The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [182]
It was Phoebe who recovered first.
“Hello,” she said, extending her hand to him formally. Paul took her hand, feeling how small her fingers were, still unable to say a single word. “I’m Phoebe. Pleased to meet you.” Her speech was thick, hard to understand. Then she turned to his mother and did this again.
“Hello,” his mother said, taking her hand, then clasping it between her own. Her voice was charged with emotion. “Hello, Phoebe. I’m very glad to meet you too.”
“It’s so hot,” Caroline said. “Why don’t we go inside? I have the fans on. And Phoebe made iced tea this morning. She’s been excited about your visit, haven’t you, honey?”
Phoebe smiled and nodded, suddenly shy. They followed her into the coolness of the house. The rooms were small but immaculate, with beautiful woodwork and French doors opening between the living room and dining room. The living room was full of sunlight and shabby, wine-colored furniture. A massive loom sat in the far corner.
“I’m making a scarf,” Phoebe said.
“It’s beautiful,” his mother said, crossing the room to finger the yarns, dark pink and cream and yellow and pale green. She’d taken off her sunglasses and she looked up, her eyes watery, her voice still charged with emotion. “Did you choose these colors yourself, Phoebe?”
“My favorite colors,” Phoebe said.
“Mine too,” his mother said. “When I was your age, those were my favorite colors too. My bridesmaids wore dark pink and cream, and they carried yellow roses.”
Paul was startled to know this; all the photos he had seen were black-and-white.
“You can have this scarf,” Phoebe said, sitting down at the loom. “I’ll make it for you.”
“Oh,” his mother said, and closed her eyes briefly. “Phoebe, that’s lovely.”
Caroline brought iced tea, and the four of them sat uneasily in the living room, talking awkwardly about the weather, about Pittsburgh’s budding renaissance in the wake of the steel industry collapse. Phoebe sat quietly at the loom, moving the shuttle back and forth, looking up now and then when her name was mentioned. Paul kept casting sidelong glances at her. Phoebe’s hands were small and plump. She concentrated on the shuttle, biting at her lower lip. At last his mother drained her tea and spoke.
“Well,” she said. “Here we are. And I don’t know what happens now.”
“Phoebe,” Caroline said. “Why don’t you join us?” Quietly, Phoebe came over and sat next to Caroline on the couch.
His mother began, speaking too quickly, clasping her hands together, nervous. “I don’t know what’s best. There are no maps for this place we’re in, are there? But I want to offer my home to Phoebe. She can come and live with us, if she wants to do that. I’ve thought about it so much, these last days. It would take a whole lifetime to catch up.” Here she paused to take a breath, and then she turned to Phoebe, who was looking at her with wide, wary eyes. “You’re my daughter, Phoebe, do you understand that? This is Paul, your brother.”
Phoebe took hold of Caroline’s hand. “This is my mother,” she said.
“Yes.” Norah glanced at Caroline and tried again. “That’s your mother,” she said. “But I’m your mother too. You grew in my body, Phoebe.” She patted her stomach. “You grew right here. But then you were born, and your mother Caroline raised you.”
“I’m going to marry Robert,” Phoebe said. “I don’t want to live with you.”
Paul, who had watched his mother struggle all weekend, felt Phoebe’s words physically, as if she’d kicked him. He saw his mother feel them too.
“It’s okay, Phoebe,” Caroline said. “No one’s going to make you go away.”
“I didn’t mean—I only wanted to offer—” His mother stopped and took another deep breath. Her eyes were deep green, troubled. She tried again. “Phoebe, Paul and I, we’d like to get to know you. That’s all. Please don’t be scared of us, okay? What I want to say—what