“Not now, Norah.” David glanced at Paul in the rearview mirror. He was quiet, uncomplaining, but tears streaked his pale cheeks.
In the ER, David used his influence to hurry the process of admission and X-ray. He helped Paul get settled in a bed, left Norah reading him stories from a book she’d grabbed in the waiting room, and went to pick up the X-rays. When he took them from the technician, he saw his hands were trembling, so he walked down the halls, strangely silent on this beautiful Saturday afternoon, to his office. The door swung shut behind him, and for a moment David stood alone in the darkness, trying to compose himself. He knew the walls to be a pale sea green, the desk scattered with papers. He knew that instruments, steel and chrome, were lined up in trays below the glass-fronted cupboards. But he could see nothing. He raised his hand and touched his palm to his nose, but even so close he could not see his own flesh, only feel it.
He groped for the light switch; it gave at his touch. A panel, mounted on the wall, pulsed and then filled with a steady white light that bleached things of their color. Against the light were negatives he’d developed the week before: a series of photos of a human vein, taken in sequence, in gradations of precisely controlled light, the level of contrast changing subtly with each one. What excited David was the precision he’d achieved, and the way the images did not resemble a part of the human body as much as other things: lightning branching down to earth, rivers moving darkly, a wavering expanse of sea.
His hands were shaking. He forced himself to take several deep breaths, then took the negatives down and slipped Paul’s X-rays beneath the clips. His son’s small bones, solid yet delicate, stood out with ghostly clarity. David traced the light-filled image with his fingertips. So beautiful, the bones of his small son, opaque yet appearing here as if they were filled with light, translucent images floating in the darkness of his office, as strong and as delicate as the intertwined branches of a tree.
The damage was simple enough: clear, straightforward fractures of the ulna and the radius. These bones ran parallel; the greatest danger was that, in healing, the two might fuse together.
He flipped on the overhead light and started back down the hall, thinking of the beautiful hidden world inside the body. Years ago, in a shoe store in Morgantown, while his father tried on work boots and frowned over the price tag, David had stood on a machine that X-rayed his feet, turning his ordinary toes into something ghostly, mysterious. Rapt, he’d studied the wands and bulbs of shadowy light that were his toes, his heels.
It was, though he would not realize it for years, a defining moment. That there were other worlds, invisible, unknown, beyond imagination even, was a revelation to him. In the weeks that followed, watching deer run and birds lift off, leaves fluttering and rabbits bursting suddenly from the undergrowth, David stared hard, seeking to glimpse their hidden structures. And June—sitting on the porch steps, calmly shelling peas or shucking corn, her lips parted with concentration—he had stared at her too. For she was like him yet not like him, and what separated them was a great mystery.
His sister, this girl who loved wind, who laughed at the sun on her face and was not afraid of snakes. She had died at age twelve, and by now she was nothing but the memory of love—nothing, now, but bones.
And his daughter, six years old, walked in the world, but he did not know her.
When he got back, Norah was holding Paul in her lap, though he was almost too big for such comfort, his head resting awkwardly on her shoulder. His arm was trembling with minor convulsions from the trauma.
“Is it broken?” she asked right away.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” David said. “Come and take a look.”
He slipped the X-rays onto the light table and pointed out the darkened lines of fracture.
Skeletons in the closet, people said, and bone dry, and I have a bone to pick with you. But bones were alive; they grew and mended themselves; they could knit back together what had been torn apart.
“I was so careful about the bees,” Norah said, helping him move Paul back to the examination table. “The wasps, I mean. I got rid of the wasps, and now this.”
“It was an accident,” David said.
“I know,” she said, near tears. “That’s the whole problem.”
David didn’t answer. He had taken out the materials for the cast, and now he concentrated on applying the plaster. It had been a long time since he’d done this—usually he set the bone and left the rest to the nurse—and he found it comforting. Paul’s arm was small and the cast grew steadily, white as a bleached shell, as bright and seductive as a sheet of paper. In a few days it would be turning a dull gray, covered with bright childhood graffiti.
