The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [187]
“I know.” And he did. He’d gone to Pittsburgh that first time believing that help was his to offer, or not. He’d been worried about the responsibility he’d have to undertake, how his life would change with the burden of a retarded sister, and he’d been surprised—astonished, really—to find this same sister saying no, I like my life the way it is, no thank you.
“Your life is your life,” she went on, more urgently now. “You’re not responsible for what happened. Phoebe’s okay, financially.”
Paul nodded. “I know. I don’t feel responsible for her. I truly don’t. It’s just—I thought I’d like to get to know her. Day by day. I mean, she is my sister. It’s a good job, and I really need a change. Pittsburgh’s a beautiful city. So, I guess—why not?”
“Oh, Paul.” His mother sighed, running her hand through her short hair. “Is it really a good job?”
“Yes. Yes it is.”
She nodded. “It would be nice,” she admitted slowly, “to have the two of you in the same place. But you have to think of the whole picture. You’re so young, and you’re just beginning to find your way. Know it’s okay for you to do that.”
Before he could answer, Frederic was there, tapping on his watch, saying they had to leave soon to catch their flight. After a moment’s conversation Frederic went to get the car and his mother turned back to Paul, put one hand on his arm, and kissed his cheek.
“We’re just about to go, I think. You’ll be taking Phoebe home?”
“Yes. Caroline and Al said I could stay at their place.”
She nodded. “Thank you,” she said softly, “for being here. It can’t have been easy for you, for all sorts of reasons. But it has meant so much to me.”
“I like Frederic,” he said. “I hope you’ll be happy.”
She smiled and touched his arm. “I’m so proud of you, Paul. Do you have any idea how proud I am of you? How much I love you?” She turned to gaze across the table at Phoebe; she had tucked the cluster of daffodils beneath her arm and the breeze moved her shiny skirt. “I’m proud of both of you.”
“Frederic is waving,” Paul said, speaking quickly to cover his emotion. “I think it’s time. I think he’s ready. Go and be happy, Mom.”
She looked at him hard and long again, tears in her eyes, then kissed him on the check.
Frederic crossed the lawn and shook Paul’s hand. Paul watched his mother embrace his sister and give Phoebe her bouquet; he watched Phoebe’s tentative hug in return. Their mother and Frederic climbed into the car, smiling and waving, amid another shower of confetti. The car disappeared around the curve, and Paul made his way back to the table, pausing to say hello, to one guest after another, keeping Phoebe’s figure in sight. When he drew near he heard her talking happily to another guest about Robert and her own wedding. Her voice was loud, her speech a little thick and awkward, her excitement uncontained. He saw the guest’s reaction—a strained, uncertain, patient smile—and winced. Because Phoebe just wanted to talk. Because he himself had reacted to such conversations in the very same way, just a few weeks earlier.
“How about it, Phoebe,” he said, walking over and interrupting. “You want to go?”
“Okay,” she said, and put her plate down.
They drove through the lush countryside. It was a warm day. Paul turned off the air-conditioner and rolled down the windows, remembering the way his mother had driven so wildly through these same landscapes to escape her loneliness and grief, the wind whipping through her hair. He must have traveled thousands of miles with her, back and forth across the state, lying on his back, trying to guess where they were by the glimpses of leaves, telephone wires, sky. He remembered watching a steamship move through the muddy waters of the Mississippi, its bright wheels flashing light and water. He had never understood her sadness, though he had carried it with him later, wherever he went.
Now it was all gone, that sadness: that life was finished, gone, as well.
He drove fast, edges of autumn everywhere. The dogwoods were already turning, clouds of brilliant red against the