The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [176]
Norah went inside for another glass of water. She sat on the back step sipping, watching the flames. A recent city ordinance prohibited any sort of burning, and she worried that the neighbors might call the police. But the air remained quiet; even the flames were silent, reaching into the hot air, sending up a thin smoke the bluish color of mist. Wisps of blackened paper floated across the backyard, wafted on the shimmering waves of heat, like butterflies. As the fire in the circle of stones took hold and began to roar, Norah fed it more photos. She burned light, she burned shadow, she burned these memories of David’s, so carefully captured and preserved. You bastard, she whispered, watching the photographs flame high before they blackened and curled and disappeared.
Light to light, she thought, moving back from the heat, the roar, the powdery residue swirling in the air.
Ashes to ashes.
Dust, at last, to dust.
July 2–4, 1989
LOOK, IT’S FINE FOR YOU TO SAY THAT NOW, PAUL.” MICHELLE was standing by the window with her arms folded, and when she turned her eyes were dark with emotion, veiled, too, by her anger. “You can say anything you want in the abstract, but the fact is, a baby would change everything—and mostly for me.”
Paul sat on the dark-red sofa, warm and uncomfortable on this summer morning. He and Michelle had found it on the street when they first started living together here in Cincinnati, in those giddy days when it meant nothing to haul it up three flights of stairs. Or it meant exhaustion and wine and laughter and slow lovemaking later on its rough velvet surface. Now she turned away to look out the window, her dark hair swinging. An airy emptiness, a rushing, filled his heart. Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch. Their conversation had begun amicably enough, a simple discussion of who would take care of the cat while they were both out of town: she in Indianapolis for a concert, he in Lexington to help his mother. And now, suddenly, they were here in this bleak territory of the heart, the place to which, lately, they both seemed constantly drawn.
Paul knew he should change the subject.
“Getting married doesn’t translate directly into babies,” he said instead, stubborn.
“Oh, Paul. Be honest. Having a child is your heart’s desire. It’s not me you want, even. It’s this mythical baby.”
“Our mythical baby,” he said. “Someday, Michelle. Not right away. Look, I just wanted to raise the subject of getting married. It’s not a big deal.”
She gave a sound of exasperation. The loft had a pine floor and white walls and splashes of primary colors in the bottles, the pillows, the cushions. Michelle was wearing white too, her skin and hair as warm as the floors. Paul ached, looking at her, knowing she had, in some important sense, already made up her mind. She would leave him very soon, taking her wild beauty and her music with her.
“It’s interesting,” she said. “I find it very interesting, anyway. That all this is coming up just as my career is about to take off. Not before, but now. In a weird way, I think you’re trying to break us up.”
“That’s ridiculous. Timing has nothing to do with it.”
“No?”
“No!”
They didn’t speak for several minutes and the silence grew in the white room, filled the space and pressed against the walls. Paul was afraid to speak and more afraid not to, but at last he could not hold back any longer.
“We’ve been together for two years. Either things grow and change or they die. I want us to keep growing.”
Michelle sighed. “Everything changes anyway, with or without a piece of paper. That’s what you’re not factoring in. And no matter what you say, it is a big deal. No matter what you say, marriage changes everything, and it’s always women who make the sacrifices, no matter what anyone says.”
“That’s theory. That’s not real life.”
“Oh! You’re infuriating, Paul—so damned sure of everything.”
The sun was up, touching