The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [46]
“No,” she said at last. “But this is different.”
“Why? Why is it different?”
“Caroline,” Doro said, touching her arm. “Let’s not. You’re tired. So am I.”
Caroline settled Phoebe in her crib as Doro’s footsteps sounded faintly down the stairs. Asleep in the dull glow of the streetlight, she looked like any child, her future as unmapped as the ocean floor, as rich with possibility. Cars rushed over the fields of Doro’s childhood, their headlights playing on the wall, and Caroline imagined herons rising from the marshy field, their wings lifting in the pale gold light of dawn. What will become of her? In truth, Caroline sometimes lay awake at night, struggling with this same question.
In her own room the curtains, crocheted and hung in the windows decades ago by Doro’s mother, cast delicate shadows; the moonlight was strong enough to read by. On the desk there was an envelope with three photographs of Phoebe, next to a paper folded twice. Caroline opened it and read what she had written.
Dear Dr. Henry,
I am writing to say that we are well, Phoebe and I. We are safe and happy. I have a good job. Phoebe is generally a healthy baby, despite frequent respiratory concerns. I am sending photos. So far, touch wood, she does not have any problems with her heart.
She should send this—she had written it weeks ago—but each time she went to mail it she thought of Phoebe, the soft touch of her hands or the cooing sounds she made when she was happy, and she could not do it. Now she put the letter away again and lay down, drifting quickly to the edge of sleep. Once she half dreamed of the clinic waiting room with its drooping plants, heat stirring the leaves, and started awake, uneasy, unsure of where she was.
Here, she told herself, touching the cool sheets. I’m right here.
When Caroline woke in the morning, the room was full of sunlight and trumpet music. Phoebe, in her crib, was reaching, as if the notes were small winged things, butterflies or lightning bugs, that she might catch. Caroline got them both dressed and took her downstairs, pausing on the second floor, where Leo March was ensconced in his sunny yellow office, books tumbled all around the daybed, where he lay with his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Caroline watched him from the doorway—she was not allowed to enter this room except by invitation—but he did not acknowledge her. An old man, bald with a fringe of gray hair, still wearing his clothes from the day before, listening intently to the music that blared from his speakers, shaking the house.
“Do you want breakfast?” she shouted.
He waved his hand, indicating that he’d get it himself. Well, fine.
Caroline descended another flight to the kitchen and put the coffee on. Even here the trumpets sounded, faintly. She put Phoebe in her high chair, feeding her applesauce and egg and cottage cheese. Three times she handed her the spoon; three times it clattered on the metal tray.
“Never mind,” Caroline said out loud, but her heart numbed. Doro’s voice echoed: What will become of her? And what would? At eleven months, Phoebe should be able to grasp small objects.
She cleaned up the kitchen and went into the dining room to fold the laundry from the line; it smelled of wind. Phoebe lay on her back in the playpen, cooing, batting at the rings and toys Caroline had hung above her. Now and then Caroline paused in her work and went to adjust the bright objects, hoping that Phoebe, lured by their glitter, would roll over.
After about half an hour the music stopped abruptly, and Leo’s feet appeared on the stairs in precisely tied and polished leather shoes, a swatch of pale undressed ankle flashing beneath his pant legs, which were several inches too short. Bit by bit he came entirely into view—a tall man, once thickly built and muscular, flesh now hanging loosely from his bony frame.
“Oh, good,” he said, nodding at the laundry. “We’ve been needing a maid.”
“Breakfast?” she asked.
“I’ll get it myself.”
“Go