"Well, it's not mine," Al said. "Even if it's a million dollars, it's not mine."
She remembered, then, how he'd responded when Doro had given them the house: this same reluctance to accept anything he hadn't earned with his own hands.
"That's true," she said. "The money is for Phoebe. But you and I, we raised her. If she's taken care of financially, we can worry less.
We can have more freedom. Al, we've worked hard. Maybe it's time for us to retire."
"What do you mean?" he asked. "You want Phoebe to move?"
"No. I don't want that at all. But Phoebe wants it. She and Robert are downstairs now." Caroline smiled a little, remembering the sheaf of roses she'd left lying on the counter by the pile of half-peeled carrots. "They went to the grocery store together. On the bus. They bought me flowers because it's Saturday. So, I don't know, Al. Who am I to say? Maybe they will be okay, more or less, together."
He nodded, thinking, and she was struck by how tired he looked, how fragile all their lives were, in the end. All these years she had tried to imagine every possibility, to keep everyone safe, and yet here was Al, grown a little older, with a broken leg—an out?come that had never crossed her mind.
"I'll make a pot roast tomorrow," she said, naming his favorite meal. "Will pizza be okay tonight?"
"Pizza's fine," Al said. "Get it from that place on Braddock, though."
She touched his shoulder and started down the stairs to make the call. On the landing she paused, listening to Robert and Phoebe in the kitchen, their low voices punctuated by a burst of laughter. The world was a vast and unpredictable and sometimes frightening place. But right now her daughter was in the kitchen, laughing with her boyfriend, and her husband dozed with a book in his lap, and she didn't have to cook dinner. She took a deep breath. The air held the distant scent of roses—a clean scent, fresh as snow.
July i, 1989
HE STUDIO OVER THE GARAGE, WITH ITS HIDDEN DARK-
room, had not been opened since David moved out seven years ago, but now that the house was going up for sale Norah had no choice but to face it. David's work was in favor again, worth quite a lot of money; curators were coming tomorrow to view the collection. So Norah had been sitting on the painted floor since early morning, slicing through boxes with an X-Acto knife, lifting out folders full of photographs and negatives and notes, de?termined to remained detached, to be ruthless, in this process of se?lection. It should not have taken long; David had been so meticulous, and everything was neatly labeled. A single day, she'd thought, no more.
She hadn't counted on memory, the slow lure of the past. It was early afternoon already, growing hot, and she had only made it through one box. A fan whirred in the window and a fine sweat gathered on her skin; the glossy photos stuck to her fingertips. They seemed at once so near and so impossible, those years of her youth. There she was with a scarf tied gaily in her carefully styled hair, Bree beside her in sweeping earrings, a flowing patchwork skirt. And here was a rare photo of David, so serious, with a crew cut, Paul just an infant in his arms. Memories rushed up, too, filling the room, holding Norah in place: the scents of lilacs and ozone and Paul's infant skin; David's touch, the clearing of his throat; the sun?light of a lost afternoon moving in patterns on the wooden floors. What had it meant, Norah asked herself, that they had lived these moments in this particular way? What did it mean that the photos did not fit at all with the woman she remembered being? If she looked closely she could see it, the distance and longing in her gaze, the way she always seemed to be looking just beyond the photo's edge. But a stranger wouldn't notice, Paul wouldn't; from these im?ages alone no one could suspect the intricate mysteries of her heart.
A wasp roamed and floated near the ceiling. Each year they re?turned and built a nest somewhere in the eaves. Now that Paul was grown, Norah had given up worrying about them. She stood and stretched and got a Coke from the refrigerator where David had once stored chemicals and slender packages of film. She drank it, gazing out the window at the wild irises and honeysuckle in the backyard. Norah had always meant to make something of it, do more than hang bird feeders from the honeysuckle branches, but in all these years she hadn't, and now she never would. In two months she would marry Frederic and leave this place forever.
