The Memory Keeper's Daughter Part 14

She thought of Paul as an infant, his mouth rounded in a perfect O as he lay in his crib staring up at some ordinary amazement. She bent her head again to view the world contained, then looked up to see it transformed. Released from its surrounding frame of darkness, even the light was shimmering, alive. "It's so beautiful," she whispered. "I almost can't stand how beautiful it is."

"I know," Howard said. "Go. Be in it. Let me draw you."

She rose and walked out into the hot sand, the glare. She turned and stood before Howard, his head bent over the aperture, watching his hand move across the sketch pad. Her hair kindled-already the sun was a hot flat hand-and she remembered posing the day before, and the day before that. How many times had she stood just this way, the subject and an object too, posed to evoke or to preserve what really did not exist, her true thoughts locked away?

So she stood now, a woman reduced to a perfect miniature of herself, every fact of her cast by light onto a mirror. The ocean wind, warm and damp, moved in his hair, and Howard's hands, with their long fingers and trim nails, moved quickly as he sketched her, fixing her image on the page. She remembered the sand shifting beneath her hips as she posed for David's camera, and how they had talked about her later, David and Howard, not as a flesh-and-blood woman in the room but rather as an image, a form. Remembering this, her body seemed fragile suddenly, as if she were not the accomplished self-sufficient woman who'd taken a group to China and back but rather someone who might be swept away by the next gust of wind. Then she remembered Howard's hand, warming her pocket and her flesh. That hand, the one moving now, the one that drew her.

She reached down to her waist and caught the hem of her blouse. Slowly, but without hesitation, she pulled it over her head and let it fall on the sand. On the porch, Howard stopped drawing, though he did not lift his head. The small muscles in his arms and shoulders had ceased moving. Norah unzipped her shorts. They slid down over her hips and she stepped out of them. So far it was nothing unfamiliar, just the same swimsuit she had modeled in so many times before. But now she reached behind and unhooked the straps of the top. She pushed the bottoms over her hips and down her legs, kicking them away. She stood feeling the sun and wind move across her skin.

Howard slowly raised his head from the camera obscura and sat staring.

For an instant it had a nightmare quality, that sense of panic and shame when she realized, in the middle of a dream, shopping or walking in a crowded park, that she had forgotten to get dressed. She started to reach for her suit.

"No, don't," Howard whispered, and she paused, straightening. "You're so beautiful." He rose then, carefully, slowly, as if she were a bird he might startle into flight. But Norah stood very still, intently present in her body, feeling as if she were made out of sand, sand meeting fire and about to be transformed, smoothed, made glittering. Howard crossed the few feet of beach. It seemed to take him forever, his feet sinking into the warm sand. When he finally reached her he stopped, without touching her, and stared. The wind moved in her hair and he pushed a strand from her lip, tucking it, very gently, behind her ear.

"I could never capture this," he said, "what you are in this moment. I could never capture it."

Norah smiled and splayed her hand flat on his chest, feeling the thin madras cotton and the warm flesh, the layers of muscle, bone. The sternum, she remembered, from the days when she had studied bones in order to better understand David and his work. The manubrium and the gladiolus, shaped like a sword. The true ribs and the false, the lines of union.

He cupped his hands lightly around her face. She let her own hand fall. Together, without speaking, they walked to the little cottage. She left her clothes on the sand; she did not care about that either, that anyone might see them. The boards of the porch gave slightly beneath her feet. The cloth over the camera obscura was thrown back and she saw with satisfaction that Howard had sketched the beach and horizon, the scattered rocks and trees; all these were perfect reproductions. He had sketched her hair, a soft cloud, amorphous, but that was all. Where she had stood the page was blank. Her clothes had fallen like leaves, and he had looked up to see her standing there.

For once, it was she who had stopped time.

The room seemed dim after the light of the beach, and the world was framed in the window as it had been in the lens of the camera obscura, so bright and vivid that it brought tears to her eyes. She sat on the edge of the bed. Lie down, Lie down, he said, pulling his shirt over his head. he said, pulling his shirt over his head. I just want to look at you for a moment. I just want to look at you for a moment. She did, and he stood over her, his eyes moving across her skin. She did, and he stood over her, his eyes moving across her skin. Stay with me, Stay with me, he said, and he shocked her by kneeling and resting his head on her belly, his unshaven cheek bristling against the flatness of her stomach. She felt his weight with every breath she took, and his own breath traveled on her skin. She reached down, weaving her hands through his thinning hair, and pulled him up to kiss her. he said, and he shocked her by kneeling and resting his head on her belly, his unshaven cheek bristling against the flatness of her stomach. She felt his weight with every breath she took, and his own breath traveled on her skin. She reached down, weaving her hands through his thinning hair, and pulled him up to kiss her.

