The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [48]
“You look tired today,” Sandra said.
Caroline nodded. “Phoebe had croup last night. I don’t know how long she’ll hold out, actually. Any news about Tim’s ears?”
“I liked the new doctor,” Sandra said, sitting back. Her fingers were long and blunt; she smiled at Tim and handed him a yellow cup. “He seemed compassionate. Didn’t just dismiss us. But the news isn’t great. Tim has some hearing loss, so that’s probably why his speech has been so slow. Here, sweetie,” she added, tapping the cup he’d dropped. “Show Miss Caroline and Phoebe what you can do.”
Tim was not interested; the nap of the carpet had his attention, and he ran his hands through it again and again, fascinated and delighted. But Sandra was firm, calm and determined. Finally, he took the yellow cup, pressed its edge to his cheek for a moment, then put it on the floor and started stacking others in a tower.
For the next two hours, they played with their children and talked. Sandra had strong opinions about everything and was not afraid to speak her mind. Caroline loved sitting in the living room and talking with this smart, bold woman, mother to mother. These days Caroline often longed for her own mother, dead almost ten years now, wishing she could call her up and ask advice or simply stop by to see her hold Phoebe in her arms. Had her mother felt all this—the love and the frustration—as Caroline grew up? She must have, and suddenly Caroline understood her childhood differently. The constant worry about polio—that, in its own strange way, was love. And her father’s hard work, his careful concentration on their finances at night—that was love as well.
She did not have her mother but she had Sandra, and their mornings together were a highlight of her week. They told stories from their lives, shared ideas and suggestions about parenting, laughed together as Tim tried to stack the cups on their heads, as Phoebe reached and reached for a sparkly ball and finally, despite herself, rolled over. Several times that morning Caroline, still worried, dangled her car keys in front of Phoebe. They flashed, catching the morning light, and Phoebe’s small hands flew open, her fingers waving, splayed like starfish. Music, motes of light: she reached for the keys as well. But no matter how she tried, she could not catch them.
“Next time,” Sandra said. “Wait and see. It will happen.”
At noon Caroline helped them carry things to the car, then stood on the porch with Phoebe in her arms, tired already but happy too, waving as Sandra pulled her station wagon out into the street. When she went inside, Leo’s record was skipping, playing the same three bars again and again.
Ornery old man, she thought, starting up the stairs. Terrible old coot.
“Couldn’t you turn that down?” she began, exasperated, pushing open the door. But the record was skipping in an empty room. Leo was gone.
Phoebe began to cry, as if she had some sort of internal barometer for strife and tension. He must have slipped out the back when she was helping Sandra. Oh, he was clever, even though these days he sometimes left his shoes in the refrigerator. He took great pleasure in tricking her like this. Three times before Leo had slipped away, once stark naked.
Caroline hurried downstairs and shoved her feet into a pair of Doro’s loafers, a size too small, cold. A coat for Phoebe, nestled in the stroller—for herself, she’d go without.
The day had turned overcast with low gray clouds. Phoebe whimpered, her small hands flailing, as they walked past the garage to the alley. I know, Caroline murmured, touching her head. I know, sweetheart, I know. She spotted one of Leo’s footprints in a melting crust of snow, the large waffled sole of his boots, and felt a rush of relief. He had come this way, then, and he was dressed.
Well, at least he had his boots on.
At the end of the next block, she came to the 105 steps that led down to Koening Field. It was Leo who had