The Memory Keeper's Daughter

My latest read, The Memory Keeper's Daughter, is one that has led me to think outside my normal realm of "What if?" thoughts. It is well-written and vividly evokes emotion and a kaleidescope of imagery that makes it easy to become wrapped up in the compelling narrative.

The charaters are complex, but not so complex that I can't continue to read it while doing my daily "I'm working out, really" routine on the elliptical machine. And the story line is haunting. A father, who, in a moment of crisis, with the best of intentions, sends his baby daughter away with a nurse and tells his wife she died. He intends for the baby to be taken and placed in an institution for the mentally handicapped, as the infant has Down Syndrome. Instead, the nurse, shocked by what she finds at the institution, raises the girl herself.

A secret, that kept, poisons everyone - the father, the mother, the remaining child, the baby's twin brother. From one single switch point, their lives spiral further and further away from each other - wildly out of control. The son seeks solace in running and his music, desparately hoping his parents will remove their focus from the shadow of his sister's death and discover that he is still alive - and in need of their love. The wife, after trying to bury her sorrow in alcohol and long drives, escapes to a business, affairs and a life that no longer includes those she once loved. The father, tormented by his decision, haunted by the photos and letters the nurse sends him of his daughter, forges blindly on, not realizing the family's wounds he caused that fateful night have never healed.

It's a painful read from all the raw emotion, but one that is immensely satisfying in the complex menagerie of thoughts it stimulated. After reading a description of the wife in the year after her baby's "death," bathed in grief, smothered by "propriety," I again said a grateful prayer that I was not privy to be a wife in the early 60s. The delicate, sunny descriptions of Phoebe, the daughter, and her simple interactions with the world, made me immensely grateful that we no longer live in a society where the mainstream, acceptable answer is to "hide" those who are different from everyone else.

I've continued to ponder that decision, made late at night in utter innocence - the decision the father felt was the best course for his family - and ended up giving rise to a generation of bitter, painful silence and resentment. It makes one want to shout, "Look around you! You're all suffering. No one is alone in this story," but the silent walls that grow between each character are soundproof, inpenatrable.

The richness of the tapestry woven by the descriptions of loss and love and family are accompanied by the theme of "Despite [the] desire to freeze a moment or to go back into the past and alter events, time presses us forward." Despite wishing a thousand times to go back and change his mind, the father continues his journey, weighted by this crushing secret.

I've had secrets - good, bad, revealed, silenced. None so significant nor far-reaching, but impactful in their own ways. Never before had I thought of these secrets, untold, so profoundly affecting the lives of those I touch, without anyone ever realizing it. We each seemingly go through life, our innermost thoughts and decisions carefully guarded - protecting those we love, protecting ourselves from others. Yet, the book forces one to pause and consider how those thoughts, decisions, secrets seep out and stain the fabric of life - either colored in brillant, happy hues, or menacing swirls of dark despair.

It's a book, while compelling and beautiful, I will be glad to finish - grateful for the imagery, the story, the lessons, the internal dialogue it has spawned, and yet repulsed by the haunting truth of the impact one's deepest thoughts and switch point actions can have on those he loves.