The Memory Keeper

Chapter 7

Peter Sheinfeld had not lied about one thing. The weather dropped below zero after sundown. Snow batted at the window and door like distressed ghosts. Through what the mind weaver could see outside, nobody was out and about. Empty cans or loose paper clattered and fluttered down the street, and rumor had it the train stations would close for the next few days.

That night before bed, Natalie turned the sleeping capsule Piper had made for her over between her thumb and forefinger. It was a pale blue thing, almost like a moon stone. She popped it into her mouth, washing it down with a cup of cold water. She sat in front of the fireplace, the coals shifting under the crackling flames. Not warm enough, she snuggled into her coat, wishing she could disappear into it. She replayed the day's session with Peter with a bit of remorse. Taking his memory did not come easily as she had thought. It was like trying to scribble over an entire painting with a white crayon.

While Natalie had stood behind the fence, a cool breeze rattling the vines around her, the girl scooped up a handle of pebbles. Before she could throw the second one, Natalie came around the side of the fence, up the stone front path, hood pulled up, and took a crumbling piece of coal from her pocket. Ducking behind a stout evergreen, she took aim and threw it at the back of the woman's head.

She turned, her own hood thrown up around her face, and shot for the fence, not even noticing Natalie's shadow played out against the stones, made by the nearby gas lamp's bright yellow light.

Peter opened the window and looked around. Then Natalie heard, "Who is there?" She waited, breath hitched. She would not make the same mistake, and run. She would stay still, and wait it out. He whispered something, but she could not hear what it was, and then he closed the door.

Something fluttered to the soft grass. She scrambled to it, dropping on both knees. It was an origami butterfly. One of its wings read:

Open.

This letter was not for her. She was sure it was for the girl he loved. She had no place opening it, reading a single word. So why did she?

Slipping closer to the gas lamp, she parted the butterfly's wings apart as slowly as possible, so as not to make much noise or destroy such delicate art. The hands it was meant for would not miss it. Peter's actual memory did not involve this letter. It did not exist. Even if it did, Natalie was sure it was tucked safe and sound in a drawer or box belonging to the girl. What was her name, anyway? The letter did not say.

My love, I am sorry.

Natalie started to put the butterfly in her pocket, perhaps out of habit, when it wilted in her hand like a dead flower. It crumbled and fell like dust flakes between her fingers. The memory was breaking apart. She had done her job correctly. Stepping into the gas lamp's shaft of quivering light, she peered up at Peter's window one last time. The curtains rippled, and he looked down just as she ducked around the tower of the house, back to the cold stone wall. She wanted those words to have been written for her, but she knew they were not. Closing her eyes, she pulled herself out of the memory.

It was not her best work, but she had tried. Peter had thanked her as commonly as one would when purchasing a merchant's freshest catch. Around then it was almost the lunch hour, and her stomach had rumbled along with his. She stood and took her hat, hoping he would invite her to come along, but he did not, and though there was nobody to witness this very obvious rejection, she felt embarrassed.

Now, so late in the night, she stood from the fireplace and stretched her sore limbs. After Peter's session, and lunch all alone, she had a couple of other clients, their memories easily handled, their faces a blur. Piper did not stop back by like Natalie had hoped. She concluded that her friend was still upset with her. There was a hollow feeling in her chest now, as she climbed the stairs, like someone had plucked her heart straight out of her chest, and replaced it with a broken clock. One that did not beat, but rattled when she moved.