The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [49]
He turned and saw her, and after a moment confusion cleared from his face.
“Watch this!” he shouted. “Watch this, woman, and weep!”
Quickly, oblivious to the ice, a stilled stream down the middle of the steps, Leo ran up to her, legs pumping, fueled by some ancient adrenaline and need.
“I’ll bet you never saw anything like that,” he said, reaching the top, winded.
“You’re right,” Caroline said, “I never did. I hope I never do again.”
Leo laughed, his lips a vivid pink against his bleached-pale skin.
“I got away from you,” he said.
“You didn’t get far.”
“I could, though. If I had a mind. Next time.”
“Next time take a coat,” Caroline advised.
“Next time,” he said, as they started walking, “I’ll disappear in Timbuktu.”
“You do that,” Caroline said, a tide of weariness rushing in. Crocuses shouted purple and white against the bright grass; Phoebe was crying in earnest now. She was relieved to have Leo in tow, to have found him safe, grateful that disaster had been averted. Her fault, if he’d been lost or hurt, because she’d been so focused on Phoebe, who’d reached for weeks now and had still not learned to grasp.
They walked a few more feet in silence.
“You’re a smart woman,” Leo said.
She stopped on the bricks, astonished.
“What? What did you say?”
He looked at her, lucid, his eyes the same bright seeking blue as Doro’s.
“I said you’re smart. My daughter hired eight different nurses before you. None of them lasted more than a week. Bet you didn’t know that.”
“No,” Caroline said. “No, I didn’t.”
Later, as Caroline cleaned up the kitchen and carried out the garbage, she thought of Leo’s words. I’m smart, she said to herself, standing in the alley by the trash can. The air was damp and cool. Her breath came out in tiny clouds. Smart won’t get you a husband, her mother said in sharp reply, but even this didn’t dampen Caroline’s pleasure in the first nice words Leo had ever said to her.
Caroline stood for a moment longer in the chilly air, grateful for the silence. Garages staggered, one after another, down the hill. Gradually, she became aware of a figure standing at the base of the alley. A tall man, in dark jeans and a brown jacket, colors so muted he nearly became another part of the late-winter landscape. Something about him—something about the way he stood and stared so intently in her direction—made Caroline uneasy. She put the metal lid back on the garbage can and folded her arms across her chest. He was walking toward her now, a big man, broad-shouldered and walking fast. His jacket was not brown at all, but a muted plaid with streaks of red. He pulled a bright red hat from the pocket and put it on. Caroline felt oddly comforted by this gesture, though she didn’t know why.
“Hey, there,” he called. “That Fairlane running okay for you these days?”
Her apprehension deepened, and she turned to look at the house, its dark brick rising into the white sky. Yes, there was her bathroom, where she had stood last night watching the moonlight on the lawn. There was her window, left partly open to the cold spring air, wind stirring the lacy curtains. When she turned back, the man had stopped just a few feet away. She knew him, and she understood this in her body, in her relief, before she could formulate it in thought. Then it was so bizarre she couldn’t believe it.
“How in the world—” she began.
“It wasn’t easy!” Al said, laughing. He had grown a soft beard, and his teeth flashed white. His dark eyes were warm, pleased and amused. She remembered him sliding