The Memory Keeper's Daughter Part 30

"I'm leaving," he said.

A silence. Then she called back. "You'll be back tomorrow night?"

"Your concert's at six, right?"

"Right." She opened the bathroom door and stood, wrapped in a plush white towel, rubbing lotion into her face.

"Okay, then," he said, and kissed her, taking in her scent, the smoothness of her skin. "I love you," he said, as he stepped back.

She looked at him for a moment. "I know," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

I know. He brooded on her words all the way to Lexington. The drive took two hours: across the Ohio River, through the dense traffic near the airport, and finally into the beautiful rolling hills. Then he was traveling through the quiet downtown streets, past empty buildings, remembering how it had been when Main Street still was the center of life, the place where people went to shop and eat and mingle. He remembered going into the drugstore, sitting at the ice cream fountain in the back. Scoops of chocolate in a metal cup frosted with ice, the whir of the blender; mingled scents of grilled meat and antiseptic. His parents had met downtown. His mother had ridden on an escalator and risen above the crowd like the sun, and his father had followed her. He brooded on her words all the way to Lexington. The drive took two hours: across the Ohio River, through the dense traffic near the airport, and finally into the beautiful rolling hills. Then he was traveling through the quiet downtown streets, past empty buildings, remembering how it had been when Main Street still was the center of life, the place where people went to shop and eat and mingle. He remembered going into the drugstore, sitting at the ice cream fountain in the back. Scoops of chocolate in a metal cup frosted with ice, the whir of the blender; mingled scents of grilled meat and antiseptic. His parents had met downtown. His mother had ridden on an escalator and risen above the crowd like the sun, and his father had followed her.

He drove past the new bank building and the old courthouse, the empty place where the theater once stood. A thin woman was walking down the sidewalk, her head bent, her arms folded, her dark hair moving in the wind. For the first time in years Paul thought of Lauren Lobeglio, the silent determined way she had walked across the empty garage to him week after week. He had reached for her, again and then again; he had woken in the middle of so many dark nights, fearing with Lauren all he now so desired with Mich.e.l.le: marriage, children, an interweaving of lives.

He drove, humming his newest song to himself. "A Tree in the Heart" it was called-maybe he would play this one tonight, at Lynagh's pub. Mich.e.l.le would be shocked by that, but Paul didn't care. Lately, since his father died, he had been playing more at informal venues as well as concert halls: he'd pick up a guitar and play in bars or restaurants, cla.s.sical pieces but also more popular works that he had always, in the past, disdained. He couldn't explain his change of heart, but it had something to do with the intimacy in those places, the connection he felt to the audience, close enough to reach out and touch. Mich.e.l.le didn't approve; she believed it was a consequence of grief, and she wanted him to get over it. But Paul couldn't give it up. All the years of his adolescence, he had played out of anger and longing for connection, as if through music he could bring some order, some invisible beauty, into his family. Now his father was gone, and there was no one to play against. So he had this new freedom.

He drove to the old neighborhood, past the stately houses and deep front yards, the sidewalks and eternal quiet. The front door of his mother's house was closed. He turned off the engine and sat for a moment, listening to the birds and the distant sound of lawn mowers.

A tree in the heart. His father had been dead for a year and his mother was marrying Frederic and moving to France for a while, and he was here not as a child or as a visitor but as caretaker of the past. His to choose, what to keep and what to discard. He'd tried to talk with Mich.e.l.le about this, his deep sense of responsibility, how what he kept from this house of his childhood would become, in turn, what he pa.s.sed down to his own children someday-all they would ever know, in a tangible way, of what had shaped him. He'd been thinking of his father, whose past was still a mystery, but Mich.e.l.le misunderstood; she stiffened at this casual mention of children. His father had been dead for a year and his mother was marrying Frederic and moving to France for a while, and he was here not as a child or as a visitor but as caretaker of the past. His to choose, what to keep and what to discard. He'd tried to talk with Mich.e.l.le about this, his deep sense of responsibility, how what he kept from this house of his childhood would become, in turn, what he pa.s.sed down to his own children someday-all they would ever know, in a tangible way, of what had shaped him. He'd been thinking of his father, whose past was still a mystery, but Mich.e.l.le misunderstood; she stiffened at this casual mention of children. That's not what I meant, That's not what I meant, he protested, angry, and she was angry too. he protested, angry, and she was angry too. Whether or not you knew it, that's what you meant. Whether or not you knew it, that's what you meant.

