The Memory Keeper's Daughter (27 page)

At the first break in traffic, Caroline darted across the road. The earth was saturated, water pooling in her footprints. She pushed through the brushy copse and broke at last into the clearing. Avery was there, kneeling by the pipe that drained water from the hills into the concrete ditch. Phoebe's yellow umbrella was discarded, like a flag, beside her.

"Avery!" She squatted down beside the girl, touched her wet shoulder. "Where's Phoebe?"

"She went to get the cat," Avery said, pointing into the pipe. "It went in there."

Caroline swore softly and knelt in the edge of the pipe. Cold water rushed against her knees, her hands. Phoebe! she cried, and her voice echoed in the darkness. It's Mom, honey, are you here?

Silence. Caroline inched her way inside. The water was so cold. Already her hands were numb. Phoebe! she shouted, her voice swelling. Phoebe! She listened hard. A sound then, faint. Caroline crawled a few feet farther in, feeling her way through cold invisible rushing water. Then her hand brushed fabric, cold flesh, and Phoebe, trembling, was in her arms. Caroline held her close, remembering the night she'd carried Phoebe in the damp purple bathroom, urging her to breathe.

"We have to get out of here, honey. We have to get out."

But Phoebe wouldn't move.

"My cat," she said, her voice high, determined, and Caroline felt the squirming beneath Phoebe's shirt, heard the small mewing. "It's my cat."

"Forget the cat," Caroline shouted. She pulled Phoebe gently in the direction she had come. "Come on, Phoebe. Right now."

"My cat," Phoebe said.

"Okay," Caroline said, water rushing higher now, around her knees. "Okay, okay, it's your cat. Just go!"

Phoebe began to move, inching slowly toward the circle of light. Finally they emerged, cold water streaming around them in the concrete ditch. Phoebe was soaked, her hair plastered against her face, the kitten wet too. Through the trees Caroline glimpsed her house, solid and warm, like a raft in the dangerous world. She imagined Al, traveling some distant highway, and the familiar comfort of these rooms that were her own.

"It's all right." Caroline put her arm around Phoebe. The kitten twisted, thin claws scratching the backs of her hands. The rain fell, dripping off the dark, vivid leaves.

"There's the mailman," Phoebe said.

"Yes," Caroline said, watching him climb the porch and slide the bills she'd put out into his leather bag.

Her letter to David Henry sat unfinished on the table. She had stood at the back door watching the rain, thinking only of Phoebe's father, while Phoebe wandered into danger. It seemed like an omen suddenly, and she let herself turn the fear she'd felt at Phoebe's disappearance into anger. She wouldn't write to David again; he wanted too much from her, and he wanted it too late. The mailman walked back down the steps, his bright umbrella flashing.

"Yes, honey," she said, stroking the kitten's bony head. "Yes. There he is."

I AROLINE STOOD AT THE BUS STOP NEAR THE CORNER OF Forbes and Braddock, watching the kinetic energy of the children on the playground, their happy shouts lifting up over the steady roar of the traffic. Beyond them, on the baseball field, figures in blue and red from competing local taverns moved with silent grace against new grass. It was spring. Evening was gathering. In a few minutes the parents sitting on the benches or standing with their hands in their pockets would start calling the children to go home. The grown-ups' game would continue to the edge of darkness, and when it ended the players would slap each other on the back and depart too, settling in for drinks at the tavern, their laughter loud and happy. She and Al saw them there when they made it out for an evening. An early show at the Regent, then dinner and- if Al wasn't on call-a couple of beers.

Tonight he was gone, however, speeding far away through the gathering night, south from Cleveland to Toledo, then Columbus. Caroline had his routes hung on the refrigerator. Years ago, in those strange days after Doro left, Caroline had hired someone to watch Phoebe while she traveled with Al, hoping to bridge the distance between them. Hours slid away; she slept and woke and lost track of time, the road spinning out beneath them forever, a dark ribbon bisected by the steady flashes of white, seductive and mesmerizing. Finally Al, bleary himself, would pull into a truck stop and take her to a restaurant that didn't differ appreciably from the one they had left behind in whatever city they'd stayed in the day before. Life on the road seemed like falling through strange holes in the universe, as if you might walk into a restroom in one city in America and then walk out the same door to find yourself somewhere else: the same strip malls and gas stations and fast-food places, the same hum of wheels against the road. Only the names were different, the light, the faces. She'd gone with Al twice, then never again.

The bus rounded the corner and roared to a stop. The doors folded open and Caroline climbed in and took a window seat, trees flashing as they roared over the bridge and the hollow below. Flying past the cemetery, lurching through Squirrel Hill, then lumbering on through the old neighborhoods to Oakland, where Caroline got off. She stood before the Carnegie Museum for a moment, collecting herself, looking up at the grand stone building with its cascading steps and ionic columns. A banner strung along the top of the portico fluttered in the wind: mirror images: photographs by

DAVID HENRY.

