The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [43]
“All right,” she said. “I’ll call the realtor tomorrow. We should take that offer.”
A film closed over the past as she spoke, a barrier as brittle and fragile as ice forming. It would grow and strengthen. It would become impenetrable, opaque. Norah felt this happening and she feared it, but now she feared more what would happen if it shattered. Yes, they would move on. This would be her gift, to David and to Paul.
Phoebe she would keep alive in her heart.
David wrapped her foot in a towel and sat back on his heels.
“Look, I don’t see us moving back there,” he said, gentler now that she’d conceded. “But we could. If you really wanted that, we could sell this place and move back.”
“No,” she said. “We live here now.”
“But you’re so sad,” he said. “Please don’t be sad. I didn’t forget, Norah. Not our anniversary. Not our daughter. Not anything.”
“Oh, David,’ she said. “I left your present in the car.” She thought of the camera, its precise dials and levers. The Memory Keeper, it said on the box, in white italic letters; this, she realized, was why she’d bought it—so he’d capture every moment, so he’d never forget.
“That’s all right,” he said, standing. “Wait. Wait right here.”
He ran down the stairs. She sat on the edge of the tub for a moment longer, then stood and limped across the hall to Paul’s room. The carpet was dark blue and thick beneath her feet. She had painted clouds on the pale blue walls and hung a mobile of stars above the crib. Paul slept beneath the drifting stars, the blanket thrown off, his small hands outflung. She kissed him gently and tucked him in, running her hand over his soft hair, touching her index finger against his palm. He was so big now, walking and beginning to talk. Those nights almost a year ago, when Paul had nursed so intently and David had filled the house with daffodils: where had they gone? She remembered the camera, and how she’d walked through their empty house determined to record every detail, a hedge against time.
“Norah?” David came into the room and stood behind her. “Close your eyes.”
A cool line shimmered on her skin. She looked down to see emeralds, a long sequence of dark stones, caught in the gold stream of the chain against her skin. To match her ring, he was saying. To match her eyes.
“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered touching the warm gold. “Oh, David.”
His hands were on her shoulders then, and for an instant she stood again amid the sound of rushing water from the mill, happiness as full around her as the night. Don’t breathe, she thought. Don’t move. But there was no stopping anything. Outside, rain fell softly, and seeds stirred in the dark wet earth. Paul sighed and shifted in his sleep. He would wake tomorrow, grow, and change. They’d live their lives day by day, each one taking them another step away from their lost daughter.
March 1965
THE SHOWER RUSHED AND STEAM SWIRLED, MISTING THE mirror and the window, clouding the pale moon. Caroline paced in the tiny purple bathroom, holding Phoebe close. Her breathing was light and rapid, her small heart beat so quickly. Be well, my baby, Caroline murmured, stroking her soft dark hair. Be better, sweet girl, be well. She paused, tired, to look out at the moon, a smear of light caught in the sycamore branches, and Phoebe’s cough started again, deep in her chest. Her body grew rigid beneath Caroline’s hands as she barked the air out of her constricted throat, the sounds sharp, wheezing. This was croup, a textbook case. Caroline stroked Phoebe’s back, hardly bigger than her hand. When the coughing spell ended, she started walking again so she wouldn’t sway herself to sleep on her feet. More than once this year she’d started awake to find herself standing and Phoebe, miraculously, still safe in her in her arms.
Stairs creaked, then floorboards, nearer, and then the purple door swung open in a rush of cool air. Doro, wearing a black