He leaned back, searching in his pocket for the house key. Once his mother understood that his father's work was valuable, she'd started keeping the doors locked, though the boxes sat unopened in the studio.

Well, he didn't want to look at that stuff either.

When Paul finally got out of the car he stood for a moment on the curb, looking around the neighborhood. It was hot; a high faint breeze moved through the tops of the trees. Pin oak leaves dug into the light, creating a play of shadows on the ground. Strangely, too, the air seemed to be full of snow, a feathery gray-white substance drifting down through the blue sky. Paul reached out into the hot, humid air, feeling as if he were standing in one of his father's photographs, where trees bloomed up in the pulse of a heart, where the world was suddenly not what it seemed. He caught a flake in one palm; when he closed his hand into a fist and opened it again, his flesh was smeared with black. Ashes were drifting down like snow in the dense July heat.

He left footprints on the sidewalk as he walked up the steps. The front door was unlocked, but the house was empty. h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo? Paul called, walking through the rooms, the furniture pushed into the middle of the floor and covered with tarps, the walls bare, ready for painting. He hadn't lived here for years but he found himself pausing in the living room, stripped of everything that had made it meaningful. How many times had his mother decorated this room? And yet it was just a room, finally. Paul called, walking through the rooms, the furniture pushed into the middle of the floor and covered with tarps, the walls bare, ready for painting. He hadn't lived here for years but he found himself pausing in the living room, stripped of everything that had made it meaningful. How many times had his mother decorated this room? And yet it was just a room, finally. Mom? Mom? he called, but got no answer. Upstairs, he stood in the doorway of his own room. Boxes were piled here too, full of old things he had to sort. She hadn't thrown anything away; even his posters were rolled neatly and secured with rubber bands. There were faint rectangles on the walls where they'd once hung. he called, but got no answer. Upstairs, he stood in the doorway of his own room. Boxes were piled here too, full of old things he had to sort. She hadn't thrown anything away; even his posters were rolled neatly and secured with rubber bands. There were faint rectangles on the walls where they'd once hung.

"Mom?" he called again. He went downstairs and onto the back porch.

She was there, sitting on the steps, wearing old blue shorts and a limp white T-shirt. He stopped, wordless, taking in the strange scene. A fire still smoldered in a circle of stones, and the ashes and wisps of burned paper that had fallen around him in the front yard were here too, caught in the bushes and in his mother's hair. Papers were scattered all over the lawn, pressed against the bases of trees, against the rusting metal legs of the ancient swing set. Paul realized with shock that his mother had been burning his father's photographs. She looked up, her face streaked with ashes and with tears.

"It's all right," she said, in an even voice. "I've stopped burning them. I was so angry with your father, Paul, but then it struck me: This is your inheritance too. I only burned one box. It was the box with all the girls, so I don't imagine it was very valuable."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, sitting down beside her.

She handed him a photo of himself, one he'd never seen. He was about fourteen, sitting in the porch swing, bent over his guitar, playing intently, oblivious to everything around him, caught up in the music. It startled him that his father had captured this moment-a private moment, completely unself-conscious, one of the moments of his life when Paul felt most alive.

"Okay. But I don't understand. Why are you so mad?"

His mother pressed her hands to her face, briefly, and sighed. "Do you remember the story of the night you were born, Paul? The blizzard, how we barely got to the clinic in time?"

"Sure." He waited for her to go on, not knowing what to say, yet understanding at some instinctive level that this had to do with his twin sister, who had died.