Later, she would be astonished, not that she had done these things or any of those that followed, but that she had done them on Howard's bed beneath the open unscreened window, framed like an image in a camera. David was gone, far out at sea with Paul, fishing. Still, anyone might have walked by and seen them.

Yet she did not stop, then or later. He was with her like a fever, a compulsion, an open door into her own possibilities, into what she believed was freedom. Strangely, she found that her secret made the distance between herself and David seem more bearable too. She went back to Howard again and again, even after David remarked about how many walks she was taking, how far she went. Even when, lingering in bed while Howard fixed them both a drink, she fished his shorts off the floor and found a photo of his smiling wife and three small children, inside a letter that said My mother is better, we all miss and love you and will see you next week. My mother is better, we all miss and love you and will see you next week.

This happened in the afternoon, sunlight glittering on the moving water, heat shimmering up from the sand. The ceiling fan clicked in the dim room and she held the photo, gazed outside into the landscape of the imagination, the brilliant light. In real life, this photo would have cut, swift and sure, but here she felt nothing. Norah slid the photo back and let his shorts slip back to the floor. Here, this did not matter. Only the dream mattered, and the fevered light. For the next ten days, she met him.

August 1977

I.

DAVID RAN UP THE STAIRS AND STEPPED INTO THE QUIET foyer of the school, pausing for a moment to get his breath and his bearings. He was late for Paul's concert, very late. He'd planned to leave the hospital early, but ambulances had pulled in with an older couple as he was walking out the door: the husband had fallen off a ladder and landed on his wife. His leg was broken, and her arm; the leg needed a plate and pins. David called Norah, hearing the barely contained anger in her voice, angry enough himself that he didn't care, was glad, even, to annoy her. She had married him knowing what his work was, after all. The silence had pulsed between them for a long moment before he hung up. foyer of the school, pausing for a moment to get his breath and his bearings. He was late for Paul's concert, very late. He'd planned to leave the hospital early, but ambulances had pulled in with an older couple as he was walking out the door: the husband had fallen off a ladder and landed on his wife. His leg was broken, and her arm; the leg needed a plate and pins. David called Norah, hearing the barely contained anger in her voice, angry enough himself that he didn't care, was glad, even, to annoy her. She had married him knowing what his work was, after all. The silence had pulsed between them for a long moment before he hung up.

The terrazzo floor had a faintly pinkish cast, and the lockers that lined the walls of the hallway were dark blue. David stood listening, hearing only his own breathing for a moment, and then a burst of applause drew him down the hall to the big double wooden doors of the auditorium. He pulled one door open and stepped inside, letting his eyes adjust. The place was packed; a sea of darkened heads flowed downward to the brightly lit stage. He scanned them, looking for Norah. A young woman handed him a program, and as a boy in low-slung jeans walked out onto the stage and sat down with his saxophone, she pointed to the fifth name down. David took a deep grateful breath and felt his tension ease. Paul was number seven; he had made it just in time.

The saxophonist began, playing with pa.s.sion and intensity, hitting one screeching wrong note that sent chills down David's spine. He scanned the audience again and found Norah in the center near the front, with an empty seat beside her. So she had thought of him, at least, saving him this place. He hadn't been sure she would; he wasn't sure, anymore, of anything. Well, he was sure of his anger, and of the guilt that kept him silent about what he'd seen in Aruba; those things certainly stood between them. But he did not have the smallest glimpse into Norah's heart, her desires or motivations.

The sax player finished with a flourish and stood up to bow. During the applause, David made his way down the dimly lit aisle, climbing awkwardly past those already seated to take his place by Norah.

"David," she said, moving her coat. "So. You made it after all."

"It was emergency surgery, Norah," he said.

"Oh, I know, I'm used to it. It's only Paul who concerns me."

"Paul concerns me too," David said. "That's why I'm here."

"Yes. Indeed." Her voice was sharp and clipped. "So you are."

