The Memory Keeper's Daughter (11 page)

He grunted his answer and thumped up the stairs. She paused in her work, suddenly near tears, watching a cardinal land in the lilac bush outside the window, then fly away. What was she doing here? What yearning had driven her to this radical decision, this place of no return? And what, finally, would become other?

After a few minutes, the trumpets started again upstairs and the doorbell rang twice. Caroline lifted Phoebe from the playpen.

"Here they are," she said, drying her eyes with her wrist. "Time to practice."

Sandra was standing on the porch, and when Caroline opened the door she burst in, holding Tim by one hand and hauling a big cloth bag in the othet She was tall, large-boned, blond, and forceful; she sat down without ceremony in the middle of the rug, dumping the stacking toys in a pile.

"Sorry I'm so late," she said. "The traffic's awful out there. Doesn't it drive you crazy, living this close to the crosstown? It would drive me nuts. Anyway, check out what I found. Look at these great stacking toys-plastic, different colors. Tim loves them."

Caroline sat down on the floor too. Like Doro, Sandra was an unlikely friend, someone Caroline would never have known in her old life. They'd met in the library one bleak January day when

Caroline, overwhelmed by experts and grim statistics, had slammed a book shut in despair. Sandra, two tables over amid her own stack of books, the spines and covers terribly familiar to Caroline, looked up. Oh, I know just how you feel. I'm so angry I could breal^ a window.

They'd begun to talk, then: cautiously at first, then in a rush. Sandra's son, Tim, was nearly four. He had Down's too, but Sandra hadn't known it. That he was slower to develop than her three other children, this she had noticed, but to Sandra slow was only slow, and no excuse for anything. A busy mother, she'd simply expected Tim to do what her other children had done, and if it took him longer that was all right. He'd been walking by the time he was two, toilet trained by age three. The diagnosis had shocked her family; the doctor's suggestion-that Tim should be put into an institution-had angered her into action.

Caroline had listened intently, her heart lifting with every word.

They left the library and went for coffee. Caroline would never forget those hours, the excitement she'd felt, as if she were waking from a long, slow dream. What would happen, they conjectured, if they simply went on assuming their children would do everything. Perhaps not quickly. Perhaps not by the book. But what if they simply erased those growth and development charts, with their precise, constricting points and curves? What if they kept their expectations but erased the time line? What harm could it do? Why not try?

Yes, why not? They'd begun to meet, here or at Sandra's house with her older, rambunctious boys. They brought books and toys, research and stories, and their own experiences-Caroline's as a nurse, Sandra's as a schoolteacher and mother of four. A lot of it was simple common sense. If Phoebe needed to learn to roll over, put a bright ball just out of her reach; if Tim needed to work on coordination, give him blunt scissors and bright paper and let him cut. The progress was slow, sometimes invisible, but for Caroline, these hours had become a lifeline.

"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 told her how many there were, one night over supper when he was in a civil mood. Now he was at the bottom of the long cement cascade, his hands hanging at his sides, his white hair sticking out, looking so puzzled, so lost and so distressed, that her anger dissolved. Caroline did not like Leo March-he was not likable-but whatever animosity she held for him was complicated by compassion. For in moments like these she saw how the world looked at him and saw an old man, senile and forgetful, rather than the universe that had been, that was still, Leo March.

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 ahusband, 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 bacon onto her plate, waving from the silver cab of his truck as he pulled away. "You are one tough lady to track down. But you said Pittsburgh. And I happen to have a layover here every couple of weeks. It kind of got to be a hobby, looking for you." He smiled. "Don't know what I'll do with myself now."

Caroline couldn't answer. There was pleasure at the sight of him but a great confusion too. For nearly a year she had not let herself think too long or too hard about the life she had left, but now it rose up with great force and intensity: the scent of cleaning fluid and sun in the waiting room and the way it felt to come home to her tranquil, orderly apartment after a long day, fix herself a modest meal, and sit down for the evening with a book. She had given up those pleasures willingly; she had embraced this change out of some deep unacknowledged yearning. Now her heart was pounding, and she stared wildly down the alley, as if she might suddenly see David Henry too. This, she understood suddenly, was why she had never sent that letter. What if he wanted Phoebe back-or Norah did ? The possibility filled her with an excruciating rush of fear.

"How did you do it?" Caroline demanded. "How did you find me? Why?"

Al, taken aback, shrugged. "I stopped in Lexington to stay hello. Your place was empty. Being painted. That neighbor of yours told me you'd been gone three weeks. Guess I don't like mysteries, because I kept thinking of you." He paused, as if debating whether or not to go on. "Plus-hell, I liked you, Caroline, and I figured you were in some kind of trouble, to cut out like you did. You sure had trouble written all over you, standing in the parking lot that day. I figured maybe I could lend you a hand. I figured maybe you might need it."

"I'm doing just fine," she said. "So. What do you figure now?"

She hadn't meant the words to come out as they did, so tough and harsh. There was a long silence before Al spoke again.

"I guess I figure I was wrong about some things," Al said. He shook his head. "I thought we hit it off, you and me."

"We did," Caroline said. "I'm just shocked, that's all. I thought I'd cut my ties."

He looked at her then; his brown eyes met hers.

"It took me a full year," he said. "If you're worried about someone else tracking you down, remember that. And I knew where to start, and I had good luck. I started checking the motels I know, asking about a woman with a baby. Each time I went to a different place, and last week I hit pay dirt. The clerk at the place you stayed remembered you. She's retiring next week, by the way." He held his thumb and forefinger up, close together. "I came this close to missing you forever."

Caroline nodded, remembering the woman behind the desk with her white hair in a careful beehive, pearl earrings glimmering. The motel had been in her family for fifty years. The heat rattled all night, and the walls were constantly damp, peeling the paper. You never knew, anymore, the woman said, pushing a key across the counter, who was going to walk through the door.