"Do you remember the nurse, Caroline Gill? Did we tell you about her?"

"Yes. Not her name. You said she had blue eyes."

"She does. Very blue. She came here yesterday, Paul. Caroline Gill. I haven't seen her since that night. She brought news, shocking news. I'm just going to tell you, since I don't know what else to do."

She took his hand. He didn't pull away. His sister, she told him calmly, had not died at birth after all. She'd been born with Down's syndrome, and his father had asked Caroline Gill to take her to a home in Louisville.

"To spare us," his mother said, and her voice caught. "That's what she said. But she couldn't go through with it, Caroline Gill. She took your sister, Paul. She took Phoebe. All these years your twin has been alive and well, growing up in Pittsburgh."

"My sister?" Paul said. "In Pittsburgh? I was just in Pittsburgh last week." It was not an appropriate response, but he did not know what else to say; he was filled with a strange emptiness, a kind of stunned detachment. He had a sister: that was news enough. She was r.e.t.a.r.ded, not perfect, so his father had sent her away. It wasn't anger, strangely, but fear that rose up next, some old apprehension born of the pressure his father had focused on him as the only child. Born, too, of Paul's need to make his own way, even if his father might disapprove enough to leave. A fear Paul had transformed all these years, like a gifted alchemist, into anger and rebellion.

"Caroline went to Pittsburgh and started a new life," his mother said. "She raised your sister. I guess it was a struggle; it would have been, especially in those days. I keep trying to be thankful that she was good to Phoebe, but there's a part of me that's just raging."

Paul closed his eyes for a moment, trying to hold all these ideas together. The world felt flat, strange, and unfamiliar. All these years he'd tried to imagine his sister, what she would be like, but now he couldn't bring a single idea of her to mind.

"How could he?" he asked finally. "How could he keep this a secret?"

"I don't know," his mother said. "I've been asking myself the same thing for hours. How could he? And how dare he die and leave us to discover this alone?"

They sat there silently. Paul remembered an afternoon of developing photos with his father on the day after he'd trashed the darkroom, when he was full of guilt and his father was too, when the very air was charged with what they said and what they left unspoken. Camera, his father told him, came from the French chambre, chambre, room. To be room. To be in camera in camera was to operate in secret. This was what his father had believed: that each person was an isolated universe. Dark trees in the heart, a fistful of bones: that was his father's world, and it had never made him more bitter than at this moment. was to operate in secret. This was what his father had believed: that each person was an isolated universe. Dark trees in the heart, a fistful of bones: that was his father's world, and it had never made him more bitter than at this moment.

"I'm surprised he didn't give me me away," he said, thinking of how hard he'd always fought against his father's vision of the world. He had gone out and played his guitar, music rising straight up through him and entering the world, and people turned, put down their drinks, and listened, and a room full of strangers was connected, each to each. "I'm sure he wanted to." away," he said, thinking of how hard he'd always fought against his father's vision of the world. He had gone out and played his guitar, music rising straight up through him and entering the world, and people turned, put down their drinks, and listened, and a room full of strangers was connected, each to each. "I'm sure he wanted to."

"Paul!" His mother frowned. "No. If anything, he wanted even more for you because of all this. Expected even more. Demanded perfection of himself. That's one of the things that's become clear to me. That's the terrible part, actually. Now that I know about Phoebe, so many mysteries about your father make sense. That wall I always felt-it was real."

She got up, went inside, and came back with two Polaroids. "Here she is," she said. "This is your sister: Phoebe."

Paul took them and stared from one to the other: a posed picture of a girl, smiling, and then a candid shot of her shooting a basket. He was still trying to take in what his mother had told him: that this stranger with the almond eyes and st.u.r.dy legs was his twin.

"You have the same hair," Norah said softly, sitting down next to him again. "She likes to sing, Paul. Isn't that something?" She laughed. "And guess what-she's a basketball fan."

Paul's laugh was sharp and full of pain.