He could feel her anger, radiating in waves. Her short blond hair was perfectly styled, and she was all shades of cream and gold, wearing a natural silk suit she'd bought on her first trip to Singapore. As the business had grown, she'd traveled more and more, taking tour groups to places both mundane and exotic. David had gone with her a few times in the early days, when the trips were smaller and less ambitious: down to Mammoth Cave or on a boat ride on the Mississippi. Each time he'd marveled at Norah, at the person she'd become. The people on the tours came to her with their worries and concerns: the beef was undercooked, the cabin too small, the air-conditioning on the fritz, the beds too hard. She listened to them thoughtfully and stayed calm through every crisis, nodding, touching a shoulder, reaching for the phone. She was beautiful still, though her beauty had an edge to it now. She was good at her work, and more than one blue-haired woman had taken him aside to make sure he knew how lucky he was.

He had to wonder what they would have thought, those women, if they'd been the ones to find her clothes discarded in a pile on the beach.

"You have no right to be angry with me, Norah," he whispered. She smelled very faintly of oranges, and her jaw was tense. Onstage, a young man in a blue suit sat down at the piano, flexing his fingers. After a moment he plunged in, the notes rippling. "No right at all," David said.

"I'm not angry. I'm just nervous about Paul. You're the one who's angry."

"No, it's you," he said. "You've been like this ever since Aruba."

"Look in the mirror," she whispered back. "You look like you swallowed one of those little lizards that used to hang on the ceiling."

A hand fell on his shoulder, then. He turned to see a heavy woman sitting next to her husband, a long chain of children extending out beside them.

"Excuse me," she said. "You're Paul Henry's father, aren't you? Well, that's my son Duke playing the piano, and if you don't mind, we'd really like to hear him."

David met Norah's eyes then, in a brief moment of connection; she was even more embarra.s.sed than he was.

He settled back and listened. This young man, Duke, a friend of Paul's, played the piano with an intent self-consciousness, but he was very good, technically proficient and pa.s.sionate too. David watched his hands move over the keys, wondering what Duke and Paul talked about when they rode their bikes through the quiet neighborhood streets. What did they dream, those boys? What did Paul tell his friends that he would never tell his father?

Norah's clothes, discarded in a bright pile against the white sand, the wind lifting the edge of her wildly colored blouse: that was one thing they would never discuss, though David suspected that Paul had seen them too. They'd risen very early that morning for their fishing trip and had driven up the coast in the predawn darkness, pa.s.sing little villages along the way. They weren't talkers, either he or Paul, but there was always a sense of communion in the early hours, in the rituals of casting and reeling, and David looked forward to this chance to be with his son, growing so fast, such a mystery to him now. But the trip had been canceled; the motor on the boat had given out and the owner was waiting for new parts. Disappointed, they'd lingered for a while on the dock, drinking bottled orange soda and watching the sun rise over the gla.s.sy ocean. Then they drove back to the cottage.

The light was good that morning, and David, though disappointed, was also eager to get back to his camera. He'd had another idea, in the middle of the night, about his photos. Howard had pointed out a place where one more image would tie the whole series together. A nice guy, Howard, and perceptive. Their conversation had been on David's mind all night, generating a quiet excitement. He'd hardly slept, and now he wanted to get home and shoot another roll of Norah on the sand. But they found the cottage still and cool and empty, washed with light and with the sound of waves. Norah had left a bowl of oranges centered on the table. Her coffee cup was neatly washed and draining in the sink. Norah? Norah? he called, and then again, he called, and then again, Norah? Norah? But she didn't answer. But she didn't answer. I think I'll take a run, I think I'll take a run, Paul said, a shadow in the bright doorway, and David nodded. Paul said, a shadow in the bright doorway, and David nodded. Keep an eye out for your mother, Keep an eye out for your mother, he said. he said.

Alone in the cottage, David moved the bowl of oranges to the counter and spread his photos on the table. They fluttered in the breeze; he had to anchor them with shot gla.s.ses. Norah complained that he was becoming obsessed with photography-why else would he bring his portfolio on vacation?-and maybe that was true. But Norah was wrong about the rest. He didn't use the camera to escape the world. Sometimes, watching images emerge in the bath of developer, he glimpsed her arm, the curve of her hip, and was stilled by a deep sense of his love for her. He was still arranging and rearranging the photos when Paul returned, the door slamming hard behind him.

"That was fast," David said, looking up.

"Tired," Paul said. "I'm tired." He walked straight through the dining room and disappeared into his room.

"Paul?" David said. He went to the door and turned the handle. Locked.