Tonight was the opening: he would be here to speak. Hands trembling, Caroline slid the newspaper clipping from her pocket. She had carried it for two weeks, her heart surging every time she touched it. A dozen times, perhaps more, she had changed her mind. What good could come of it?

And then, in the next breath, what harm?

If Al had been here, she would have stayed home. She would have let the opportunity slip away unremarked, glancing at the clock until the opening was over and David Henry had disappeared back into whatever life he now led.

But Al had called to say he'd be away tonight, and Mrs. O'Neill was home to keep an eye on Phoebe, and the bus had been on time.

Caroline's heart was roaring now. She stood still, taking deep breaths, while the world moved around her, the squeal of brakes and the scent of spent fuel, and the faint stirrings of the feathery new leaves of spring. Voices swelled as people drew near, then receded, scraps of conversation drifting like bits of paper borne on the wind. Streams of people, dressed in silk and heels and dark expensive suits, flowed up the museum's stone steps. The sky was a darkening indigo and the streetlights had come on; the air was full of the scent of lemon and mint from the festival at the Greek Orthodox Church one block down. Caroline closed her eyes, thinking of black olives, which she had never tasted until she reached this city. Thinking of the wild mosaic of Saturday morning market at the Strip, fresh bread and flowers and fruits and vegetables, a riot of food and color for blocks along the river, something she would never have seen except for David Henry and an unexpected snowstorm. She took one step and then another, merging with the crowd.

The museum had high white ceilings and oak floors, polished to a dark, gleaming gold. Caroline was given a program of thick creamy paper with David Henry's name across the top. A list of photos followed. "Dunes at Dusk," she read. "A Tree in the Heart." She walked into the gallery room and found his most famous photo, the undulating beach that was more than a beach, the curve of a woman's hip, then the smooth length of her leg, hidden among the dunes. The image trembled, on the edge of being something else, and then it suddenly was something else. Caroline had stared at it for a good fifteen minutes the first time she saw it, knowing that the swell of flesh belonged to Norah Henry, remembering the white hill of her belly rippling with contractions, the powerful force of her grip. For years she had consoled herself with her disdainful opinion of Norah Henry, a bit imperial, used to ease and order, a woman who might have left Phoebe in an institution. But this image exploded that idea. These photos showed a woman she had never known.

People milled in the room; the seats filled. Caroline sat down, watching everything intently. The lights dimmed once and went on again, and then suddenly there was applause and David Henry was walking in, tall and familiar, fleshier now, smiling at the audience. It shocked her to see that he was not a young man anymore. His hair was turning gray and there was a slight bend to his shoulders.

He walked to the podium and gazed out at the audience and Caroline caught her breath, sure he must have seen her, must have known her at once, as she knew him. He cleared his throat and made a joke about the weather. As the laughter spilled out around her and died down, as he looked at his notes and began to speak, Caroline understood that she was just another face in the crowd.

He spoke with melodious assurance, though Caroline paid almost no attention to what he was saying. Instead, she studied the familiar gestures of his hands, the new lines at the corners of his eyes. His hair was longer, thick and luxurious despite the gray, and he seemed satisfied, settled. She thought of that night, almost twenty years ago now, when he'd woken and lifted his head from the desk and caught her in the doorway, naked in her love for him, the two of them as vulnerable to each other in that moment as it was possible to be. She had recognized something then, something he kept hidden, some experience or expectation or dream too private to share. And it was true, she could see that still: David Henry had a secret life. Her mistake twenty years ago had been in believing that his secret had to do with any kind of love for her.

When his talk was over, the applause rose, strong, and then he was stepping from behind the podium, taking a long drink from his glass of water, answering questions. There were several-from a man with a notebook, a matron with gray hair, a young woman dressed in black with dark cascading hair who asked something rather angrily about form. Tension grew in Caroline's body and her heart pounded until she could barely breathe. The questions ended and the silence grew, and David Henry cleared his throat, a smile forming as he thanked the audience and turned away. Caroline felt herself rising then, almost beyond her own volition, her purse in front of her like a shield. She crossed the room and joined the little group collecting around him. He glanced at her and smiled politely, without recognition. She waited through more questions, growing somewhat calmer as the moments passed. The curator of the show hovered at the edge of the group, anxious for David to mingle, but when a break came in the questions, Caroline stepped forward and put her hand on David's arm.

"David," she said. "Don't you know me?"

He searched her face.

"Have I changed so much?" she whispered.

She saw him understand, then. His face altered, the shape of it even, as if gravity had suddenly gotten stronger. A flush crept up his neck and a muscle pulsed in his cheek. Caroline felt something strange happening with time, as if they were back in the clinic again all those years ago, the snow falling down outside. They stared at each other without speaking, as if the room and all the people in it had fallen utterly away.