"Well," he said, "I guess Dad chose the wrong kid."

His mother took the photos in her ash-stained hands.

"Don't be bitter, Paul. Phoebe has Down's syndrome. I don't know much about it, but Caroline Gill had a lot to say. So much I could hardly take it all in, really."

Paul had been running his thumb along the concrete edge of the step and now he stopped, watching blood seep up where he'd sc.r.a.ped it raw.

"Don't be bitter? We visited her grave," he said, remembering his mother walking through the cast-iron gate with her arms full of flowers, telling him to wait in the car. Remembering her kneeling the dirt, planting morning glory seeds. "What about that?"

"I don't know. It was Dr. Bentley's land, so he must have known too. Your father never wanted to take me there. I had to fight so hard. At the time I thought he was afraid I'd have a nervous breakdown. Oh, it made me so mad-the way he always knew best."

Paul started at the vehemence in her voice, remembering his conversation that morning with Mich.e.l.le. He pressed the edge of his thumb to his lips and sucked away the little beads of blood, glad for the sharp copper taste. They sat in silence for a time, looking at the backyard with its wisps of ash, its scattered photos and damp boxes.

"What does it mean," he asked at last, "that she's r.e.t.a.r.ded? I mean, day-to-day."

His mother looked at the photographs again. "I don't know. Caroline said she's quite high-functioning, whatever that means. She has a job. A boyfriend. She went to school. But apparently she can't really live on her own."

"This nurse-Caroline Gill-why did she come here now, after all these years? What did she want?"

"She just wanted to tell me," his mother said softly. "That's all. She didn't ask for anything. She was opening a door, Paul. I really do believe that. It was an invitation. But whatever happens next is up to us."

"And what is that?" he asked. "What happens now?"

"I'll go to Pittsburgh. I know I have to see her. But after that, I don't know anything. Should I bring her back here? We'll be strangers to her. And I have to talk with Frederic; he has to know." She put her face in her hands for a moment. "Oh, Paul-how can I go to France for two years and leave her behind? I don't know what to do. It's too much for me, all at once."

A breeze fluttered the photographs scattered across the lawn. Paul sat quietly, struggling with many confused emotions: anger at his father, and surprise, and sadness for what he'd lost. Worry, too; it was terrible to be concerned about this, but what if he had to take care of this sister who couldn't live on her own? How could he possibly do that? He'd never even met a r.e.t.a.r.ded person, and he found that the images he had were all negative. None of them fit with the sweetly smiling girl in the photograph, and that was disconcerting too.

"I don't know either," Paul said. "Maybe the first thing is to clean this mess up."

"Your inheritance," his mother said.

"Not just mine," he said thoughtfully, testing the words. "It's my sister's too."

They worked through that day and the next, sorting the photos and repacking the boxes, dragging them into the cool depths of the garage. While his mother met with the curators, Paul called Mich.e.l.le to explain what had happened and to tell her he would not be at her concert after all. He expected her to be angry, but she listened without comment and hung up. When he tried to call back, the machine picked up; that happened all day long. More than once he considered getting in his car and driving like wild home to Cincinnati, but he knew it would do no good. Knew, too, that he didn't really want to go on this way, always loving Mich.e.l.le more than she could love him back. So he forced himself to stay. He turned to the physical work of packing up the house, and in the evening he walked downtown to the library to check out books on Down's syndrome.

On Tuesday morning, quiet and distracted and full of apprehension, he and his mother got into her car and drove over the river and through the lush late-summer green of Ohio. It was very hot, the leaves of the corn shimmering against the expansive blue sky. They arrived in Pittsburgh amid returning Fourth of July traffic, traveling through the tunnel that opened onto the bridge in a breathtaking view of the two rivers merging. They crawled through downtown traffic and followed the Monongahela, traveling through another long tunnel. At last they pulled up at Caroline Gill's brick house on a busy tree-lined street.

