The Memory Keeper's Daughter, Page 24

  “Did she die?” he asked.

  “My mother? Yes. Years later. Your grandfather too. They weren’t very old, either of them. My parents had hard lives, Paul. They didn’t have money. I don’t mean that they weren’t rich. I mean that sometimes they didn’t know if we were going to have food to eat. It pained my father, who was a hard-working man. And it pained my mother, because they couldn’t get much help for June. When I was about your age, I got a job so I could go to high school in town. And then June died, and I made a promise to myself. I was going to go out and fix the world.” He shook his head. “Well, of course I didn’t really do that. But here we are, Paul. We have plenty of everything. We never worry about having enough to eat. You’ll go to any college you want. And all you can think to do is get drugged up with your friends and throw it all away.”

  The tightness in his stomach had moved to his throat, and Paul couldn’t answer. The world was still too bright and not quite steady. He wanted to make the sadness in his father’s voice go away, to erase the silence that filled up their house. More than anything, he longed for this moment—his father sitting next to him and telling him family stories—to never end. He was afraid he would say the wrong thing and ruin everything, like too much light flooding onto the paper ruined the picture. Once that happened you could never go back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  His father nodded, looking down. Briefly, lightly, his hand passed over Paul’s hair.

  “I know,” he said.

  “I’ll clean it all up.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I know.”

  “But I love music,” Paul said, knowing this was the wrong thing, the pulse of sudden light that turned the paper black, yet unable to stop himself. “Playing is my life. I’ll never give it up.”

  His father sat in silence for a moment, his head bent. Then he sighed and stood.

  “Don’t close any doors just now,” he said. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  Paul watched his father disappear into the darkroom. Then he got on his knees and began to pick up shards of broken glass. Distantly, trains rushed, and the sky beyond the windows opened up forever, clear and blue. Paul paused for a moment in the harsh morning light, listening to his father work inside the darkroom, imagining those same hands moving carefully inside a person’s body, seeking to repair what had been broken.

  September 1977

  CAROLINE CAUGHT THE CORNER OF THE POLAROID BETWEEN her thumb and first finger as it slipped from the camera, the image already emerging. The table with its white cloth appeared to float on a sea of dark grass. Moonflowers, white and faintly luminous, climbed the hillside. Phoebe was a pale blur in her confirmation dress. Caroline waved the photo dry in the fragrant air. There was thunder far away, a late summer storm gathering; a rising breeze stirred the paper napkins.

  “One more,” she said.

  “Oh, Mom,” Phoebe protested, but she stood still.

  The minute the camera clicked she was off, running across the lawn to where their neighbor Avery, age eight, was holding a tiny kitten with hair the same dark orange as her own. Phoebe, at thirteen, was short for her age, chubby, still impulsive and impassioned, slow to learn but moving from joy to pensiveness to sadness and back to joy with an astonishing speed. “I’m confirmed!” she shouted now, turning once on the lawn with her arms flung high in the air, causing the guests to glance her way, drinks in their hands, and smile. Skirt swirling, she ran to Sandra’s son, Tim, now a teenager too. She wrapped her arms around him, kissing him exuberantly on the cheek.

  Then she caught herself and glanced back anxiously at Caroline. Hugging had been a problem earlier this year, at school. “I like you,” Phoebe would announce, enveloping a smaller child; she didn’t understand why she couldn’t hug everyone. Caroline had told her again and again, Hugs are special. Hugs are for family; slowly Phoebe had learned. Now, however, seeing Phoebe rein in her love, she wondered if she’d done the right thing.

  “It’s okay, honey,” Caroline called. “It’s okay to hug your friends at the party.”

  Phoebe relaxed. She and Tim went off to pet the kitten. Caroline looked at the Polaroid in her hand: the luminous garden and Phoebe’s smile, a fleeting moment caught, already gone. There was more thunder in the distance, but the evening was still lovely, warm and beautiful with flowers. All across the lawn people moved, talking and laughing and filling their plastic cups. A cake, three tiers and frosted white, stood on the table, decorated with dark red roses from the garden. Three layers, for three celebrations: Phoebe’s confirmation, her own wedding anniversary, and Doro’s retirement, a bon voyage.

