Free The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards Page A

digging holes in the light. The clock on the mantel ticked softly. She felt she should be angry, but she was not. The idea of a memorial service seemed to have stopped the draining of energy and will that had begun on the steps of the clinic and had not ceased until this moment.
    “Maybe you’re right,” she said. “I don’t know. Maybe. Something very small. Something quiet.”
    Bree handed her the telephone. “Here. Just start asking questions.”
    Norah took a deep breath and began. She called the new pastor first and found herself explaining that she wanted to have a service, yes, and outside, in the courtyard. Yes, rain or shine. For Phoebe, my daughter, who died at birth. Over the next two hours, she repeated the words again and again: to the florist, to the woman in classifieds at The Leader, to her sewing friends, who agreed to do the flowers. Each time, Norah felt the calm within her swell and grow, something akin to the release of having Paul latch on and drink, connecting her back to the world.
    Bree left for class, and Norah walked through the silent house, taking in the chaos. In the bedroom, afternoon light slanted through the glass, showing every inattention. She had seen this disorder every day without caring, but now, for the first time since the birth, she felt energy rather than inertia. She pulled the sheets taut on the beds, opened the windows, dusted. Off came the denim maternity jumper. She searched her closet until she found a skirt that would fit and a blouse that didn’t strain against her breasts. She frowned at her image in the mirror, still so plump, so bulky, but she felt better. She took time to do her hair too, a hundred strokes. Her brush was full when she finished, a thick nest of gold down, all the luxuriance of pregnancy falling away as her hormone levels readjusted. She had known it would happen. Still, the loss made her want to weep.
    That’s enough, she said sternly to herself, applying lipstick, blinking away the tears. That’s enough, Norah Asher Henry.
    She pulled on a sweater before she went downstairs and found her flat beige shoes. Her feet, at least, were slim again.
    She checked on Paul—still sleeping, his breath soft but real against her fingertips—put one of the frozen casseroles into the oven, set the table, and opened a bottle of wine. She was discarding the wilted flowers, their stems cool and pulpy in her hands, when the front door opened. Her heart quickened at David’s footsteps, and then he stood in the doorway, his dark suit loose on his thin frame, his face flushed from his walk. He was tired, and she saw him register with relief the clean house, her familiar clothes, the scent of cooking food. He held another bunch of daffodils, gathered from the garden. When she kissed him, his lips were cool against her own.
    “Hi,” he said. “Looks like you had a good day here.”
    “Yes. It was good.” She nearly told him what she’d done, but instead she made him a drink: whiskey, neat, like he liked it. He leaned against the counter while she washed the lettuce. “How about you?” she asked, turning off the water.
    “Not so bad,” he said. “Busy. Sorry about last night. A patient with a heart attack. Not fatal, thankfully.”
    “Were bones involved?” she asked.
    “Oh. Yes, he fell down the stairs. Broke his tibia. The baby’s asleep?”
    Norah glanced at the clock and sighed. “I should probably get him up,” she said. “If I’m ever going to get him on a schedule.”
    “I’ll do it,” David said, carrying the flowers upstairs. She heard him moving above, and she imagined him leaning down to touch Paul’s forehead lightly, to hold his small hand. But in a few minutes David came back downstairs alone, wearing jeans and a sweater. “He looked so peaceful,” David said. “Let’s let him sleep.”
    They went into the living room and sat together on the sofa. For a moment it was like before, just the two of them, and the world around them