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

back, separated from her by a gleaming chain of cars. Heat rose from the Fairlane's powder-blue hood, shimmering faintly in the dusk, melting the few flakes of snow that had started to fall. Phoebe sighed, and her face tightened slightly and then relaxed. Caroline, following an impulse that would amaze her later, jerked the steering wheel and slid the Fairlane off the asphalt and onto the soft gravel shoulder. She put the car in reverse and then backed up, traveling slowly past the stalled line of cars. It was strange, as if she were passing a train. There was a woman with a fur coat; three children making faces, a man in a cloth jacket, smoking. She traveled slowly backward in the softening darkness, the stilled traffic like a frozen river.
    She reached the exit without incident. It took her to route 60, where the trees were heavy with snow again. The fields were broken by houses, first a few and then many, their windows already glowing in the dusk. Soon Caroline was driving down the main street of Versailles, charmed by the brick shopfronts, searching for signs that would mark her way home.
    A dark blue Kroger sign rose up a block away. That familiar sight, sale flyers decorating its bright windows, comforted Caroline and made her realize suddenly how hungry she was. And it was what, now-Saturday, not quite evening? The stores would be closed all day tomorrow, and she had very little food in her apartment. Despite her exhaustion, she pulled into the parking lot and turned off the car.
    Phoebe, warm and light, twelve hours old, was wrapped in sleep. Caroline shouldered the diaper bag and tucked the baby beneath her coat, so small, curled close and warm. Wind moved over the asphalt, whisking the remnants of snow and a few new flakes, swirling them in corners. She picked her way through the slush, afraid of falling and hurting the baby, thinking at the same time, fleet-ingly, how easy it would be to simply leave her, in a garbage dump-ster or on the steps of a church or anywhere. Her power over this tiny life was total. A deep sense of responsibility flooded through her, making her light-headed.
    The glass door swung open, releasing a rush of light and warmth. The store was crowded. Shoppers spilled out, their carts piled high. A bag boy stood at the door.
    "We're only still open on account of the weather," he warned, as she entered. "We're closing in half an hour."
    "But the storm's over," Caroline said, and the boy laughed, excited and incredulous. His face was flushed with the heat pouring down over the automatic doors and spilling out into the evening.
    "Didn't you hear? We're supposed to get hit again tonight, but good."
    Caroline settled Phoebe in a metal cart and walked through the unfamiliar aisles. She pondered over formulas, a bottle warmer, over the rows of bottles with their selections of nipples, over bibs. She started to the checkout, then realized she had better get milk for herself, and some more diapers, and some kind of food. People passed her, and when they saw Phoebe they all smiled, and some even paused and moved the blanket aside to see her face. They said, "Oh, how sweet!" and "How old?" Caroline lied without compunction. Two weeks, she told them. "Oh, you shouldn't have her out in this," one woman with gray hair reprimanded her. "My! You should get that baby home."
    In aisle 6, while Caroline was picking out cans of tomato soup, Phoebe stirred, her small hands jerking wildly, and began to cry. Caroline vacillated for a moment, then picked up the baby and the bulky bag and went to the restroom in the back of the store. She sat on an orange plastic chair in the corner, listening to water drip from the faucet, while she balanced the infant on her lap and poured formula from the thermos into a bottle. It took several minutes for the baby to settle down, because she was so agitated and because her sucking reflex was poor. Eventually, however, she caught on, and then Phoebe drank as she had slept: fiercely,