The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [141]
Norah looked at her sister, her short stylish hair, her sharp profile, wondering how to respond. About a year ago Bree had started attending a small Episcopalian church near her home. Norah had gone with her once, but the service, with its complex rituals of kneeling and standing, prayer and silence, had made her feel inept, an outsider. She had sat stealing glances at the others in the pews, wondering what they were feeling, what had made them get out of bed and come here to church on this beautiful Sunday morning. It was hard to see any mystery, hard to see anything but the clear light and a group of tired, hopeful, dutiful people. She’d never gone back, but now she found herself suddenly, fiercely grateful for whatever solace her sister had gathered, for whatever she’d found in that quiet church that Norah hadn’t seen.
The world flashed by: grass, trees, sky. Then, increasingly, buildings. They had entered Louisville now, and Bree was merging into the heavy traffic on I-71, into swift lanes full of rushing cars. The parking lot of the police station was nearly full, shimmering faintly in the noon sun. They got out of the car, their slammed doors echoing, and walked along a concrete sidewalk bordered by a series of small tired bushes, through the revolving doors, and into the dim underwater light inside.
Paul was on a bench on the far side of the room, hunched over, his elbows on his knees and his hands dangling loosely between them. Norah’s heart caught. She walked past the desk and the officers, wading through that thick sea-green air to her son. It was hot in the room. A fan turned almost imperceptibly against the stained acoustic tiles on the ceiling. She sat down beside Paul on the bench. He hadn’t bathed, his hair was thick and greasy, and beneath the stink of sweat and dirty clothes the odor of cigarettes clung to him. Acrid, sharp smells, the smells of a man. His fingers were calloused, tough from the guitar. He had his own life now, his secret life. It humbled her suddenly to find he was so much his own person. Of her, yes, always that, but no longer hers.
“I’m glad to see you,” she said quietly. “I was worried, Paul. We all were.”
He looked at her, his eyes darkly angry and suspicious, and turned away suddenly, blinking back tears.
“I stink,” he said.
“Yeah,” Norah agreed. “You really do.”
He scanned the lobby, his gaze lingering on Bree, who stood at the desk, and then on the swirl and flash of the revolving doors.
“So. I guess I’m lucky he didn’t bother to come.”
David, he meant. Such pain in his voice. Such anger.
“He’s coming,” Norah said, keeping her voice even. “He’ll be here any minute. Bree drove me over. Flew, really.”
She had meant to make him smile, but he only nodded.
“Is she okay?”
“Yes,” Norah said, thinking of their conversation in the car. “She’s okay.”
He nodded again. “Good. That’s good. I’ll bet Dad’s pissed off.”
“Count on it.”
“Am I going to jail?” Paul’s voice was very soft.
She took a breath. “I don’t know. I hope not. But I don’t know.”
They sat in silence. Bree was talking to an officer, nodding, gesturing. Beyond, the revolving door turned and turned, flashing light and dark, spilling strangers inside or out, one by one, and then it was David striding across the terrazzo floor, his black shoes squeaking, his expression serious and impassive, impossible to read. Norah tensed and felt Paul tense beside her. To her astonishment, David walked straight to Paul and grabbed him in a powerful, wordless hug.
“You’re safe,” he said. “Thank God.”
She drew a deep breath, grateful for this moment. An officer with a white crew cut and startling blue eyes crossed the room, a clipboard under one arm. He shook Norah’s hand, David’s. Then he turned to Paul.
“What I’d like to do is put you in the slammer,” he said conversationally. “A smart-aleck boy like yourself. Don’t know how many I’ve seen over the years, boys thinking they’re so tough, boys who get let off again and again, until eventually they hit real trouble. Then they go to