“Three months,” David said. “Three months, and you’ll have the cast off.”
“That’s almost the whole summer,” Norah said.
“What about Little League?” Paul asked. “What about swimming?”
“No baseball,” David said. “And no swimming. I’m sorry.”
“But Jason and I are supposed to play Little League.”
“I’m sorry,” David said, as Paul dissolved into tears
“You said nothing would happen,” Norah said, “and now he has a broken arm. Just like that. It could have been his neck. His back.”
David felt tired all of a sudden, torn up about Paul, exasperated with Norah too.
“It could have been, yes, but it wasn’t. So stop. Okay? Just stop it, Norah.”
Paul had gone still and was listening intently, alert to the altered tones and cadences of their voices. What, David wondered, would Paul remember of this day? Imagining his son into the uncertain future, into a world where you could go to a protest and end up dead with a bullet in your neck, David shared Norah’s fear. She was right. Anything could happen. He put his hand on Paul’s head, the bristle of his crew cut sharp against his palm.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Paul said, his voice small. “I didn’t mean to ruin the pictures.”
David, after a second’s confusion, remembered his roar hours earlier when the darkroom lights went on, Paul standing stricken with his hand on the switch, too scared to move.
“Oh, no. No, son, I’m not mad about that, don’t worry.” He touched Paul’s cheek. “The pictures don’t matter. I was just tired this morning. Okay?”
Paul traced his finger along the edge of the cast.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” David said. “I’m not upset.”
“Can I listen to the stethoscope?”
“Of course.” David slid the black wands of the stethoscope into Paul’s ears and squatted down. The cool metal disk he placed on his own heart.
From the corner of his eye he saw Norah watching them. Away from the bright motion of the party, she carried her sadness like a dark stone clenched in her palm. He longed to comfort her, but he could think of nothing to say. He wished he had some kind of X-ray vision for the human heart: for Norah’s and his own.
“I wish you were happier,” he said softly. “I wish there were something I could do.”
“You don’t have to worry,” she said. “Not about me.”
“Don’t I?” David breathed in deeply so that Paul could hear the rush of air.
“No. I got a job yesterday.”
“A job?”
“Yes. A good job.” She told him all about it then: a travel agency, mornings. She’d be home in time to pick Paul up from school. As she spoke, David felt as if she were flying away from him. “I’ve been going crazy,” Norah added with a fierceness that surprised him. “Totally crazy with so much time on my hands. This will be a good thing.”
“Okay,” he said. “That’s fine. If you want a job so much, take it.” He tickled Paul and reached for his otoscope. “Here,” he said. “Look in my ears. See if I left any birds in there.”
Paul laughed, and the cool metal slid against David’s lobe.
“I knew you wouldn’t like this,” Norah said.
“What do you mean? I’m telling you to ta
ke it.”
“I mean your tone. You should hear yourself.”
“Well, what do you expect?” he said, trying to keep his voice even, for Paul’s sake. “It’s hard not to see this as criticism.”
“It would only be criticism if it were about you,” she said. “That’s what you don’t understand. But it’s not about you. It’s about freedom. It’s about me having a life of my own. I wish you could understand that.”
“Freedom?” he said. She’d been talking to her sister again, he’d bet his life on it. “You think anyone is free, Norah? You think I am?”
There was a long silence, and he was grateful when Paul broke it.
“No birds, Dad. Just giraffes.”
“Really? How many?” “Six.”
“Six! Good grief! Better check the other ear.”
“Maybe I’ll hate the job,” Norah said. “But at least I’ll know.”
“No birds,” Paul said. “No giraffes. Just elephants.”
“Elephants in the ear canal,” David said, taking the otoscope. “We’d better get home right away.” He forced himself to smile, squatting down to pick Paul up, new cast and all. As he felt his son’s weight, the warmth of his good bare arm around his neck, David let himself wonder what their lives would have been like if he’d made a different decision six years ago. The snow had fallen and he’d stood in that silence, all alone, and in one crucial moment he’d altered everything. David, Caroline Gill had written in her most recent letter, I’ve got a boyfriend now. He’s very nice, and Phoebe is fine; she loves to catch butterflies and sing.
