The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [168]
“Robert?” she said, taken aback, a faint perfume infusing the cold air. “What’s this?”
“I got them at the grocery store,” he said. “On sale.”
Caroline shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s Saturday,” Phoebe reminded her.
Saturday—the day Al came home from his trips, always with a present for Phoebe and a bunch of flowers for his wife. Caroline imagined the two of them, Robert and Phoebe, taking the bus to the grocery store where Robert worked as a stocker, studying the prices of the flowers, counting out the exact change. There was a part of her that still wanted to scream, to put Robert back on the bus and out of their lives, a part of her that wanted to say, It’s too much for me. I don’t care.
Inside, the little bell she’d left with Al rang insistently. Caroline sighed and took a step back, gesturing to the kitchen, the light and warmth.
“All right,” she said. “Come inside, the two of you. Come in before you freeze.”
She hurried up the stairs, trying to pull herself together. How much was one woman supposed to do? “You’re supposed to be patient,” she said, walking into their room, where Al was sitting with his leg propped on an ottoman, a book in his lap. “Patient. Where do you think the word comes from, Al? I know it’s exasperating, but healing takes time, for heaven’s sake.”
“You’re the one who wanted me home more,” Al retorted. “Be careful what you wish for.”
Caroline shook her head and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t wish for this.”
He looked out the window for a few seconds. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I’m sorry.”
“Are you okay?” she asked. “How’s the pain?”
“Not so bad.”
Beyond the glass, wind stirred the last leaves of the sycamore against the violet sky. Bags of tulip bulbs were under the tree, waiting to be planted. Last month she and Phoebe had put in chrysanthemums, bright bursts of orange and cream and dark purple. She had sat back on her heels to admire them, brushing dirt off her hands, remembering times when she had gardened like this with her mother, connected by their tasks though not by words. They had rarely talked about anything personal. There was so much, now, that Caroline wished she had said.
“I’m not going to do it anymore,” he said, blurting the words out without looking at her “Drive a truck, I mean.”
“All right,” she said, trying to imagine what this might mean for their lives. She was glad—something in her had just shut down every time she imagined him driving away again—but she was suddenly a little apprehensive too. Not once since they were married had they spent more than a week together.
“I’ll be getting in your hair all the time,” Al said, as if reading her mind.
“Will you?” She looked at him intently, taking in his pallor, his serious eyes. “Are you planning to retire completely, then?”
He shook his head, still studying his hands. “Too young for that. I was thinking I could do something else. Transfer into the office, maybe; I know the system inside out. Drive a city bus. I don’t know—anything, really. But I can’t go out on the road again.”
Caroline nodded. She’d driven out to the accident sight, seen the hole torn in the guardrail, the scarred piece of earth where the truck had fallen.
“I always had a feeling,” Al said, glancing at his hands. He was letting his beard grow in; it stubbled his face. “Like this was bound to happen, one day or another. And now it has.”
“I didn’t know that,” Caroline said. “You never said you were scared.”
“Not scared,” Al said. “I just had a feeling. It’s different.”
“Still. You never said anything.”
He shrugged. “Wouldn’t have made any difference. It was just a feeling, Caroline.”
She nodded. Another few yards and Al would have died, the officers had said more than once. All week she’d kept herself from imagining what hadn’t happened. But the truth was, she could be a widow, facing the rest of her life alone.
“Maybe you should retire,” she said slowly. “I went down to the lawyer, Al. I’d already made the appointment, and I kept it. It’s a lot