The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [83]
And another: Mattie falling asleep one night in a pair of glasses with a funny nose attached.
And another: the Thanksgiving that Mattie, who was only four, announced to her father that Mommy had finished cooking the Turkish delight.
Where was Kathryn to put these memories now? She was, she thought, like a woman after a divorce looking at a wedding dress. Could the dress no longer be cherished if the marriage itself had disintegrated?
“I won’t cut her hair,” Dierdre promised.
“Good. Was your daddy here at Christmas? Sometimes daddies have to work at Christmas.”
“He was here,” Dierdre said. “I made him a bookmark. It had a picture of me and Daddy on it. I wanted it back, so he said we could share it. Do you want to see it?”
“Yes, I do.”
Dierdre looked under the bed for the shared treasure. She brought up a picture book Kathryn did not recognize. The bookmark inside was a strip of colored paper that had been laminated. The photograph was of Jack with Dierdre on his lap. He was craning his neck to see her face.
Kathryn heard footsteps on the stairs.
In the attic at Fortune’s Rocks was a box of American Girl doll clothes. Briefly, insanely, Kathryn toyed with the idea of sending the box to Dierdre.
Muire stood protectively in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest.
“I like your doll very much,” Kathryn said, standing.
“Do you have to go?” Dierdre asked.
“I’m afraid I must,” Kathryn said.
Dierdre watched her leave. Muire moved to one side to allow Kathryn to pass. Kathryn walked quickly down the stairs, aware that the other woman was behind her. Kathryn reached for her suit jacket. “Dierdre mentioned that Jack was here for Christmas,” she said, slipping her arms into her jacket.
“We celebrated early,” Muire said. “We had to.”
Kathryn knew all about having to celebrate holidays early.
Curious now, she crossed to the bookcase and scanned the titles there. Lies of Silence, by Brian Moore; Cal, by Bernard McLaverty; Rebel Hearts, by Kevin Toolis; The Great Hunger, by Cecil Woodham-Smith. A title she couldn’t read. She took the book off the shelf.
“Is this Gaelic?” Kathryn asked.
“Yes.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Queens. In Belfast.”
“Really. And you became . . .”
“A flight attendant. Yes, I know. The most educated work-force in Europe: the Irish.”
“Does your daughter know about Jack?” Kathryn asked, returning the book to the shelf and picking up her coat.
“She knows,” Muire said from the doorway, “but I’m not sure she understands. Her father was away so often. I think this just seems like another trip to her.”
Her father.
“And Jack’s mother,” Kathryn said coolly. “Did Dierdre know about her grandmother Matigan?”
“Yes, of course.”
Kathryn was silent. Shaken by her own question as much as by its answer.
“But, as you know, his mother has Alzheimer’s,” Muire added, “and Dierdre has never really been able to talk to her.”
“Yes, I know,” Kathryn lied.
If Jack hadn’t died, she wondered, would he have been in this house right now? Would Kathryn ever have discovered the other family? For how many years might this affair — this marriage — have gone on?
The two women stood on the parquet floor. Kathryn glanced at the walls, the ceiling, the woman in front of her. She wanted to take in the whole of the house, to remember everything she had seen. She knew she would never be back.
She thought about the impossibility of ever knowing another person. About the fragility of the constructs people make. A marriage, for example. A family.
“There are things . . . ,” Muire began. She stopped. “I wish . . .” Kathryn waited.
Muire turned her palms upward, seemingly in resignation. “There are things I can’t . . .” She sighed deeply, put her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I’m not sorry for having had him,” Muire said finally. “I’m just sorry for having hurt you.”
Kathryn wouldn’t say good-bye; it didn’t seem necessary. Although there was something Kathryn wanted to know — despite her pride, had to