“I’m happy about the job,” he told Norah as they waited in the hall for the elevator. “I don’t mean to be difficult. But I don’t believe this doesn’t have to do with me.”
She sighed. “No,” she said. “You wouldn’t believe it, would you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You see yourself as the center of the universe,” Norah said. “The still point around which everything else revolves.”
They gathered up their things and walked into the elevator. Outside it was still a beautiful day, late afternoon, clear and sunny. By the time they got home, the guests had dispersed. Only Bree and Mark were left, carrying plates of food into the house. The ribbons of the maypole fluttered in the breeze. David’s camera was on the table, and Paul’s fossils were piled neatly beside it. David paused, surveying the lawn, scattered with chairs. Once, this whole world had been hidden beneath a shallow sea. He carried Paul inside and up the stairs. He gave him a drink of water and the orange chewable aspirin he liked and sat with him on the bed, holding his hand. So small, this hand, so warm and alive. Remembering the light-filled images of Paul’s bones, David was filled with a sense of wonder. This was what he yearned to capture on film: these rare moments where the world seemed unified, coherent, everything contained in a single fleeting image. A spareness that held beauty and hope and motion—a kind of silvery poetry, just as the body was poetry in blood and flesh and bone.
“Read me a story, Dad,” Paul said, so David settled himself on the bed, holding Paul in his arms, turning the pages of Curious George, who was in the hospital with a broken leg. Downstairs, Norah moved through the rooms, cleaning up. The screen door swung open and shut, open and shut again. He imagined her walking through it, dressed in a suit, heading for her new job and a life that excluded him. It was late afternoon, and a golden light filled the room. He turned the page and held Paul, feeling his warmth, his measured breathing. A breeze lifted the curtains. Outside, the dogwood was a bright cloud against the dark planks of the fence. David paused in his reading, watching the white petals fall and drift. He felt both comforted and troubled by their beauty, trying not to notice that they looked, from this distance, like snow.
June 1970
WELL, PHOEBE CERTAINLY HAS YOUR HAIR,” DORO OBserved.
Caroline touched the nape of her neck, considering. They were on the east side of Pittsburgh, in an old factory building that had been converted into a progressive preschool. Light fell through the long windows and splashed in motes and patterns on the plank floor; it caught the auburn highlights in Phoebe’s thin braids as she stood before a big wooden bin, scooping lentils, letting them cascade into jars. At six, she was chubby, with dimpled knees and a winning smile. Her eyes were a delicate almond shape, upslanted, dark brown. Her hands were small. This morning she wore a pink-and-white striped dress, which she had chosen and put on by herself—backwards. She wore a pink sweater, too, which had caused a spectacular tantrum at home. She’s certainly got your temper. Leo, dead now for almost a year, had been fond of muttering this, and Caroline had always been astonished: not so much that he’d seen a genetic connection where none could exist but that anyone would define her as a woman with a temper.
“Do you think so?” she asked Doro, running her fingers through the hair behind her ear. “Do you think her hair’s like mine?”
“Oh, yes. Sure it is.”
Phoebe was shoving her hands deep into the velvety lentils now, laughing with the little boy beside her. She lifted fistfuls and let them run through her fingers, and the boy held out a yellow plastic cup to catch them.
To the other children in this preschool Phoebe was simply herself, a friend who liked the color blue and Popsicles and twirling in circles; here, her differences went unnoticed. In the first weeks, Caroline had watched warily, braced against the sorts of comments she’d heard too often, on playgrounds, at the grocery store, in the doctor’s office. What a terrible shame! Oh, you’re living my worst nightmare. And once, At least she won’t live very long—that’s a blessing. Thoughtless or ignorant or cruel, it didn’t matter; over the years these comments had rubbed a raw spot in Caroline’s heart. But here the teachers were young and enthusiastic, and the parents had quietly followed their example: Phoebe might struggle more, go slower, but like any child she’d learn.
