The Memory Keeper's Daughter (6 page)

Bree waved her free hand. "Don't you think-" she began, but before she could criticize David again, Norah interrupted.

"It's so good you're here," she said. "No one else will talk to me."

"That's crazy. The house has been full of people wanting to talk to you."

"I had twins, Bree," Norah said quietly, conscious of her dream, the empty, frozen landscape, her frantic searching. "No one else will say a word about her. They act like since I have Paul, I ought to be satisfied. Like lives are interchangeable. But I had twins. I had a daughter too-"

She stopped, interrupted by the sudden tightness in her throat.

"Everyone is sad," Bree said softly. "So happy and so sad, all at once. They don't know what to say, that's all."

Norah lifted Paul, now asleep, to her shoulder. His breath was warm on her neck; she rubbed his back, not much bigger than her palm.

"I know," she said. "I know. But still."

"David shouldn't have gone back to work so soon," Bree said. "It's only been three days."

"He finds work a comfort," Norah said. "If I had a job, I'd go."

"No," Bree said, shaking her head. "No, you wouldn't, Norah. You know, I hate to say this, but David's just shutting himself away, locking up every feeling. And you're still trying to fill the emptiness. To fix things. And you can't."

Norah, studying her sister, wondered what feelings the pharmacist had kept at bay; for all her openness, Bree had never spoken of her own brief marriage. And even though Norah was inclined to agree with her now, she felt obligated to defend David, who through his own sadness had taken care of everything: the quiet unattended burial, the explanations to friends, the swift tidying up of the ragged ends of grief.

"He has to do it his own way," she said, reaching to open the blinds. The sky had turned bright blue, and it seemed the buds had swollen on the branches even in these few hours. "I just wish I'd seen her, Bree. People think that's macabre, but I do wish it. I wish I had touched her, just once."

"It's not macabre," Bree said softly. "It sounds completely reasonable to me."

A silence followed, and then Bree broke it awkwardly, tentatively, by offering Norah the last piece of buttered bread.

"I'm not hungry," Norah lied.

"You have to eat," Bree said. "The weight will disappear anyway. That's one of the great unsung benefits of breast-feeding."

"Not unsung," Norah said. "You're always singing."

Bree laughed. "I guess I am."

"Honestly," Norah said, reaching for the glass of water. "I'm glad you're here."

"Hey," Bree said, a little embarrassed. "Where else would I be?"

Paul's head was a warm weight, his fine thick hair soft against her neck. Did he miss his twin, Norah wondered, that vanished presence, his short life's close companion? Would he always feel a sense of loss? She stroked his head, looking out the window. Beyond the trees, faint against the sky, she glimpsed the faraway and fading sphere of the moon.

Later, while Paul slept, Norah took a shower. She tried on and discarded three different outfits, skirts that bound her waist, pants that strained across the hips. She had always been petite, slender and well-proportioned, and the ungainliness of her body amazed and depressed her. Finally, in despair, she ended up in her old denim maternity jumper, gratifyingly loose, which she had sworn she'd never wear again. Dressed but barefoot, she wandered through the house, room to room. Like her body, the rooms were spilling over, wild, chaotic, out of control. Soft dust had gathered everywhere, clothes were scattered on every surface, and covers spilled from the unmade beds. There was a clean trail in the dust on the dresser, where David had placed a vase of daffodils, brown already at the edges; the windows were cloudy too. In another day Bree would leave and their mother would arrive. At the thought of this, Norah sat helplessly on the edge of the bed, a tie of David's hanging limply in her hands. The disorder of the house pressed on her like a weight, as if the very sunlight had taken on substance, gravity. She didn't have the energy to fight it. What was more, and more distressing, she didn't seem to care.

The doorbell rang. Bree's sharp footsteps moved through the rooms, echoing.

Norah recognized the voices right away. For a moment longer she stayed where she was, feeling drained of energy, wondering how she could get Bree to send them away. But the voices came closer, near the stairwell, fading again as they entered the living room; it was the night circle from her church, bearing gifts, eager for a glimpse of the new baby. Two sets of friends had already come, one from her sewing circle and another from her china-painting club, filling the refrigerator with food, passing Paul from hand to hand like a trophy. Norah had done these same things for new mothers time and again, and now she was shocked to find she felt resentment rather than appreciation: the interruptions, the burden of thank-you notes, and she didn't care about the food; she didn't even want it.

