The Memory Thief (40 page)

“Doesn’t matter.” He stood up and walked to the window. “There’s a rose garden just down the path there. When Hannah was here,
and those roses were in bloom, there wasn’t a day that she didn’t cut a few, bring them to the house and set them somewhere.
A table, or a desk. Sometimes in the window where she does the dishes. One night, it stormed so bad it took down a couple
trees. The next morning, when we were looking at all the damage, I noticed the roses had taken a beating. Not a single petal
was left on them. Just a bunch of thorny stems.”

He looked at me. “She still cut them, Lily. Still carried them into our home. Still filled vases with water for them and put
them in the center of our table. I pulled one out, held it up to her. Teased her about it.”

He turned back to the window. “She said, ‘It’s still a rose. The storm hurt it, but it’s still a rose.’ ” He cleared his throat
quickly and started gathering our dishes. He carried them to the sink and rinsed them off.

“Will you just let her see you?” he asked lowly. “She’s imagined you for so long.”

I nodded and stared toward the rose garden you loved. How I wished I’d been planted there.

“What’s she doing here?” Bethie cried as we walked through the big metal doors.

I looked up and saw for myself. The old woman. She was standing with a group of men in white coats.

“That’s her,” the old woman said, and pointed at me. “The impostor. Daniel is paying this girl, because she looks like Hannah,
to pretend she’s her lost daughter. What will happen when Hannah finds out the truth?”

“You,” Daniel said through gritted teeth. “You were holding her prisoner in your basement, and we—”

“Sir,” one of the men in white coats said, and stepped toward us. “I know you care for the patient, but I think it’s best
to remember—”

“She’s my wife!”

“Yes, I understand, but—”

“I’ve brought her daughter.” He turned to the old woman. “It’s what Hannah’s wanted from the moment you first paid the maid
to take her baby away.”

“I never,” the old woman started. She pointed a finger at me. “Is this what she told you?”

“Listen,” another man in a white coat said. “Before
anyone
sees Hannah, we’ll have to do a thorough screening.” He looked at Bethie. “Cooperation of all visitors is of the utmost importance.
Otherwise, years of therapy can be compromised.” He turned to me. “We’d like to take some information from you. We’d like
to ask you some questions. And if you are who you say you are, then maybe, if it’s appropriate and the risk is not too great,
maybe one day we’ll let you see her.”

“I can’t see her?” I cried.

“Not today.”

“Where’s your boss?” Daniel asked. “Who do you report to?”

“That’d be the new director. But she’s not available right now.”

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“She’s resting. But I promise you, this is her new protocol. We all learned the hard way, didn’t we, Bethlehem?”

We left. The old woman’s face was like stone, and that’s how I knew she was gloating. We walked out the double metal doors.
We left you behind them.

“I’ll keep you from her forever,” the old woman hissed. “You won’t hurt her. Not my daughter.”

Bethie was crying. Maybe I was, too.

“C’mon,” Daniel said. “Let’s go home. We’ll think of something.”

He stepped toward the car. He pulled on my arm, trying to get me to move. But I wouldn’t. I wanted to stand a minute and look
at the building you were in. We were so close, you and me.

Then the doors swung open, and out stepped a woman wearing a white coat. She had messy gray hair and glasses.

“Wait!” she cried. I turned to Daniel, but she was looking at me. “My name is Dr. Vaughn, and I need you to wait.”

Someone was behind her. I couldn’t see who yet. But the old woman did. The old woman cried, “No,” as she ran to my side.

“What will you say?” she hissed, as she grabbed my elbow and held on to me. “Your story can hurt or heal. You have the power.
What will you say?”

Daniel stepped forward. He took me by the hand and pulled me from the old woman. “Hannah,” he cried, and choked over the words.
“This is your Lily.”

And out of my stars, out of your paint and my dreams, out of your faceless clay babies, there we were together. You stood
very still against the door. For a moment, I lost courage and tried to look away. But I couldn’t. Because that pull, the one
I always hoped for, was there. My blood was made from yours, and drawn to it.

You said something then. About me, and how I was something close to holy. You stepped toward me, and I never had to move again.
You found me there. You whispered
Lily
as you reached for my hand.

I shook my head. “You can call me Angel.”

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you said.

“I’ve been whisperin’ to you my whole life,” I cried.

“Well, tell me everything again. Tell me everything you said.”

I didn’t think about the old woman then. I didn’t think about being locked in that basement, about the story she made me practice.
I just felt right words, pure and strong, pour into my mouth. I didn’t have to search for them anymore. They were there, inside
me all along. Just waiting for you.

