came in, carrying a plateful of eggs and a glass of orange juice.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, before she could speak. “I turned off the damned stove. And now I’m taking my breakfast upstairs to eat it in peace.”

  “Watch your language,” Caroline said.

  He grunted his answer and thumped up the stairs. She paused in her work, suddenly near tears, watching a cardinal land in the lilac bush outside the window, then fly away. What was she doing here? What yearning had driven her to this radical decision, this place of no return? And what, finally, would become of her?

  After a few minutes, the trumpets started again upstairs and the doorbell rang twice. Caroline lifted Phoebe from the playpen.

  “Here they are,” she said, drying her eyes with her wrist. “Time to practice.”

  Sandra was standing on the porch, and when Caroline opened the door she burst in, holding Tim by one hand and hauling a big cloth bag in the other. She was tall, large-boned, blond, and forceful; she sat down without ceremony in the middle of the rug, dumping the stacking toys in a pile.

  “Sorry I’m so late,” she said. “The traffic’s awful out there. Doesn’t it drive you crazy, living this close to the crosstown? It would drive me nuts. Anyway, check out what I found. Look at these great stacking toys—plastic, different colors. Tim loves them.”

  Caroline sat down on the floor too. Like Doro, Sandra was an unlikely friend, someone Caroline would never have known in her old life. They’d met in the library one bleak January day when Caroline, overwhelmed by experts and grim statistics, had slammed a book shut in despair. Sandra, two tables over amid her own stack of books, the spines and covers terribly familiar to Caroline, looked up. Oh, I know just how you feel. I’m so angry I could break a window.

  They’d begun to talk, then: cautiously at first, then in a rush. Sandra’s son, Tim, was nearly four. He had Down’s syndrome too, but Sandra hadn’t known it. That he was slower to develop than her three other children, this she had noticed, but to Sandra slow was only slow, and no excuse for anything. A busy mother, she’d simply expected Tim to do what her other children had done, and if it took him longer that was all right. He’d been walking by the time he was two, toilet trained by age three. The diagnosis had shocked her family; the doctor’s suggestion—that Tim should be put into an institution—had angered her into action.

  Caroline had listened intently, her heart lifting with every word.

  They left the library and went for coffee. Caroline would never forget those hours, the excitement she’d felt, as if she were waking from a long, slow dream. What would happen, they conjectured, if they simply went on assuming their children would do e
verything. Perhaps not quickly. Perhaps not by the book. But what if they simply erased those growth and development charts, with their precise, constricting points and curves? What if they kept their expectations but erased the time line? What harm could it do? Why not try?

  Yes, why not? They’d begun to meet, here or at Sandra’s house with her older, rambunctious boys. They brought books and toys, research and stories, and their own experiences—Caroline’s as a nurse, Sandra’s as a schoolteacher and mother of four. A lot of it was simple common sense. If Phoebe needed to learn to roll over, put a bright ball just out of her reach; if Tim needed to work on coordination, give him blunt scissors and bright paper and let him cut. The progress was slow, sometimes invisible, but for Caroline, these hours had become a lifeline.

  “You look tired today,” Sandra said.

  Caroline nodded. “Phoebe had croup last night. I don’t know how long she’ll hold out, actually. Any news about Tim’s ears?”

  “I liked the new doctor,” Sandra said, sitting back. Her fingers were long and blunt; she smiled at Tim and handed him a yellow cup. “He seemed compassionate. Didn’t just dismiss us. But the news isn’t great. Tim has some hearing loss, so that’s probably why his speech has been so slow. Here, sweetie,” she added, tapping the cup he’d dropped. “Show Miss Caroline and Phoebe what you can do.”

  Tim was not interested; the nap of the carpet had his attention, and he ran his hands through it again and again, fascinated and delighted. But Sandra was firm, calm and determined. Finally, he took the yellow cup, pressed its edge to his cheek for a moment, then put it on the floor and started stacking others in a tower.