Bree was calling. Norah went downstairs without bothering to put on lipstick or even brush her hair. Her feet were still bare.

"I look awful," she announced, defiant, entering the room.

"Oh, no," Ruth Starling said, patting the sofa by her side, though Norah noted, with a strange satisfaction, the glances being exchanged among the others. She sat down obediently, crossing her legs at the ankles, and folding her hands in her lap like she'd done in school as a little girl.

"Paul's just gone to sleep," she said. "I won't wake him up." There was anger in her voice, real aggression.

"It's alkright, my dear," Ruth said. She was nearly seventy, with fine white hair, carefully styled. Her husband of fifty years had passed away the year before. What had it cost her, Norah wondered, what did it cost her now, to maintain her appearance, her cheerful demeanor? "You've been through such a lot," Ruth said.

Norah felt her daughter again, a presence just beyond sight, and quelled a sudden urge to run upstairs and check on Paul. I'm going crazy, she thought, and stared at the floor.

"How about some tea?" Bree asked, with cheery unease. Before anyone could answer, she disappeared into the kitchen.

Norah did her best to concentrate on the conversation: cotton or batiste for the hospital pillows, what people thought about the new pastor, whether or not they should donate blankets to the Salvation Army. Then Sally announced that Kay Marshall's baby, a girl, had been delivered the night before.

"Seven pounds exactly," Sally said. "Kay looks wonderful. The baby's beautiful. They named her Elizabeth, after her grandmother. They say it was an easy labor."

There was a silence, then, as everyone realized what had happened. Norah felt as if the quiet were expanding from some place in the center of her, rippling through the room. Sally looked up, flushed pink with regret.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, Norah. I'm so sorry."

Norah wanted to speak and set things in motion again. The right words hovered in her mind, but she could not seem to find her voice. She sat silently, and the silence became a lake, an ocean, where they all might drown.

"Well," Ruth said briskly, at last. "Bless your heart, Norah. You must be exhausted." She pulled out a bulky package, brightly wrapped, with a cluster of narrow ribbons in tight curls. "We took up a collection, thinking you probably had all the diaper pins a mother could want."

The women laughed, relieved. Norah smiled too and opened the box, tearing the paper: a jumper chair, with a metal frame and a cloth seat, similar to one she had once admired at a friend's house.

"Of course, he won't be able to use it for a few months," Sally was saying. "Still, we couldn't think of anything better, once he's on the move!"

"And here," said Flora Marshall, standing up, two soft packages in her hands.

Flora was older than the others in the group, older even than Ruth, but wiry and active. She knitted blankets for every new baby in the church. Suspecting from her size that Norah might have twins, she had knitted two receiving blankets, working on them during their evening sessions and the coffee hour at church, balls of soft bright yarn spilling from her bag. Pastel yellows and greens, soft blues and pinks intermingled-she wasn't about to lay any bets on whether they would be boys or girls, she joked. But twins, she'd been sure about that. No one had taken her seriously at the time.

Norah took the two packages, pressing back tears. The soft familiar wool cascaded onto her lap when she opened the first, and her lost daughter seemed very near. Norah felt a rush of gratitude to Flora who, with the wisdom of grandmothers, had known just what to do. She tore open the second package, eager for the other blanket, as colorful and soft as the first.

"It's a little big," Flora apologized, when the playsuit fell into her lap. "But then, they grow so fast at this age."

"Where's the other blanket?" Norah demanded. She heard her voice, harsh, like the cry of a bird, and she felt astonished; all her life she'd been known for her calm, had prided herself on her even temperament, her careful choices. "Where's the blanket you made for my little girl?"

Flora flushed and glanced around the room for help. Ruth took Norah's hand and pressed it hard. Norah felt the smooth skin, the surprising pressure of her fingers. David had told her the names of these bones once, but she could not remember them. Worse, she was crying.

