The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [107]
“Don’t do anymore,” 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,