  “It’s my cake.” Phoebe’s voice floated over the rise and fall of conversations, the physics professors and neighbors and choir members and school friends, families from the Upside Down Society, all sorts of children, running. Caroline’s new friends from the hospital, where she’d started working part-time once Phoebe was in school, were here too. She had brought all these people together; she had planned this beautiful party unfolding in the dusk like a flower. “It’s my cake.” Phoebe’s voice came again, high and floating. “I’m confirmed.”

  Caroline sipped her wine, the air warm as breath on her skin. She didn’t see Al arrive but he was suddenly there, sliding a hand around her waist and kissing her cheek, his presence, his scent, sweeping through her. Five years ago they had married at a garden party much like this one, strawberries floating in champagne and the air full of fireflies, the scent of roses. Five years, and the novelty had not worn off. Caroline’s room on the third floor of Doro’s house had become a place as mysterious and sensual as this garden. She loved waking to the warm, heavy length of Al sleeping beside her, his hand coming to rest, lightly, on the flat of her belly, the scent of him—fresh soap and Old Spice—slowly infusing the room, the sheets, the towels. He was there, so vividly present she felt him in every nerve. There, and then as quickly gone.

  “Happy anniversary,” he said now, pressing his hands lightly on her waist.

  Caroline smiled, filled with pleasure. The evening had deepened and people were moving and laughing in the lingering warmth and fragrance, dew gathering on the darkening grass, the white froth of flowers everywhere. She took Al’s hand, solid and sure, and almost laughed because he’d just arrived and didn’t yet know the news. Doro was leaving on a year-long cruise around the world with her lover, a man named Trace. Al knew that already; plans had been evolving for months. But he didn’t know that Doro, in what she called a joyful liberation from the past, had given Caroline the deed to this old house.

  Doro was arriving even now, coming down the stairs from the alley in a silky dress. Trace was just behind her, carrying a bag of ice. He was a year younger than she, sixty-five, with short gray hair, a long narrow face, full lips. He was naturally pale, conscious of his weight, and fussy about his food, a lover of opera and sports cars. Trace had been an Olympic swimmer once, had almost won a bronze medal, and he thought nothing, still, of diving into the Monongahela and swimming to the opposite shore. One afternoon he’d risen out of the water and staggered up the riverbank, pale and dripping, into the middle of the annual picnic for the department of physics. That was the story of their meeting. Trace was kind and good to Doro, who clearly adored him, and if he seemed aloof to Caroline, a bit distant and reserved, it really wasn’t any of her business.

  A gust swept a pile of napkins off the table and Caroline stooped to catch them.

  “You’re bringing the wind,” Al said, as Doro drew near.

  “It’s so exciting,” she said, lifting her hands. She had come to resemble Leo more and more, her features sharper, her hair, short now, pure white.

  “Al’s like those old mariners,” Trace said, putting the ice on the table. Caroline used a small stone to weigh down the napkins. “He’s attuned to atmospheric changes. Oh, Doro, stay just as you are,” he exclaimed. “God, but you’re beautiful. Honestly. You look like a goddess of the wind.”

  “If
you’re the wind goddess,” Al said, catching the paper plates as they lifted, “you’d better cool your jets so we can have this party.”

  “Isn’t it glorious?” Doro asked. “It’s such a beautiful party, a wonderful farewell.”

  Phoebe ran up, holding the tiny kitten, a ball of pale orange, in her arms. Caroline reached out and smoothed her hair, smiling.

  “Can we keep him?” she asked.

  “No,” Caroline replied as she always did. “Aunt Doro’s allergic.”

  “Mom,” Phoebe complained, but she was distracted at once by the wind, the beautiful table. She tugged on Doro’s silky sleeve. “Aunt Doro. It’s my cake.”

  “Mine too,” Doro said, putting one arm around Phoebe’s shoulders. “I’m going on a trip, don’t forget, so it’s my cake too. And your mother’s and Al’s because they’ve been married five years.”