"Caroline," he said at last, recovering. "Caroline Gill. An old friend," he added, speaking to the people still clustering around them. He reached up with one hand and adjusted his tie, and a smile broke across his face, though it did not touch his eyes. "Thank you," he said, nodding to the others. "Thank you all for coming. Now, if you'll excuse us."

And then they were crossing the room. David walked beside her, one hand lightly but firmly against her back, as if she might disappear unless he held her in place.

"Come in here," he said, stepping behind a display panel, where an unframed door was barely visible in the white wall. He guided her inside, swiftly, and shut the door behind them. It was a storage closet, small, one bare bulb raining light down on shelves full of paint and tools. They stood face-to-face, just inches apart. His scent filled the room, that sweetish cologne, and beneath it was a smell she remembered, something medicinal and tinged with adrenaline. The little room was hot, and she felt suddenly dizzy, silverfish flashing in her vision.

"Caroline," he said. "Good God, do you live here? In Pittsburgh? Why wouldn't you tell me where you were?"

"I wasn't hard to find. Other people found me," she said slowly, remembering Al walking up the alley, understanding for the first time the depth of his persistence. For if it was true that David Henry had not looked very hard, it was also true that she had wanted to be lost.

Outside the door there were footsteps, drawing near and then pausing. The rush and murmur of voices. She studied his face. All these years she'd thought about him every single day, and yet now she couldn't imagine what to say.

"Shouldn't you be out there?" she asked, glancing at the door.

"They'll wait."

They looked at each other then, not speaking. Caroline had held him in her mind all this time like a photograph, a hundred or a thousand photographs. In each of these David Henry was a young man full of a restless, determined energy. Now, staring at his dark eyes and fleshy cheeks, his hair so carefully styled, she realized that if she had passed him on the street she might not have known him, after all.

When he spoke again his tone had softened, though a muscle still worked in his face. "I went to your apartment, Caroline. That day, after the memorial service. I went there, but you were already gone. All this time-" he began, and then he fell silent.

There was a light tap on the door, a muffled questioning voice.

"Give me a minute," David called back.

"I was in love with you," Caroline said in a rush, astonished at her confession, for it was the first time she had ever voiced this, even to herself, though it was knowledge she had lived with for years. The admission made her feel light-headed, reckless, and she went on. "You know, I spent all sorts of time imagining a life with you. And it was in that moment by the church when I realized I hadn't crossed your mind at all, not really."

He'd bent his head as she spoke, and now he looked up.

"I knew," he said. "I knew you were in love with me. How could I have asked you to help me, otherwise? I'm sorry, Caroline. For years now, I have been-so sorry."

She nodded, tears in her eyes, that younger version of herself still alive, still standing by the edge of the memorial service, unacknowledged, invisible. It made her angry, even now, that he had not really seen her then. And that, not knowing her at all, he hadn't hesitated to ask her to take away his daughter.

"Are you happy?" he asked. "Have you been happy, Caroline? Has Phoebe?"

His question, and the gentleness in his voice, disarmed her. She thought of Phoebe, struggling to learn to shape letters, to tie her shoes. Phoebe, playing happily in the backyard while Caroline made phone call after phone call, fighting for her education. Phoebe, putting her soft arms around Caroline's neck for no reason at all and saying, I love you, Mom. She thought of Al, gone too much but walking through the door at the end of a long week, carrying flowers or a bag of fresh rolls or a small gift, something for her, always, and something for Phoebe. When she'd worked in David Henry's office she had been so young, so lonely and naive, that she imagined herself as some sort of vessel to be filled up with love. But it wasn't like that. The love was within her all the time, and its only renewal came from giving it away.

"Do you really want to know?" she asked at last, looking him straight in the eye. "Because you never wrote back, David. Except for that one time, you never asked a single thing about our lives. Not for years."

As Caroline spoke, she realized that this was why she had come. Not out of love at all, or any allegiance to the past, or even out of guilt. She had come out of anger and a desire to set the record straight.

"For years you never wanted to know how I was. How Phoebe was. You just didn't give a damn, did you? And then that last letter, the one I never answered. All of a sudden, you wanted her back."

David gave a short, startled laugh. "Is that how you saw it? Is that why you stopped writing?"

"How else could I see it?"

He shook his head slowly. "Caroline, I asked you for your address. Again and again-every time I sent money. And in that final letter I simply asked you to invite me back into your life. What more could I do? Look, I know you don't realize this, but I kept every letter you ever sent. And when you stopped writing, I felt like you'd slammed a door in my face."

Caroline thought of her letters, all her heartfelt confessions flowing into ink on paper. She couldn't remember anymore what she'd written: details about Phoebe's life, her hopes and her dreams and her fears.

"Where are they?" she asked. "Where do you keep my letters?"

He looked surprised. "In my darkroom filing cabinet: bottom drawer. It's always locked. Why?"

"I didn't think you even read them," Caroline said. "I felt I was writing into a void. Maybe that's why I felt so free. Like I could say anything at all."