The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [130]
Silence welled.
She did not speak. The scissors glinted; the half-cut paper slid from the table to the floor as she stood. He closed his eyes, fear rising, because he had seen anger in her eyes, because everything that happened had been his fault.
Her footsteps and then the metal, cold and bright as ice, slid against his skin.
The tension in his wrists released. He opened his eyes to see her stepping back, her eyes, bright and wary, fixed on his, her scissors glinting.
“All right,” she said. “You’re free.”
III
PAUL,” SHE CALLED. HER HEELS WERE A SHARP STACCATO ON the polished stairs and then she was standing in the doorway, slender and stylish in a navy suit with a narrow skirt and thickly padded shoulders. Through barely opened eyes, Paul saw what she was seeing: clothes scattered on the floor, a cascade of albums and sheet music, his old guitar propped in a corner. She shook her head and sighed. “Get up, Paul,” she said. “Do it now.”
“Sick,” he mumbled, pulling the covers over his head, making his voice hoarse. Through the loose weave of the summer blanket he could still see her, hands on her hips. The early light caught in her hair, frosted yesterday, glinting with red and gold. He’d heard her on the phone with Bree, describing the little strands of hair wrapped up in foil and baked.
She’d been sautéing ground beef as she talked, her voice calm, her eyes red from crying, earlier. His father had disappeared, and for three days no one knew if he was dead or alive. Then last night his father had come home, walking through the door as if he’d never been gone, and their tense voices had traveled up the stairs for hours.
“Look,” she said now, glancing at her watch. “I know you’re not sick, anymore than I am. I’d like to sleep all day. God knows I’d like to. But I can’t, and neither can you. So get yourself out of that bed and get dressed. I’ll drop you at school.”
“My throat’s on fire,” he insisted, making his voice as rough as possible.
She hesitated, closed her eyes, and sighed again, and he knew he’d won.
“If you stay home, you stay home,” she warned. “There’ll be no hanging out with that quartet of yours. And—listen to me—you have to clean up this pigsty. I’m serious, Paul. I have all I can deal with on my plate right now.”
“Right,” he croaked. “Yep. I will.”
She stood a moment longer without speaking. “This is hard,” she said at last. “It’s hard for me too. I’d stay with you, Paul, but I promised to take Bree to the doctor.”
He pushed up on his elbows then, alerted by her somber tone. “Is she okay?”
His mother nodded, but she was looking out the window and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I think so. But she’s having some tests and she’s a little worried. Which is natural. I promised her last week that I’d go. Before all this with your father.”
“It’s okay,” Paul said, remembering to make his voice sound hoarse. “You should go with her. I’ll be okay.” He spoke with assurance, but part of him hoped she’d pay no attention, that she’d stay home instead.
“It shouldn’t take long. I’ll come straight back.”
“Where’s Dad?”
She shook her head. “I have no idea. Not here. But how unusual is that?”
Paul didn’t answer, just lay back down and closed his eyes. Not very, he thought. Not unusual at all.
His mother put her hand on his cheek lightly, but he didn’t move, and then she was gone, leaving a coolness on his face where her hand had rested. Downstairs, doors slammed; Bree’s voice rose from the foyer. Over these last years they’d become very close, his mother and Bree, so close they’d even started to look alike, Bree with her hair streaked too, a briefcase swinging from her hand. She was still a very cool and together person, she was still the one who’d take a risk, the one who told him to follow his heart and apply to Juilliard like he wanted. Everyone liked Bree: her sense of adventure, her exuberance. She brought in a lot of business. She and his mother were complementary forces, he’d heard her say. And Paul saw that. Bree and his mother moved through their lives like point and counterpoint, one impossible