The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [174]
Norah, caught in a wild turmoil, went back to those blurry days of grief and joy, Paul in her arms and Bree handing her the phone, saying, You have to put this to rest. She had planned the whole memorial service without telling David, each arrangement helping her return to the world, and when David had come home that night she’d fought his resistance.
What must it have been like for him, that night, that service?
And yet he had let it all happen.
“But why didn’t he tell me?” she asked, her voice a whisper. “All these years, and he never told me.”
Caroline shook her head. “I can’t speak for David,” she said. “He was always a mystery to me. I know he loved you, and I believe that as monstrous as this all seems, his initial intentions were good ones. He told me once about his sister. She had a heart defect and died young, and his mother never got over her grief. For what it’s worth, I think he was trying to protect you.”
“She is my child.” Norah said, the words torn out of some deep place in her body, some old long-buried hurt. “She was born of my flesh. Protect me? By telling me she’d died?”
Caroline didn’t answer, and they sat for a long time, the silence gathering between them. Norah thought of David in all those photos, and in all the moments of their lives together, carrying this secret with him. She hadn’t known, she hadn’t guessed. But now that she’d been told, it made a terrible kind of sense.
At last Caroline opened her purse and took out a piece of paper with her address and telephone number on it. “This is where we live,” she said. “My husband, Al, and I, and Phoebe. This is where Phoebe grew up. She has had a happy life, Norah. I know that’s not much to give you, but it’s true. She’s a lovely young woman. Next month, she’s going to move into a group home. It’s what she wants. She has a good job in a photocopy shop. She loves it there, and they love her.”
“A photocopy shop?”
“Yes. She’s done very well, Norah.”
“Does she know?” Norah asked. “Does she know about me? About Paul?”
Caroline glanced down at the table, fingering the edge of the photo. “No. I didn’t want to tell her until I’d talked to you. I didn’t know what you’d want to do, if you’d want to meet her. I hope you will. But of course I won’t blame you if you don’t. All these years—oh, I’m so sorry. But if you want to come, we’re there. Just call. Next week or next year.”
“I don’t know,” Norah said slowly. “I think I’m in shock.”
“Of course you are.” Caroline stood up.
“May I keep the photos?” Norah asked.
“They’re yours. They’ve always been yours.”
On the porch, Caroline paused and looked at her, hard.
“He loved you very much,” she said. “David always loved you, Norah.”
Norah nodded, remembering that she’d said the same thing to Paul in Paris. She watched from the porch as Caroline walked to the car, wondering about the life Caroline was driving back to, what complexities and mysteries it held.
Norah stood on the porch for a long time. Phoebe was alive, in the world. That knowledge was a pit opening, endless, in her heart. Loved, Caroline had said. Well cared for. But not by Norah, who had worked so hard to let her go. The dreams she’d had, all that searching through the brittle frozen grass, came back to her, pierced her.
She went back in the house, crying now, walking past the shrouded furniture. The appraiser would come. Paul was coming too, today or tomorrow; he’d promised to call first but sometimes he just showed up. She washed the water glasses and dried them, then stood in the silent kitchen, thinking of David, all those nights in all those years when he rose in the dark and went to the hospital to mend someone who was broken. A good person, David. He ran a clinic,