He had been transferred to France. Twice the transfer had fallen through, and they had talked of moving in together in Lexington, selling both their places and starting fresh: something brand new, a place where no one else had ever lived. Their talk was idle, lan?guorous, conversations that bloomed over their dinners together or while they lay together in the dusk, glasses of wine on the bedside tables, the moon a pale disk in the window above the trees. Lexing?ton, France, Taiwan—it didn't matter to Norah, who felt she had already discovered another country with Frederic. Sometimes, at night, she closed her eyes and lay awake, listening to his steady breathing, filled with a deep sense of contentment. It pained her to realize how far she and David had drifted away from love. His fault, certainly, but hers too. She had held herself so close and tight, she had been so afraid of everything after Phoebe died. But those years were gone now; they had flowed away, leaving nothing but memory behind.
So France was fine. When the news came that the posting was just outside of Paris, she was glad. They had already rented a little cottage at the edge of the river in Chateauneuf. Frederic was there at this very moment, putting in a greenhouse for his orchids. Even now it filled Norah's imagination: the smooth red tiles of the patio, the slight river breeze in the birch tree by the door, and the way the sunlight fell on Frederic's shoulders, his arms, as he worked to frame the walls of glass. She could walk to the train station and be in Paris in two hours, or she could walk to the village and buy fresh cheese and bread, and dark gleaming bottles of wine, her cloth tote bags growing heavier with each stop. She could saute onions, paus?ing to look up at the river moving slowly beyond the fence. On the patio in the evenings she'd spent there, the moonflowers had opened with their lemony fragrance and she and Frederic sat drinking wine and talking. Such simple things, really. Such happi?ness. Norah glanced at the boxes of photographs, wanting to take that young woman she had been by the arm and shake her gently. Keep going, she wanted to tell her. Don't give up. Your life will be fine in the end.
She drained her Coke and went back to work, bypassing the box in which she'd gotten so mired and opening another. Inside this one there were file folders neatly arranged, organized by year. The first held shots of anonymous infants, sleeping in their carriages, sitting on lawns or porches, held in the warm arms of their mothers. The photos were all 8-by-ios, glossy black-and-whites; even Norah could tell that they were David's early experiments in light. The cu?rators would be pleased. Some were so dark the figures were barely visible; others were washed nearly white. David must have been testing the range of his camera, keeping the subject the same and varying the focus, the aperture, the available light.
The second folder was very similar, and the third and the fourth. Photos of girls, not infants anymore but two and three and four years old. Girls in their Easter dresses at church, girls running in the park, girls eating ice cream or clustered outside the school at re?cess. Girls dancing, throwing balls, laughing, crying. Norah frowned, flipping more quickly through the images. There wasn't one child she recognized. The photos were arranged carefully by age. When she skipped to the end, she found not girls but young women, walking, shopping, talking to each other. The last was a young woman in the library, her chin resting in her hand as she gazed out the window, a distant expression, familiar to Norah, in her eyes.
Norah let the folder fall into her lap, spilling photos. What was this? All these girls, young women: it could have been a sexual fixa?tion, yet Norah knew instinctively that it was not. What the photos shared in common was not a darkness but an innocence. Children playing in the park across the street, wind lifting their hair and clothes. Even the older ones, the grown women, had this quality; they turned a distracted gaze on the world, wide-eyed, somehow, and questioning. Loss lingered in the play of lights and shad?ows; these were photos full of yearning. Of longing, yes, not lust.
She flipped back the box lid to read the label, survey was all it said.
Quickly, careless of the disorder she was creating, Norah went through all the other boxes, pulling one off another. In the middle of the room she found another with that bold black word survey. She opened it and pulled the folders out.
Not girls this time, not strangers, but Paul. Folder after folder of Paul in all his ages, his transformations and his growth, his turning-away rage. His intentness and his stunning gift of music, fingers fly?ing over his guitar.
For a long time Norah sat very still, agitated, on the edge of knowing. And then suddenly the knowledge was hers, irrevocable, searing: all those years of silence, when he would not speak of their lost daughter, David had been keeping this record of her absence. Paul, and a thousand other girls, all growing.
Paul, but not Phoebe.
Norah might have wept. She longed suddenly to talk with David. All these years, he'd missed her too. All these photographs, all this silent, secret longing. She went through the images once more, studying Paul as a boy: catching a baseball, playing the piano, striking a goofy pose under the tree in the backyard. All these memories he'd collected, moments Norah had never seen. She studied them again and then again, trying to imagine herself in the world David had experienced, into his mind's eye.