She had told them to park in the alley and they did, getting out of the car and stretching. Beyond a strip of gra.s.s, steps led down into a narrow lot and the high brick house where his sister had grown up. Paul took the house in, so much like Cincinnati, so different from his own quiet childhood, its suburban ease and comfort. Traffic rushed by on the street, past the little postage-stamp yards, into the city sprawling all around them, hot and dense.

The gardens all along the alley were thick with flowers, hollyhocks and irises in every color, their white and purple tongues vivid against the gra.s.s. In this garden a woman was working, tending a row of lush tomato plants. A hedge of lilac bushes grew up behind her, the leaves flashing their pale green undersides in a breeze that pushed the hot air without cooling it. The woman, wearing dark blue shorts and a white T-shirt and bright flowered cotton gloves, sat up from where she was kneeling and ran the back of her hand across her forehead. The traffic rushed; she hadn't heard them coming. She broke a leaf off a tomato plant and pressed it to her nose.

"Is that her?" Paul asked. "Is that the nurse?"

His mother nodded. She had folded her arms tightly, protectively, across her chest. Her sungla.s.ses masked her eyes, but even so he could see how nervous she was, how pale and tense.

"Yes. That's Caroline Gill. Paul, now that it's come to it, I'm not sure I can do this. Maybe we should just go home."

"We've driven all this way. And they're expecting us."

She smiled a small tired smile. She'd hardly slept in days; even her lips were pale.

"They can't possibly be expecting us," she said. "Not really."

Paul nodded. The back door swung open, but the figure on the porch was hidden in the shadows. Caroline stood, brushing her hands on her shorts.

"Phoebe," she called. "There you are."

Paul felt his mother grow tense beside him, but he didn't look at her. He looked instead at the porch. The moment stretched out, extended, and the sun pressed down against them. At last the figure emerged, carrying two gla.s.ses of water.

He stared hard. She was short, much shorter than he was, and her hair was darker, thinner and more flyaway, cut in a simple bowl shape around her face. She was pale, like his mother, and from this distance her features seemed delicate in a broad face, a face that seemed somewhat flattened, as if it had been pressed too long against a wall. Her eyes were slightly upslanted, her limbs short. She was not a girl anymore, as in the photographs, but grown, his own age, with gray in her hair. A few gray hairs flashed his beard too, when he let it grow. She wore flowered shorts and she was stocky, a little plump, her knees brushing together when she walked.

Oh, his mother said. She had placed one hand on her heart. Her eyes were hidden by the sungla.s.ses, and he was glad; this moment was too private. his mother said. She had placed one hand on her heart. Her eyes were hidden by the sungla.s.ses, and he was glad; this moment was too private.

"It's okay," he said. "Let's just stand here for a while."

The sun was so hot, and the traffic rushed. Caroline and Phoebe sat side by side on the porch steps, drinking their water.

"I'm ready," his mother said at last, and they went down the steps to the narrow patch of lawn between the vegetables and flowers. Caroline Gill saw them first; she shaded her eyes, squinting against the sun, and stood up. Phoebe stood up too, and for a few seconds they looked at one another across the lawn. Then Caroline took Phoebe's hand in hers. They met by the tomato plants, the heavy fruit already starting to ripen, filling the air with a clean, acrid scent. No one spoke. Phoebe was gazing at Paul, and after a long moment she reached across the s.p.a.ce between them and touched his cheek, lightly, gently, as if to see if he was real. Paul nodded without speaking, looking at her gravely; her gesture seemed right to him, somehow. Phoebe wanted to know him, that was all. He wanted to know her too, but he had no idea what to say to her this sudden sister, so intimately connected to him yet such a stranger. He was also terribly self-conscious, afraid of doing the wrong thing. How did you talk to a r.e.t.a.r.ded person? The books he had read over the weekend, all those clinical accounts-none of this had prepared him for the real human being whose hand brushed so lightly against his face.

It was Phoebe who recovered first.