  “I’m coming on the trip,” Phoebe said.

  “Oh, no, sweetie,” Doro said. “Not this time. This is a grown-up trip, honey. For me and Trace.”

  Phoebe’s expression was touched with a disappointment as acute as her earlier joy. Mercurial, quicksilver—whatever she felt in each moment was the world.

  “Hey, sweetie,” Al said, squatting down. “What do you think? You think that kitty cat might like some cream?”

  She fought a smile and then gave in, nodding, distracted for the moment from her loss.

  “Great,” Al said, taking her hand, winking at Caroline.

  “Don’t take that cat inside,” Caroline warned.

  She filled a tray with glasses and moved among her guests, still marveling. She was Caroline Simpson, mother of Phoebe, wife of Al, organizer of protests—a different person altogether from the timid woman who had stood in a silent snow-swept office thirteen years ago with an infant in her arms. She turned to look at the house, the pale brick strangely vivid against the graying sky. It’s my house, she thought, echoing Phoebe’s earlier chant. She smiled at her next thought, strangely apropos: I’m confirmed.

  Sandra was laughing with Doro by the honeysuckle bush, and Mrs. Soulard was walking up the alley with a vase full of lilies. Trace, wind pushing his gray hair into his face, cupped a match in his hand, trying to light the candles. The flames flickered, sputtered, but finally held, illuminating the white linen tablecloth, the small transparent votive cups, the vase of white flowers, the whipped-cream cake. Cars rushed past, muted by the laughing voices, the fluttering leaves. For a moment Caroline stood still, thinking of Al, his hands reaching for her in the darkness of the night to come. This is happiness, she told herself. This is what happiness means.

  The party lasted until eleven. Doro and Trace lingered after the last guests had left, carrying trays of cups and leftover cake, vases of flowers, putting tables and chairs away in the garage. Phoebe was asleep by then; Al had carried her inside after she dissolved into tears, tired and overstimulated, overcome with Doro’s leaving, weeping with great heaving sobs that left her breathless.

  “Don’t do any more,” Caroline said, stopping Doro at the top of the steps, brushing past the dense, supple leaves of the lilacs. She had planted this hedge three years ago, and now the bushes, just twigs for so long, had taken root and shot up. Next year, they would be heavy with flowers. “I’ll clean up tomorrow, Doro. You have an early flight. You must be eager to be off.”

  “I am,” Doro said, her voice so soft Caroline had to strain to hear her. She nodded to the house where Al and Trace were working in the bright kitchen, scraping plates. “But Caroline, it’s so bittersweet. Earlier, I walked through all the rooms, one last time. I’ve spent my whole life here. It’s strange to leave it. Yet, all the same, I’m excited to be going.”

  “You can always come back,” Caroline said, fighting a sudden swell of emotion.

  “I hope I won’t want to,” Doro said. “Not for more than a visit, anyway.” She took Caroline’s elbow. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go sit on the porch.”

  They walked along the side of the house, under arching wisteria, and sat in the swing, a river of cars moving by on the parkway. The high leaves of the sycamores, big as plates, fluttered against the streetlights.

  “You won’t miss the traffic,” Caroline said.

  “No, that’s true. It used to be so quiet. They used to close the whole street off in the winter. We rode our sleds straight down the middle of the road, right here.”

  Caroline pushed the swing, remembering that long-ago night when moonlight flooded the lawns and fell through the bathroom windows, Phoebe coughing in her arms and herons rising from the fields of Doro’s childhood.

  The screen door swung open and Trace stepped out.

  “Well?” he asked. “Are you about ready, Doro?”

  “Just about,” she said.

  “I’ll go get the car, then, and bring it around front.”

  He went back inside. Caroline counted cars, up to twenty. A dozen years ago she had come to this door, Phoebe an infant in her arms. She had stood right here, waiting to see what would happen.

  “What time is your flight?” she asked.

  “Early. At eight. Oh, Caroline,” Doro said, leaning back and stretching her arms wide. “After all these years, I feel so free. Who knows where I might fly?”

  “I’ll miss you,” Caroline said. “Phoebe will too.”