  For the next two hours, they played with their children and talked. Sandra had strong opinions about everything and was not afraid to speak her mind. Caroline loved sitting in the living room and talking with this smart, bold woman, mother to mother. These days Caroline often longed for her own mother, dead almost ten years now, wishing she could call her up and ask advice or simply stop by to see her hold Phoebe in her arms. Had her mother felt all this—the love and the frustration—as Caroline grew up? She must have, and suddenly Caroline understood her childhood differently. The constant worry about polio—that, in its own strange way, was love. And her father’s hard work, his careful concentration on their finances at night—that was love as well.

  She did not have her mother but she had Sandra, and their mornings together were a highlight of her week. They told stories from their lives, shared ideas and suggestions about parenting, laughed together as Tim tried to stack the cups on their heads, as Phoebe reached and reached for a sparkly ball and finally, despite herself, rolled over. Several times that morning Caroline, still worried, dangled her car keys in front of Phoebe. They flashed, catching the morning light, and Phoebe’s small hands flew open, her fingers waving, splayed like starfish. Music, motes of light: she reached for the keys as well. But no matter how she tried, she could not catch them.

  “Next time,” Sandra said. “Wait and see. It will happen.”

  At noon Caroline helped them carry things to the car, then stood on the porch with Phoebe in her arms, tired already but happy too, waving as Sandra pulled her station wagon out into the street. When she went inside, Leo’s record was skipping, playing the same three bars again and again.

  Ornery old man, she thought, starting up the stairs. Terrible old coot.

  “Couldn’t you turn that down?” she began, exasperated, pushing open the door. But the record was skipping in an empty room. Leo was gone.

  Phoebe began to cry, as if she had some sort of internal barometer for strife and tension. Leo must have slipped out the back when Caroline was helping Sandra. Oh, he was clever, even though these days he sometimes left his shoes in the refrigerator. He took great pleasure in tricking her like this. Three times before Leo had slipped away, once stark naked.

  Caroline hurried downstairs and shoved her feet into a pair of Doro’s loafers, a size too small, cold. A coat for Phoebe, nestled in the stroller—for herself, she’d go without.

  The day had turned overcast with low gray clouds. Phoebe whimpered, her small hands flailing, as they walked past the garage to the alley. I know, Caroline murmured, touching her head. I know, sweetheart, I know. She spotted one of Leo’s footprints in a melting crust of snow, the large waffled sole of his boots, and felt a rush of relief. He had come this way, then, and he was dressed.

  Well, at least he had his boots on.

  At the end of the next block, she came to the 105 steps that led down to Koening Field. It was Leo who had told her how many there were, one night over supper when he was in a civil mood. Now he was at the bottom of the long cement cascade, his hands hanging at his sides, his white hair sticking out, looking so puzzled, so lost and so distressed, that her anger dissolved. Caroline did not like Leo March—he was not likable—but whatever animosity she held for him was complicated by compassion. For in moments like these she saw how the world looked at him and saw an old man, senile and forgetful, rather than the universe that had been, that was still, Leo March.

  He turned and saw her, and after a moment confusion cleared from his face.

  “Watch this!” he shouted. “Watch this, woman, and weep!”

  Quickly, oblivious to the ice, a stilled stream down the middle of the steps, Leo ran up to her, legs pumping, fueled by some ancient adrenaline and need.

  “I’ll bet you never saw anything like that,” he said, reaching the top, winded.

  “You’re right,” Caroline said, “I never did. I hope I never do again.”

  Leo laughed, his lips a vivid pink against his bleached-pale skin.

  “I got away from you,” he said.

  “You didn’t get far.”

  “I could, though. If I had a mind. Next time.”

  “Next time take a coat,” Caroline advised.

  “Next time,” he said, as they started walking, “I’ll disappear in Timbuktu.”