"h.e.l.lo," she said, extending her hand to him formally. Paul took her hand, feeling how small her fingers were, still unable to say a single word. "I'm Phoebe. Pleased to meet you." Her speech was thick, hard to understand. Then she turned to his mother and did this again.

"h.e.l.lo," his mother said, taking her hand, then clasping it between her own. Her voice was charged with emotion. "h.e.l.lo, Phoebe. I'm very glad to meet you too."

"It's so hot," Caroline said. "Why don't we go inside? I have the fans on. And Phoebe made iced tea this morning. She's been excited about your visit, haven't you, honey?"

Phoebe smiled and nodded, suddenly shy. They followed her into the coolness of the house. The rooms were small but immaculate, with beautiful woodwork and French doors opening between the living room and dining room. The living room was full of sunlight and shabby, wine-colored furniture. A ma.s.sive loom sat in the far corner.

"I'm making a scarf," Phoebe said.

"It's beautiful," his mother said, crossing the room to finger the yarns, dark pink and cream and yellow and pale green. She'd taken off her sungla.s.ses and she looked up, her eyes watery, her voice still charged with emotion. "Did you choose these colors yourself, Phoebe?"

"My favorite colors," Phoebe said.

"Mine too," his mother said. "When I was your age, those were my favorite colors too. My bridesmaids wore dark pink and cream, and they carried yellow roses."

Paul was startled to know this; all the photos he had seen were black-and-white.

"You can have this scarf," Phoebe said, sitting down at the loom. "I'll make it for you."

"Oh," his mother said, and closed her eyes briefly. "Phoebe, that's lovely."

Caroline brought iced tea, and the four of them sat uneasily in the living room, talking awkwardly about the weather, about Pittsburgh's budding renaissance in the wake of the steel industry collapse. Phoebe sat quietly at the loom, moving the shuttle back and forth, looking up now and then when her name was mentioned. Paul kept casting sidelong glances at her. Phoebe's hands were small and plump. She concentrated on the shuttle, biting at her lower lip. At last his mother drained her tea and spoke.

"Well," she said. "Here we are. And I don't know what happens now."

"Phoebe," Caroline said. "Why don't you join us?" Quietly, Phoebe came over and sat next to Caroline on the couch.

His mother began, speaking too quickly, clasping her hands together, nervous. "I don't know what's best. There are no maps for this place we're in, are there? But I want to offer my home to Phoebe. She can come and live with us, if she wants to do that. I've thought about it so much, these last days. It would take a whole lifetime to catch up." Here she paused to take a breath, and then she turned to Phoebe, who was looking at her with wide, wary eyes. "You're my daughter, Phoebe, do you understand that? This is Paul, your brother."

Phoebe took hold of Caroline's hand. "This is my mother," she said.

"Yes." Norah glanced at Caroline and tried again. "That's your mother," she said. "But I'm your mother too. You grew in my body, Phoebe." She patted her stomach. "You grew right here. But then you were born, and your mother Caroline raised you."

"I'm going to marry Robert," Phoebe said. "I don't want to live with you."

Paul, who had watched his mother struggle all weekend, felt Phoebe's words physically, as if she'd kicked him. He saw his mother feel them too.

"It's okay, Phoebe," Caroline said. "No one's going to make you go away."

"I didn't mean-I only wanted to offer-" His mother stopped and took another deep breath. Her eyes were deep green, troubled. She tried again. "Phoebe, Paul and I, we'd like to get to know you. That's all. Please don't be scared of us, okay? What I want to say-what I mean-is that my house is open to you. Always. Wherever I go in the world, you can come there too. And I hope you will. I hope you'll come and visit me someday, that's all. Would that be okay with you?"

"Maybe," Phoebe conceded.

"Phoebe," Caroline said, "Why don't you show Paul around for a while? Give Mrs. Henry and me a chance to talk a little bit. And don't worry, sweetheart," she added, resting her hand lightly on Phoebe's arm. "No one's going anywhere. Everything's okay."

Phoebe nodded and stood up.