Read Online The Memory Keeper's Daughter by Kim Edwards - Free Book Online Page B

ended up in her old denim maternity jumper, gratifyingly loose, which she had sworn she'd never wear again. Dressed but barefoot, she wandered through the house, room to room. Like her body, the rooms were spilling over, wild, chaotic, out of control. Soft dust had gathered everywhere, clothes were scattered on every surface, and covers spilled from the unmade beds. There was a clean trail in the dust on the dresser, where David had placed a vase of daffodils, brown already at the edges; the windows were cloudy too. In another day Bree would leave and their mother would arrive. At the thought of this, Norah sat helplessly on the edge of the bed, a tie of David's hanging limply in her hands. The disorder of the house pressed on her like a weight, as if the very sunlight had taken on substance, gravity. She didn't have the energy to fight it. What was more, and more distressing, she didn't seem to care.
    The doorbell rang. Bree's sharp footsteps moved through the rooms, echoing.
    Norah recognized the voices right away. For a moment longer she stayed where she was, feeling drained of energy, wondering how she could get Bree to send them away. But the voices came closer, near the stairwell, fading again as they entered the living room; it was the night circle from her church, bearing gifts, eager for a glimpse of the new baby. Two sets of friends had already come, one from her sewing circle and another from her china-painting club, filling the refrigerator with food, passing Paul from hand to hand like a trophy. Norah had done these same things for new mothers time and again, and now she was shocked to find she felt resentment rather than appreciation: the interruptions, the burden of thank-you notes, and she didn't care about the food; she didn't even want it.
    Bree was calling. Norah went downstairs without bothering to put on lipstick or even brush her hair. Her feet were still bare.
    "I look awful," she announced, defiant, entering the room.
    "Oh, no," Ruth Starling said, patting the sofa by her side, though Norah noted, with a strange satisfaction, the glances being exchanged among the others. She sat down obediently, crossing her legs at the ankles, and folding her hands in her lap like she'd done in school as a little girl.
    "Paul's just gone to sleep," she said. "I won't wake him up." There was anger in her voice, real aggression.
    "It's alkright, my dear," Ruth said. She was nearly seventy, with fine white hair, carefully styled. Her husband of fifty years had passed away the year before. What had it cost her, Norah wondered, what did it cost her now, to maintain her appearance, her cheerful demeanor? "You've been through such a lot," Ruth said.
    Norah felt her daughter again, a presence just beyond sight, and quelled a sudden urge to run upstairs and check on Paul. I'm going crazy, she thought, and stared at the floor.
    "How about some tea?" Bree asked, with cheery unease. Before anyone could answer, she disappeared into the kitchen.
    Norah did her best to concentrate on the conversation: cotton or batiste for the hospital pillows, what people thought about the new pastor, whether or not they should donate blankets to the Salvation Army. Then Sally announced that Kay Marshall's baby, a girl, had been delivered the night before.
    "Seven pounds exactly," Sally said. "Kay looks wonderful. The baby's beautiful. They named her Elizabeth, after her grandmother. They say it was an easy labor."
    There was a silence, then, as everyone realized what had happened. Norah felt as if the quiet were expanding from some place in the center of her, rippling through the room. Sally looked up, flushed pink with regret.
    "Oh," she said. "Oh, Norah. I'm so sorry."
    Norah wanted to speak and set things in motion again. The right words hovered in her mind, but she could not seem to find her voice. She sat silently, and the silence became a lake, an ocean, where they all might drown.
    "Well," Ruth said briskly, at last. "Bless your heart,