The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [114]
He spoke with melodious assurance, though Caroline paid almost no attention to what he was saying. Instead, she studied the familiar gestures of his hands, the new lines at the corners of his eyes. His hair was longer, thick and luxurious despite the gray, and he seemed satisfied, settled. She thought of that night, almost twenty years ago now, when he’d woken and lifted his head from the desk and caught her in the doorway, naked in her love for him, the two of them as vulnerable to each other in that moment as it was possible to be. She had recognized something then, something he kept hidden, some experience or expectation or dream too private to share. And it was true, she could see that still: David Henry had a secret life. Her mistake twenty years ago had been in believing that his secret had to do with any kind of love for her.
When his talk was over, the applause rose, strong, and then he was stepping from behind the podium, taking a long drink from his glass of water, answering questions. There were several—from a man with a notebook, a matron with gray hair, a young woman dressed in black with dark cascading hair who asked something rather angrily about form. Tension grew in Caroline’s body and her heart pounded until she could barely breathe. The questions ended and the silence grew, and David Henry cleared his throat, a smile forming as he thanked the audience and turned away. Caroline felt herself rising then, almost beyond her own volition, her purse in front of her like a shield. She crossed the room and joined the little group collecting around him. He glanced at her and smiled politely, without recognition. She waited through more questions, growing somewhat calmer as the moments passed. The curator of the show hovered at the edge of the group, anxious for David to mingle, but when a break came in the questions, Caroline stepped forward and put her hand on David’s arm.
“David,” she said. “Don’t you know me?”
He searched her face.
“Have I changed so much?” she whispered.
She saw him understand, then. His face altered, the shape of it even, as if gravity had suddenly gotten stronger. A flush crept up his neck and a muscle pulsed in his cheek. Caroline felt something strange happening with time, as if they were back in the clinic again all those years ago, the snow falling down outside. They stared at each other without speaking, as if the room and all the people in it had fallen utterly away.
“Caroline,” he said at last, recovering. “Caroline Gill. An old friend,” he added, speaking to the people still clustering around them. He reached up with one hand and adjusted his tie, and a smile broke across his face, though it did not touch his eyes. “Thank you,” he said, nodding to the others. “Thank you all for coming. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
And then they were crossing the room. David walked beside her, one hand lightly but firmly against her back, as if she might disappear unless he held her in place.
“Come in here,” he said, stepping behind a display panel, where an unframed door was barely visible in the white wall. He guided her inside, swiftly, and shut the door behind them. It was a storage closet, small, one bare bulb raining light down on shelves full of paint and tools. They stood face-to-face, just inches apart. His scent filled the room, that sweetish cologne, and beneath it was a smell she remembered, something medicinal and tinged with adrenaline. The little room was hot, and she