Lentils scattered on the floor as the boy dropped his shovel and ran into the hall. Phoebe followed, braids flying, headed for the green room with its easels and its pots of paint.
“This place has been so good for her,” Doro said.
Caroline nodded. “I wish the Board of Education could see her here.”
“You have a strong argument, and a good lawyer. You’ll be fine.”
Caroline glanced at her watch. Her friendship with Sandra had grown into a political force, and today the Upside Down Society, over 500 members strong, would ask the school board to include their children in public schools. Their chances were good, but Caroline was still very nervous. So much rested on this decision.
A speeding child careened past Doro, who caught him gently by the shoulders. Doro’s hair was pure white now, in striking contrast to her dark eyes, her smooth olive skin. She swam every morning and she’d taken up golf, and lately Caroline often caught her smiling to herself, as if she had a secret.
“It’s so good of you to come today to cover for me,” Caroline said, pulling on her coat.
Doro waved her hand. “Don’t mention it. I’d much rather be here, actually, than fighting with the department over my father’s papers.” Her voice was weary, but a smile flickered across her face.
“Doro, if I didn’t know better, I’d guess you were in love.”
Doro only laughed. “What a bold conjecture,” she said. “And speaking of love, can I expect Al this afternoon? It’s Friday, after all.”
The patterns of light and shadow in the sycamores were so soothing, like moving water. It was Friday, yes, but Caroline hadn’t heard from Al all week. Usually he called from the road, from Columbus or Atlanta or even Chicago. He’d asked her to marry him twice this year; each time her heart had flared with possibility, and each time she’d said no. They had argued on his last visit—You hold me at arm’s length, he’d complained—and he’d left angry, without saying goodbye.
“We’re just close friends, Al and I. It’s not that easy.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,”
Doro said. “Nothing’s simpler.”
So it was love, Caroline thought. She kissed Phoebe’s soft cheek and went away in Leo’s old Buick: black, vast, with a ride like a boat. In the last year of his life Leo had grown frail, spending most of his days in an armchair near the window with a book in his lap, gazing out at the street. One day Caroline had found him slumped, his gray hair sticking up at an awkward angle, his skin—even his lips—so pale. Dead. She knew this before she touched him. She took off his glasses, placed her fingertips on his eyelids, and drew them closed. Once they had taken his body away she sat in his chair, trying to imagine what his life had been like, the tree branches moving silently outside the window, her own footsteps, and Phoebe’s, making patterns on his ceiling. “Oh, Leo,” she’d said out loud, to the empty air. “I’m sorry you were so alone.”
After his funeral, a quiet affair crowded with physics professors and gardenias, Caroline offered to leave, but Doro wouldn’t hear of it. I’m used to you. I’m used to the company. No, you stay. We’ll take it day by day.
Caroline drove across the city she had come to love, this tough, gritty, strikingly beautiful city with its soaring buildings and ornate bridges and vast parks, its neighborhoods tucked into every emerald hill. She found a parking spot on the narrow street and entered the building, its stone darkened by decades of coal smoke. She walked through the foyer with its high ceilings and intricate mosaic floor and climbed two flights of stairs. The wooden door was darkly stained, with a panel of cloudy glass and tarnished brass numbers: 304B. She took a deep breath—she had not been this nervous since her oral exams—and pushed the door open. The room’s shabbiness surprised her. The big oak table was scratched and the windows were cloudy, making the day outside seem muted and gray. Sandra was already sitting with half a dozen other parents from the Upside Down board. Caroline felt a surge of affection. They had drifted into meetings one by one at first, people she and Sandra met in grocery stores and on buses; then the word had spread and people started calling. Their lawyer, Ron Stone, sat next to Sandra, whose blond hair was pulled severely back, her face serious and pale. Caroline took the remaining seat beside her.