"Now, now. You have a beautiful baby boy," Ruth said.

"He had a sister," Norah whispered, determined, looking around at all the faces. They had come here out of kindness. They were sad, yes, and she was making them sadder by the second. What was happening to her? All her life she had tried so hard to do the right thing. "Her name was Phoebe. I want somebody to say her name. Ekfyou hear me?" She stood up. "I want someone to remember her name."

There was a cool cloth on her forehead then, and hands helping her lie down on the couch. They told her to close her eyes, and she did. Tears still slipped beneath her eyelids, a spring welling up, she couldn't seem to stop. People were speaking again, voices swirling like snow in the wind, talking about what to do. It wasn't uncommon, someone said. Even in the best of circumstances, it wasn't strange at all to have this sudden low a few days after birth. They ought to call David, another voice suggested, but then Bree was there, calm and gracious, ushering them all to the door. When they had gone Norah opened her eyes to find Bree wearing one of her aprons, the waistband with its rickrack trim tied loosely around her slender waist.

Flora Marshall's blanket was on the floor amid the wrapping paper, and she picked it up, weaving her fingers into the soft yarn. Norah wiped her eyes and spoke.

"David said her hair was dark. Like his."

Bree looked at her intently. "You said you were going to have a memorial service, Norah. Why wait? Why not do it now? Maybe it would bring you some peace."

Norah shook her head. "What David says, what everyone says, it makes sense. I should focus on the baby I have."

Bree shrugged. "Except you're not doing that. The more you try not to think about her, the more you do. David's only a doctor," she added. "He doesn't know everything. He's not God."

"Of course he's not," Norah said. "I know that."

"Sometimes I'm not sure you do."

Norah didn't answer. Patterns played on the polished wood floors, the shadows of leaves digging holes in the light. The clock on the mantel ticked softly. She felt she should be angry, but she was not. The idea of a memorial service seemed to have stopped the draining of energy and will that had begun on the steps of the clinic and had not ceased until this moment.

"Maybe you're right," she said. "I don't know. Maybe. Something very small. Something quiet."

Bree handed her the telephone. "Here. Just start asking questions."

Norah took a deep breath and began. She called the new pastor first and found herself explaining that she wanted to have a service, yes, and outside, in the courtyard. Yes, rain or shine. For Phoebe, my daughter, who died at birth. Over the next two hours, she repeated the words again and again: to the florist, to the woman in classifieds at The Leader, to her sewing friends, who agreed to do the flowers. Each time, Norah felt the calm within her swell and grow, something akin to the release of having Paul latch on and drink, connecting her back to the world.

Bree left for class, and Norah walked through the silent house, taking in the chaos. In the bedroom, afternoon light slanted through the glass, showing every inattention. She had seen this disorder every day without caring, but now, for the first time since the birth, she felt energy rather than inertia. She pulled the sheets taut on the beds, opened the windows, dusted. Off came the denim maternity jumper. She searched her closet until she found a skirt that would fit and a blouse that didn't strain against her breasts. She frowned at her image in the mirror, still so plump, so bulky, but she felt better. She took time to do her hair too, a hundred strokes. Her brush was full when she finished, a thick nest of gold down, all the luxuriance of pregnancy falling away as her hormone levels readjusted. She had known it would happen. Still, the loss made her want to weep.

That's enough, she said sternly to herself, applying lipstick, blinking away the tears. That's enough, Norah Asher Henry.

She pulled on a sweater before she went downstairs and found her flat beige shoes. Her feet, at least, were slim again.

She checked on Paul-still sleeping, his breath soft but real against her fingertips-put one of the frozen casseroles into the oven, set the table, and opened a bottle of wine. She was discarding the wilted flowers, their stems cool and pulpy in her hands, when the front door opened. Her heart quickened at David's footsteps, and then he stood in the doorway, his dark suit loose on his thin frame, his face flushed from his walk. He was tired, and she saw him register with relief the clean house, her familiar clothes, the scent of cctoking food. He held another bunch of daffodils, gathered from the garden. When she kissed him, his lips were cool against her own.