"I'm just tired," Paul said. "Everything's fine."

David waited a few more minutes. Paul was so moody lately. Nothing David did seemed to be the right thing, and the worst were talks with Paul about his future. It could be so bright. Paul was gifted in music and sports, with every possibility open to him. David often thought that his own life-the difficult choices he had made-would be justified if Paul would only realize his potential, and he lived with the constant, nagging fear that he'd failed his son somehow; that Paul would throw his gifts away. He knocked again, lightly, but Paul didn't answer.

Finally, David sighed and went back into the kitchen. He admired the bowl of oranges on the counter, the curves of fruit and dark wood. Then, following an impulse he could not explain, he went outside and started walking down the beach. He'd gone at least a mile before he glimpsed the bright flutter of Norah's shirt from a distance. When he got closer, he realized that they were her clothes, left lying on the beach in front of what must be Howard's cottage. David stopped in the bright glare of the sun, puzzled. Had they gone for a swim, then? He scanned the water but didn't see them, and then he kept walking, until Norah's familiar laughter, low and musical, drifted out of the cottage windows and stopped him. He heard Howard's laugh too, an echo of Norah's. He knew then, and he was gripped by a pain as gritty and searing as the hot sand beneath his feet.

Howard, with his thinning hair and his sandals, standing in the living room the night before, giving cool advice about photography.

With Howard. How could she?

And yet, all the same, he had expected this moment for years.

The sand pressed up hotly against David's feet and the light glared. He was filled with the old, sure sense that the snowy night when he had handed their daughter to Caroline Gill would not pa.s.s without consequence. Life had gone on, it was full and rich; he was, in all visible ways, a success. And yet at odd moments-in the middle of surgery, driving into town, on the very edge of sleep-he'd start suddenly, stricken with guilt. He had given their daughter away. This secret stood in the middle of their family; it shaped their lives together. He knew it, he saw it, visible to him as a rock wall grown up between them. And he saw Norah and Paul reaching out and striking rock and not understanding what was happening, only that something stood between them that could not be seen or broken.

Duke Madison finished playing with a flourish, stood, and bowed. Norah, clapping hard, turned to the family sitting behind them.

"He was wonderful," she said. "Duke is so talented."

The stage was empty then, and the applause faded. One moment pa.s.sed, and another. People began to murmur.

"Where is he?" David asked, glancing down at his program. "Where's Paul?"

"Don't worry, he's here," Norah said. To David's surprise, she took his hand. He felt it, cool in his own, and was washed with an inexplicable relief, believing, for a moment, that nothing had changed; that nothing stood between them after all. "He'll be out soon."

Even as she spoke there was a stirring, and then Paul was walking onto the stage. David took him in: tall and lanky, wearing a clean white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and flashing a wry, crooked smile at the audience. David felt briefly astonished. How had it come to be that Paul was nearly grown, standing up here before this darkened room full of people with such confidence and ease? It was nothing David himself would ever have dreamed of doing, and a wave of intense nervousness washed through him. What if Paul failed up there before all these people? He was aware of Norah's hand in his own as Paul leaned over the guitar, testing a few notes, and then began to play.

It was Segovia, the program noted: two short pieces, "Estudio" and "Estudio Sin Luz." The notes of these songs, delicate and precise, were intimately familiar. David had heard Paul play these pieces a hundred times, a thousand times, before. All during the vacation in Aruba this music had spilled out of his room, faster or slower, measures and bars repeated again and again. The patterns were as familiar to him now as Paul's long deft fingers, moving with such sureness over the strings, weaving music in the air. And yet David felt he was hearing it for the first time, and maybe he was seeing Paul for the first time also. Where was the toddler who had pulled off his shoes to taste them, the boy climbing trees and standing up on his bike with no hands? Somehow, that sweet daredevil boy had become this young man. David's heart filled, beating with such intensity that he wondered for a moment if he might be having a heart attack-he was young for that, only forty-six, but such a thing might happen.

Slowly, slowly, David let himself relax into this darkness, closing his eyes, letting the music, Paul's music, move through him in waves. Tears rose in his eyes, and his throat ached. He thought of his sister, standing on the porch and singing in her clear sweet voice; music was a silvery language it seemed she'd been born speaking, just as Paul had. A deep sense of loss rose up in him, so forceful, woven of so many memories: June's voice, and Paul slamming the door shut behind him, and Norah's clothes scattered on the beach. His newborn daughter, released into Caroline Gill's waiting hands.

