The memory keeper's daughter - Kim Edwards [71]
“Are you all right, David?” Kay Marshall asked. She was walking by, carrying a vase of pale pink tulips, each petal as delicate as the edge of a lung. “You look a million miles away.”
“Ah, Kay,” he said. She reminded him a little of Norah, some kind of loneliness moving always beneath her carefully polished surface. Once, after drinking too much at another party, Kay had followed him into a dark hallway, slipped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. Startled, he had kissed her back. The moment had passed, and although he often thought about the cool, surprising touch of her lips on his, every time he saw her David also wondered that it had ever really happened. “You look ravishing as always, Kay.” He raised his glass to her. She smiled and laughed and moved on.
He went into the coolness of the garage and up the stairs, where he took his camera from the cupboard and loaded a new roll of film. Norah’s voice lifted above the crowd, and he remembered the feel of her skin when he’d reached for her that morning, the smooth curve of her back. He remembered the moment she’d shared with Bree, how connected they were, beyond any bond he’d ever share with her again. I want, he thought, slipping the camera around his neck. I want.
He moved around the edges of the party, smiling and saying hello, shaking hands, drifting away from conversations to catch moments of the party on film. He paused before Kay’s tulips, focusing in close, thinking how much they really did resemble the delicate tissue of lungs and how interesting it would be to frame shots of both and stand them next to each other, exploring this idea he had that the body was, in some mysterious way, a perfect mirror of the world. He grew absorbed in this, the sounds of the party falling away as he concentrated on the flowers, and he was startled to feel Norah’s hand on his arm.
“Put the camera away,” she said. “Please. It’s a party, David.”
“These tulips are so beautiful,” he began, but he was unable to explain himself, unable to put into words why these images compelled him so.
“It’s a party,” she repeated. “You can either miss it and take pictures of it, or you can get a drink and join it.”
“I have a drink,” he pointed out. “No one cares that I’m taking a few pictures, Norah.”
“I care. It’s rude.”
They were speaking softly, and during the whole exchange Norah had not stopped smiling. Her expression was calm; she nodded and waved across the lawn. And yet David could feel the tension radiating from her, and the pressed-back anger.
“I’ve worked so hard,” she said. “I organized everything. I made all the food. I even got rid of the wasps. Why can’t you just enjoy it?”
“When did you take the nest down?” he asked, searching for a safe topic, looking up at the smooth, clean eaves of the garage.
“Yesterday.” She showed him her wrist, the faint red welt. “I didn’t want to take any chances with your allergies and Paul’s.”
“It’s a beautiful party,” he said. On an impulse he brought her wrist to his lips and gently kissed the place where she’d been stung. She watched him, her eyes widening in surprise and a flicker of pleasure, then pulled her hand away.
“David,” she said softly, “for heaven’s sake, not here. Not now.”
“Hey, Dad,” Paul called, and David looked around, trying to locate his son. “Mom and Dad, look at me. Look at me!”
“He’s in the hackberry tree,” Norah said, shading her eyes and pointing across the lawn. “Look, up there, about halfway up. How did he do that?”
“I bet he climbed up from the swing set. Hey!” David called, waving back.
“Get down right now!” Norah called. And then, to David, “He’s making me nervous.”
“He’s a kid,” David said. “Kids climb trees. He’ll be fine.”
“Hey, Mom! Dad! Help!” Paul called, but when they looked up at him, he was laughing.
“Remember when he used to do that in the grocery store?” Norah asked. “Remember, when he was learning to talk, how he used to shout out help in the middle of the store? People thought I was a kidnapper.”
“He did it at the clinic once,” David said. “Remember