The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [56]
“Nothing.”
“David,” she said. “Oh, David. Please.”
He hesitated, on the edge of confessing everything, and then he could not.
“A problem from work. A patient. I can’t get the case out of my mind.”
“Let it go,” she said. “I’m sick and tired of your work.”
Hawks, lifting high on the updrafts, and the sun so warm. Everything circled, returning each time to the exact same point. He must tell her; the words filled his mouth. I love you, I love you so much, and I lied to you.
“I want to have another baby, David,” Norah said, sitting up. “Paul’s old enough now, and I’m ready.”
David was so startled he didn’t speak for a moment.
“Paul’s only a year old,” he said at last.
“So? People say it’s easier to get all the diapers and things over with at once.”
“What people?”
She sighed. “I knew you’d say no.”
“I’m not saying no,” David replied carefully.
She didn’t answer.
“The timing seems wrong,” he said. “That’s all.”
“You are saying no. You’re saying no, but you don’t want to admit it.”
He was silent, remembering the way Norah had stood so close to the edge of the bridge. Remembering her photographs of nothing, and the letter in his pocket. He wanted nothing more than for the delicate structures of their lives to remain secure, for things to continue just as they were. For the world not to change, for this fragile equilibrium between them to endure.
“Things are fine right now,” he said softly. “Why rock the boat?”
“How about for Paul?” She nodded to him, sleeping, still and peaceful, on his blanket. “He misses her.”
“He can’t possibly remember,” David replied sharply.
“Nine months,” Norah said. “Growing heart to heart. How could he not, at some level?”
“We’re not ready,” David said. “I’m not.”
“It’s not only about you,” Norah said. “You’re hardly home anyway. Maybe it’s me who misses her, David. Sometimes, honestly, I feel like she’s so close, just in the other room, and I’ve forgotten her. I know that must sound crazy, but it’s true.”
He didn’t answer, though he knew exactly what she meant. The air was thick with the scent of strawberries. His mother had made preserves on the outdoor stove, stirring the foaming mixture as it cooked into syrup, boiling the jars and filling them to stand, jewel-like, on a shelf. He and June had eaten that jam in the dead of winter, stealing spoonfuls when their mother wasn’t looking and hiding under the table’s oilcloth cover to lick them clean. June’s death had broken their mother’s spirit, and David could no longer believe himself immune from misfortune. It was statistically unlikely that they’d have another child with Down’s, but it was possible, anything was possible; and he couldn’t take the risk.
“But it wouldn’t fix things, Norah, to have another baby. That’s not the right reason.”
After a moment’s silence she stood up, brushing her hands on her shorts, and waded off angrily through the field.
His shirt lay crumpled beside him, a corner of the white envelope visible. David did not reach for it; he did not need to. The note was brief, and though he had glanced at the photos only once, they were as clear to him as if he’d taken them himself. Phoebe’s hair was dark and fine, like Paul’s. Her eyes were brown, and she waved chubby fists in the air, as if reaching for something beyond the camera’s view. Caroline, perhaps, wielding the camera. He had glimpsed her at the memorial service, tall and lonely in her red coat, and he’d gone straight to her apartment afterward, unsure of his intentions, knowing only that he had to see her. But by then Caroline was gone. Her apartment had looked exactly the same, with its squat furniture and plain walls; a faucet dripped in the bathroom. Yet the air was too still, the shelves bare. The bureau drawers and closets were empty. In the kitchen, a dull light pouring in across the black and white linoleum, David had stood listening to the beating of his own uneasy heart.
Now he lay back, the clouds moving over him, light and shadow. He had not tried to find Caroline, and since her letter had no