Free The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards

Norah. You must be exhausted." She pulled out a bulky package, brightly wrapped, with a cluster of narrow ribbons in tight curls. "We took up a collection, thinking you probably had all the diaper pins a mother could want."
    The women laughed, relieved. Norah smiled too and opened the box, tearing the paper: a jumper chair, with a metal frame and a cloth seat, similar to one she had once admired at a friend's house.
    "Of course, he won't be able to use it for a few months," Sally was saying. "Still, we couldn't think of anything better, once he's on the move!"
    "And here," said Flora Marshall, standing up, two soft packages in her hands.
    Flora was older than the others in the group, older even than Ruth, but wiry and active. She knitted blankets for every new baby in the church. Suspecting from her size that Norah might have twins, she had knitted two receiving blankets, working on them during their evening sessions and the coffee hour at church, balls of soft bright yarn spilling from her bag. Pastel yellows and greens, soft blues and pinks intermingled-she wasn't about to lay any bets on whether they would be boys or girls, she joked. But twins, she'd been sure about that. No one had taken her seriously at the time.
    Norah took the two packages, pressing back tears. The soft familiar wool cascaded onto her lap when she opened the first, and her lost daughter seemed very near. Norah felt a rush of gratitude to Flora who, with the wisdom of grandmothers, had known just what to do. She tore open the second package, eager for the other blanket, as colorful and soft as the first.
    "It's a little big," Flora apologized, when the playsuit fell into her lap. "But then, they grow so fast at this age."
    "Where's the other blanket?" Norah demanded. She heard her voice, harsh, like the cry of a bird, and she felt astonished; all her life she'd been known for her calm, had prided herself on her even temperament, her careful choices. "Where's the blanket you made for my little girl?"
    Flora flushed and glanced around the room for help. Ruth took Norah's hand and pressed it hard. Norah felt the smooth skin, the surprising pressure of her fingers. David had told her the names of these bones once, but she could not remember them. Worse, she was crying.
    "Now, now. You have a beautiful baby boy," Ruth said.
    "He had a sister," Norah whispered, determined, looking around at all the faces. They had come here out of kindness. They were sad, yes, and she was making them sadder by the second. What was happening to her? All her life she had tried so hard to do the right thing. "Her name was Phoebe. I want somebody to say her name. Ekfyou hear me?" She stood up. "I want someone to remember her name."
    There was a cool cloth on her forehead then, and hands helping her lie down on the couch. They told her to close her eyes, and she did. Tears still slipped beneath her eyelids, a spring welling up, she couldn't seem to stop. People were speaking again, voices swirling like snow in the wind, talking about what to do. It wasn't uncommon, someone said. Even in the best of circumstances, it wasn't strange at all to have this sudden low a few days after birth. They ought to call David, another voice suggested, but then Bree was there, calm and gracious, ushering them all to the door. When they had gone Norah opened her eyes to find Bree wearing one of her aprons, the waistband with its rickrack trim tied loosely around her slender waist.
    Flora Marshall's blanket was on the floor amid the wrapping paper, and she picked it up, weaving her fingers into the soft yarn. Norah wiped her eyes and spoke.
    "David said her hair was dark. Like his."
    Bree looked at her intently. "You said you were going to have a memorial service, Norah. Why wait? Why not do it now? Maybe it would bring you some peace."
    Norah shook her head. "What David says, what everyone says, it makes sense. I should focus on the baby I have."
    Bree shrugged. "Except you're not doing that. The