Two hours passed. She was aware of being hungry, but she couldn't bring herself to leave or even to rise from her place on the floor. So many photos, all these pictures of Paul, all these anony?mous girls and women, mirroring his age. Always, all these years, she had felt her daughter's presence, a shadow, standing just be?yond every photo that was taken. Phoebe, lost at birth, lingered just out of sight, as if she had risen moments earlier and left the room, as if her scent, the brush of air from her passing, still moved in the spaces she'd left. Norah had kept this feeling to herself, fearing that anyone who heard her would think her sentimental, even crazy. It astonished her now, it brought tears to her eyes, to realize how deeply David, too, had felt their daughter's absence. He had looked for her everywhere, it seemed—in every girl, in each young woman—and had never found her.
Finally, into the expanding rings of silence in which she sat, gravel popped faintly: a car in the driveway. Someone was arriving. Distantly she heard a slammed door, footsteps, the doorbell ringing in the house. She shook her head and swallowed, but she did not get up. Whoever it was would go away and come back later, or not. She was wiping tears from her eyes; whoever wanted her could wait. But no. The furniture appraiser had promised to stop by this after?noon. So Norah pressed her hands across her cheeks and entered the house from the back, pausing to splash water, on her face and run a comb through her hair. "I'm coming," she called over the rush of water when the doorbell rang again. She walked through the rooms, the furniture all clustered into the center and covered with tarps: the painters were coming tomorrow. She calculated the days left, wondering if she could possibly get everything done. Remem?bering, for an instant, those evenings in Chateauneuf, where it seemed possible her life would always be serene, expanding into calm like a flower budding into air.
She opened the door, still drying off her hands.
The woman on the porch was vaguely familiar. She was dressed practically, in crisp dark-blue pants. She wore a white cotton sweater with short sleeves, and her thick hair was gray and cut very short. Even at first glance she gave the impression of being orga?nized, efficient, the sort of person who wouldn't stand for any sort of nonsense, the sort of person who took charge of the world and got things done. She didn't speak, however. She seemed startled to see Norah, taking her in so intently that Norah folded her arms de?fensively, aware suddenly of her dust-streaked shorts, her sweat-damp T-shirt. She glanced across the street, then looked back at the woman on her porch. She caught the woman's gaze and focused on her wide-set eyes, so blue, and then she knew.
Her breath snagged. "Caroline? Caroline Gill?"
The woman nodded, her blue eyes falling shut for a moment as if something had been settled between them. But Norah did not know what. The presence of this woman from the long-lost past had set up a fluttering deep in her heart, taking her back to that dreamlike night when she and David had ridden to the clinic through the silent snow-filled streets, when Caroline Gill had ad?ministered gas and held her hand during the contractions, saying Loof^ at me, loo't at me now, Mrs. Henry, I'm right here with you and you're doing just fine. Those blue eyes, the steady grip of her hand, as deeply woven into the fabric of those moments as her memory of David's methodical driving or Paul's first fluted cry.
"What are you doing here?" Norah asked. "David died a year ago."
"I know," Caroline said, nodding. "I know, I'm so sorry. Look, Norah—Mrs. Henry—I have something I need to talk with you about, something rather difficult. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes. When it's convenient. I can come back if this isn't a good time."
There was both an urgency and a firmness in her voice, and against her better judgment Norah found herself stepping back and letting Caroline Gill step into the foyer. Boxes, neatly filled and taped, were stacked against the walls. "You'll have to excuse the house," she said. She gestured to the living room, the furniture all pushed to the center of the room. "I have painters coming in to give some bids. And a furniture appraiser. I'm getting married again," she added. "I'm moving."
"I'm glad I caught you then," Caroline said. "I'm glad I didn't wait."
Caught me why? Norah wondered, but from force of habit she invited Caroline into the kitchen, the only place they could com?fortably sit. As they walked through the dining room, not speaking, Norah remembered the abruptness of Caroline's disappearance, the scandal. She glanced back twice, unable to shake the strange sensa?tions Caroline's presence had stirred. Sunglasses hung from a chain around Caroline's neck. Her features had grown stronger over the years, her nose and chin more pronounced. She'd be formidable, Norah decided, in a business situation. Not a person to be taken lightly. Still, Norah realized, her uneasiness came from another source. Caroline had known her as a different person—a woman young and unsure, embedded in a life and a past she was not par?ticularly proud to remember.