  Doro nodded. “I know. But we’ll see each other. I’ll send postcards from everywhere.”

  Headlights poured down the hill, and then the rental car was slowing and Trace’s long arm was lifting in a wave.

  “It’s the call of the road!” he shouted.

  “Be well,” Caroline said. She hugged Doro, feeling her soft cheek. “You saved my life all those years ago, you know.”

  “Honey, you saved mine too.” Doro pulled away. Her dark eyes were wet. “It’s your house now. Enjoy it.”

  And then Doro was down the steps, her white sweater catching in the wind. She was in the car and waving goodbye; she was gone.

  Caroline watched the car merge onto the crosstown and disappear into the river of rushing lights. The storm was still circling in the hills, flashing the sky white, dull thunder echoing far away. Al came out with drinks, pushing the door open with his foot. They sat down in the swing.

  “So,” Al said. “Nice party.”

  “It was,” Caroline said. “It was fun. I’m exhausted.”

  “Have enough energy to open this?” Al asked.

  Caroline took the package and undid the clumsy wrapping. A wooden heart fell out, carved from cherry, smooth as a water-worn stone in her palm. She closed her hand around it, remembering the way the medallion had glinted in the cold light of Al’s cab and how, months later, Phoebe’s tiny hand had caught it.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, pressing the smooth heart against her cheek. “So warm. It fits right here exactly, in the palm of my hand.”

  “I carved it myself,” Al said, pleasure in his voice. “Nights, on the road. Thought it might be kind of hokey, but this waitress I know in Cleveland said you’d like it. I hope you do.”

  “I do,” Caroline said, linking her arm in his. “I got something for you too.” She handed him a small cardboard box. “I didn’t have time to wrap it.”

  He opened the box and took out a new brass key.

  “What’s this, the key to your heart?”

  She laughed. “No. It’s a key to this house.”

  “Why? Did you change the locks?”

  “No.” Caroline pushed at the swing. “Doro gave it to me, Al. Isn’t that amazing? I have the deed inside. She said she wanted a completely fresh start.”

  One heartbeat. Two, three, and the creak of the swing, back and forth.

  “That’s pretty extreme,” Al said. “What if she wants to come back?”

  “I asked her that same thing. She said Leo had left a lot of money. Patents, savings, I don’t know what-all. And Doro was thrifty her whole life, so she doesn’t need the money. If they come back, she and T
race will get a condo or something.”

  “Generous,” Al said.

  “Yes.”

  Al was silent. Caroline listened to the porch swing creaking, the wind, the cars.

  “We could sell it,” he mused. “Take off ourselves. Go anywhere.”

  “It’s not worth much,” Caroline said slowly. The idea of selling this house had never crossed her mind. “Anyway, where would we go?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Caroline. You know me. I’ve spent life wandering. I’m just speculating here. Taking in the news.”

  The comfort of the darkness, the steady swing, gave way to a deeper unease. Who was this man next to her, Caroline wondered, this man who arrived every weekend and slipped so familiarly into her bed, who tipped his head at a particular angle every morning to slap Old Spice on his neck and chin? What did she really know about his dreams, his secret heart? Next to nothing, it suddenly seemed, or he of hers.

  “So you’d rather not have a house?” she pressed.

  “It’s not that. This was good of Doro.”

  “But it ties you down.”

  “I like coming home to you, Caroline. I like coming down that last stretch of highway and knowing you and Phoebe are here, in the kitchen cooking, or planting flowers, or whatever. But sure, it’s appealing, what they’re doing. Packing up. Taking off. Wandering the world. It would be nice, I think. That freedom.”

  “I don’t have those urges anymore,” Caroline said, looking out into the dark garden, the scattering of city lights and the dark red letters of the Foodland sign, mosaic pieces amid the dense summer foliage. “I’m happy right where I am. You’ll get bored with me.”

  “Naw. That just makes us compatible, honey,” Al said.

  They sat in silence for a time, listening to the wind, the rush of cars.

  “Phoebe doesn’t like change,” Caroline said. “She doesn’t handle it well.”