Too much. Too much. David was on the verge of weeping. He opened his eyes and made himself go through the periodic table-hydrogen, helium, lithium-so the knot in his stomach would not twist into tears. It worked, as it always worked in the operating room, to focus his attention. He pushed it all back: June, the music, the powerful rushing love he felt for his son. Paul's fingers came to rest on the guitar. David pulled his hand from Norah's. Fiercely, he applauded.

"Are you all right?" she asked, glancing at him. "Are you okay, David?"

He nodded, still not quite trusting himself to speak.

"He's good," he said at last, barking the words out. "He's good."

"Yes." She nodded. "That's why he wants to go to Juilliard." She was still clapping, and when Paul looked in their direction she blew him a kiss. "Wouldn't that be wonderful, if it could happen? He has a few years left to practice still, and if he gives it everything he has-who knows?"

Paul bowed, left the stage with his guitar. The applause swelled high.

"Everything he has?" David repeated. "What if it doesn't work out?"

"What if it does?"

"I don't know," David said slowly. "I just think he's too young to shut doors."

"He's so talented, David. You heard him. What if this is a door opening?"

"But he's only thirteen."

"Yes, and he loves music. He says he's most alive when he's playing the guitar."

"But-it's such an unpredictable life. Can he make a living?"

Norah's face was very serious. She shook her head. "I don't know. But what's that old saying? Do what you love, and the money will follow. Do what you love, and the money will follow. Don't shut the door on his dream." Don't shut the door on his dream."

"I won't," David said. "But I worry. I want him to be secure in life. And Juilliard is a long shot, no matter how good he is. I don't want Paul to get hurt."

Norah opened her mouth to speak, but the auditorium grew quiet as a young woman in a dark red dress came on with her violin, and they turned their attention to the stage.

David watched the young woman and all those who followed, but it was Paul's music that was with him still. When the performances were over, he and Norah made their way to the lobby, stopping to shake hands every few feet, hearing praise for their son. When they finally reached Paul, Norah pushed through the crowd and hugged him, and Paul, embarra.s.sed, patted her on the back. David caught his eye and grinned, and Paul, to his surprise, grinned back. An ordinary moment: again David let himself believe that things would be all right. But seconds later Paul seemed to catch himself. He pulled away from Norah, stepping back.

"You were great," David said. He hugged Paul, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way he was holding himself: stiff, aloof. "You were fantastic, son."

"Thanks. I was kind of nervous."

"You didn't seem nervous."

"Not at all," Norah said. "You had wonderful stage presence."

Paul shook his hands at his sides, loosely, as if to release leftover energy.

"Mark Miller invited me to play with him at the arts festival. Isn't that the best?"

Mark Miller was David's guitar instructor, with a growing reputation. David felt another surge of pleasure.

"Yes, it is the best," Norah said, laughing. "That's absolutely the best, indeed."

She looked up and caught Paul's pained expression.

"What?" she asked. "What is it?"

Paul shifted, shoving his hands in his pockets, and glanced around the crowded lobby. "It's just-I don't know-you sound kind of ridiculous, Mom. I mean, you're not exactly a teenager, okay?"

Norah flushed. David watched her grow still with hurt, and his own heart ached. She didn't know the source of Paul's anger, or his own. She did not know that her discarded clothes fluttered in a wind that he himself had set in motion so many years ago.

"That's no way to talk to your mother," he said, taking on Paul's anger. "I want you to apologize right now."

Paul shrugged. "Right. Sure. Okay. Sorry."

"Like you mean it."

"David"-Norah's hand was on his arm now-"let's not make a federal case out of this. Please. Everyone is just a little excited, that's all. Let's go home and celebrate. I was thinking I'd invite some people over. Bree said she'd come, and the Marshalls-wasn't Lizzie good on the flute? And maybe Duke's parents. What do you think, Paul? I don't know them very well, but maybe they'd like to come over too?"

"No," Paul said. He was distant now, looking past Norah at the crowded foyer.

"Really? You don't want to invite Duke's family?"

"I don't want to invite anyone," Paul said. "I just want to go home."

For a moment they stood, an island of silence in the midst of the buzzing room.

"All right then," David said at last, "let's go home."

The house was dark when they got there, and Paul went straight upstairs. They heard his footsteps moving to the bathroom and back again; they heard his door shutting softly, the turn of the lock.