  “You do that,” Caroline said, a tide of weariness rushing in. Crocuses shouted purple and white against the bright grass; Phoebe was crying in earnest now. Caroline was relieved to have Leo in tow, to have found him safe, grateful that disaster had been averted. Her fault, if he’d been lost or hurt, because she’d been so focused on Phoebe, who’d reached for weeks now and had still not learned to grasp.

  They walked a few more feet in silence.

  “You’re a smart woman,” Leo said.

  She stopped on the bricks, astonished.

  “What? What did you say?”

  He looked at her, lucid, his eyes the same bright seeking blue as Doro’s.

  “I said you’re smart. My daughter hired eight different nurses before you. None of them lasted more than a week. Bet you didn’t know that.”

  “No,” Caroline said. “No, I didn’t.”

  • • •

  Later, as Caroline cleaned up the kitchen and carried out the garbage, she thought of Leo’s words. I’m smart, she said to herself, standing in the alley by the trash can. The air was damp and cool. Her breath came out in tiny clouds. Smart won’t get you a husband, her mother said in sharp reply, but even this didn’t dampen Caroline’s pleasure in the first nice words Leo had ever said to her.

  Caroline stood for a moment longer in the chilly air, grateful for the silence. Garages staggered, one after another, down the hill. Gradually, she became aware of a figure standing at the base of the alley. A tall man, in dark jeans and a brown jacket, colors so muted he nearly became another part of the late-winter landscape. Something about him—something about the way he stood and stared so intently in her direction—made Caroline uneasy. She put the metal lid back on the garbage can and folded her arms across her chest. He was walking toward her now, a big man, broad-shouldered and walking fast. His jacket was not brown at all, but a muted plaid with streaks of red. He pulled a bright red hat from the pocket and put it on. Caroline felt oddly comforted by this gesture, though she didn’t know why.

 
“Hey, there,” he called. “That Fairlane running okay for you these days?”

  Her apprehension deepened, and she turned to look at the house, its dark brick rising into the white sky. Yes, there was her bathroom, where she had stood last night watching the moonlight on the lawn. There was her window, left partly open to the cold spring air, wind stirring the lacy curtains. When she turned back, the man had stopped just a few feet away. She knew him, and she understood this in her body, in her relief, before she could formulate it in thought. Then it was so bizarre she couldn’t believe it.

  “How in the world—” she began.

  “It wasn’t easy!” Al said, laughing. He had grown a soft beard, and his teeth flashed white. His dark eyes were warm, pleased and amused. She remembered him sliding bacon onto her plate, waving from the silver cab of his truck as he pulled away. “You are one tough lady to track down. But you said Pittsburgh. And I happen to have a layover here every couple of weeks. It kind of got to be a hobby, looking for you.” He smiled. “Don’t know what I’ll do with myself now.”

  Caroline couldn’t answer. There was pleasure at the sight of him but a great confusion too. For nearly a year she had not let herself think too long or too hard about the life she had left, but now it rose up with great force and intensity: the scent of cleaning fluid and sun in the waiting room and the way it felt to come home to her tranquil, orderly apartment after a long day, fix herself a modest meal, and sit down for the evening with a book. She had given up those pleasures willingly; she had embraced this change out of some deep unacknowledged yearning. Now her heart was pounding, and she stared wildly down the alley, as if she might suddenly see David Henry too. This, she understood suddenly, was why she had never sent that letter. What if he wanted Phoebe back—or Norah did? The possibility filled her with an excruciating rush of fear.

  “How did you do it?” Caroline demanded. “How did you find me? Why?”

  Al, taken aback, shrugged. “I stopped in Lexington to say hello. Your place was empty. Being painted. That neighbor of yours told me you’d been gone three weeks. Guess I don’t like mysteries, because I kept thinking of you.” He paused, as if debating whether or not to go on. “Plus—hell, I liked you, Caroline, and I figured you were in some kind of trouble, to cut out like you did. You sure had trouble written all over you, standing in the parking lot that day. I figured maybe I could lend you a hand. I figured maybe you might need it.”