“
Thank you
,” I said, as I let you put your arms around me, hold me for the second time ever. “Some other day, I’ll tell you about the
fire. And how it burned up my childhood. I’ll tell you about the smoke. And how it was too heavy, filled with too many dead
things to ever rise. Like dirty ashtrays and broken dishes. Like my sister’s letter, the one she wrote before she ran away.
I’ll tell you these things, not to hurt you more or to make you sad again. But to show you how a sycamore grows. How a good
black snake sheds. To show you just how high a tower can rise.”

I pulled back from you. I saw your white hair, like an angel. I saw your brown eyes, like a baby calf.

“But today I just want to say thank you,” I whispered. “For wantin’ me when nobody else did. Thank you for going crazy because
you didn’t have me. For knowin’ that we belonged together. Thank you for all of that. Because I know now—now that I’m finally
here with you—more than anything else, more than any other right words… this will be my story.”

I am forever grateful to my agent, Andrea Somberg. Without her commitment, my books would just be old files stored on my laptop.
They are read because of her.

Thanks to Christina Boys, my brave editor. Her sharp insight into the rhythms of this story kept it from being choked by the
weeds. Christina, you helped this book bloom the way it was meant to. I have learned so much from you.

Thanks to Shanon Stowe and Laura Troup for their diligence in spreading the word. And to all the members of the Hachette Book
Group team who have worked behind the scenes to make my writing printable.

Thanks to my parents, Joe and Sue Blankenship. When I was seven years old, they fought for me to have full check-out privileges
in the elementary library rather than being limited to the children’s section. They didn’t laugh when the first thing I checked
out was the biggest book I could find, a thousand-page volume about King Arthur. “Looks like a good story,” Momma said, smiling.

And finally, thanks to my husband, Kip, who told me inside a law-school library that I should be a writer. He embraced the
dream long before I did and set about to prove himself right. He is my first reader, my first editor, and my champion. Kip,
you have polished me.

1. Angel avoids the advances of men, describing them as “sideways lines” that don’t lead anywhere, while Hannah is easily
charmed by the first boy that pays her any attention. What are the reasons for this difference?

2. Angel believes being pretty is “useful,” to help her get what she needs. Hannah finds beauty seductive and craves affirmation
of her own beauty. Mother believes beauty is unnecessary and dangerous. Whom do you agree with most? Do you think Mother is
right that beauty is particularly important to Hannah because she is a “true artist”?

3. Why does
wanting
scare Mother? Is it just because of Leah, or is there something else that troubles her? Does Angel get what she wanted? Does
Hannah? Does Mother?

4. Angel believes that lies are mercy. Is she right?

5. Why doesn’t Father’s drawn bridge work for Hannah? Why does Father say they’ve worn themselves out trying to build their
own bridge?

6. Why, even though Hannah was taught so differently, was it easy for her to let Sam pull her close under that live oak tree?
Why did the alarms she was taught to hear not work for her?

7. Why is Bethie able to escape Mother’s hold on her, form her own beliefs, and enjoy a normal adulthood? Why isn’t Hannah
able to do the same?

8. Did Hannah abandon Angel because she didn’t fight Mother to keep her?

9. Bethie says “emptiness is the miracle canvas.” Do you agree?

10. At first glance, Angel and Hannah have very different childhoods. But as their stories develop, shared themes emerge.
In what ways were their childhoods similar? Do you think one of them had a worse childhood than the other?

11. Do you agree with Daniel that “love is an emergency”? How was love an emergency in this novel?

12. Mother cries that she put “stones over [her] children.” What were those stones? Were they ever lifted off, or did her
children simply learn to live in spite of them?

13. Why was it so important to Angel to tell her story? Why wasn’t it enough just to be reunited with her mother?

14. When Angel wakes up tied down in the basement, she decides that “blood isn’t nearly as important” as she always thought
when it comes to defining a family. What makes a family? Is it shared beliefs, like a bridge? Is it shared desires, like whiskey?
How much does “blood” matter?

15. Who is the memory thief? Are there multiple memory thieves in this novel?

16. Angel believes there are only two kinds of people in this world: Swarms, and those stuck waiting beneath the sycamore
tree. Which category does Mother belong to? Father? Bethie? What do you think the future holds for Angel? Does she make it
out from under the sycamore tree? What about Hannah?

If you enjoyed
The Memory Thief
,
look for Rachel Keener’s first novel,
The Killing Tree
.

“[A]n intensely lyrical, emotional debut.”—
Publishers Weekly

Mercy Heron spends her days working at the local diner, but unlike her wild best friend, Della, she’s never considered leaving
the insulated community on Crooked Top Mountain. Not until the summer when she meets Trout, a man who opens Mercy’s eyes to
a world beyond what she’s known. Their relationship must be kept secret, because Father Heron won’t approve of his granddaughter’s
being involved with a migrant worker. But when Mercy tries to escape, she’ll learn just how powerful—and ruthless—her grandfather
can be. And the truth of her past will threaten to forever bind her to the mountain.