Unbreathed Memories by Marcia Talley Page A

bag of videos he had rented from Blockbuster, while the grown-ups waited upstairs for news from Scott. Mother sat in an upholstered Queen Anne armchair and kept trying to smile and make small talk—“I think the garden is going to be lovely once I get my roses in”—while Daddy busied himself between mugs of coffee by taking books out of boxes and arranging them in order by size on the bookshelves. How much coffee could my father drink before his blue eyes turned brown, I wondered.
    Sitting next to Paul on the sofa, I threw out conversational tidbits—jokes I had read on the Internet—that glowed, then quickly died, like sparks from a campfire.
    My mother laid aside the magazine she had been flipping through without actually reading anything in it. “Why doesn’t Scott call? He’s got to know that we’re worried sick.”
    “I guess he’s got a lot on his mind right now, Mom.”
    “But you’d think he’d at least check in to make sure the children are OK.”
    “He knows the children are OK. They’re here with us.”
    Mother sighed. “I suppose so.” She chewed on her thumbnail, a habit she had recently acquired when she finally gave up a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit.
    I didn’t think I could stand one more minute of not knowing. I had to do something. Anything. Surprised I hadn’t thought of this before, I excused myself, went into the kitchen, and picked up the phone. My sister-in-law’s boyfriend, Dennis Rutherford, was a Chesapeake County police officer. Although Chesapeake was several counties to the south of Annapolis, I was convinced Dennis would have an inside track with his colleagues up in Baltimore. But Dennis wasn’t home. Disappointed, I left a detailed message, then rejoined the family broodfest.
    When the phone finally rang, it wasn’t Dennis, just somebody selling a lawn care service. Mother screamed into the receiver, “We don’t want any!” slammed it back into the cradle, and burst into tears. Dad stood by the fireplace with a book in each hand, staring helplessly at his sobbing wife.
    It was Paul who saved the day. “C’mon, Lois. I’m taking you shopping.”
    Mother and I always enjoyed a little retail therapy now and then, but this was a new role for Paul.
    Mother pulled a fresh tissue from the box on her lap, dabbed at her eyes, and looked up doubtfully. “Where to?”
    Paul shrugged, palms up. “Home Depot?” The giant do-it-yourself store would carry many of the items on Mother’s list, things she needed for the house, such as towel bars, curtain rods, and lightbulbs. I was amazed at what the previous owners had taken away with them.My parents had been operating for almost a week without toilet-paper holders. First things first. No wonder Mother had sent Ruth and her dandy little mirrors and wind chimes packing.
    After Paul had helped Mother into her coat and the door had slammed shut behind them, Daddy flipped on the TV, and we caught the five o’clock news. The anchorman on Channel Two, with hair so sculptured his hairdresser deserved a line in the scrolling credits, didn’t tell us anything we didn’t already know. Dr. Sturges had fallen or been pushed over the balcony during an apparent struggle. Robbery had been ruled out. The police were still waiting for the medical examiner’s report. My father must have been listening to the broadcast, although his eyes weren’t on the TV. Suddenly, the pile of books he was holding teetered, then collapsed into a heap on the floor. “Dammit to hell!” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear. Without picking anything up, he left the room, smack dab in the middle of the report. “I don’t want to hear it.”
    I watched, puzzled, as he threaded his way through a maze of packing boxes on his way to the kitchen. What had upset him? Something the reporter had said? Or maybe he was just sick to death of unpacking books and wired from too much caffeine. Whatever, I was relieved when he returned a few minutes later