The Misremembered Man Read Online Free PDF

and break free.
    She continued to stare up at the house, the prison, the box in which she’d grown up, and wondered at what point the child had become an adult. Because for Lydia there had been no defining moment, no chalk line crossed nor touch tape broken. She had lived forever, it seemed, under a disciplining hail of “no’s” and “never’s” often she felt she was still a minor with little experience of the real world.
    She was forty and had never had sexual intercourse, had never drunk alcohol, had never flown in a plane or traveled in a fast car. She often wondered, too, how far her upbringing had colored her likes and dislikes. She had no desire to swim in the sea or sunbathe on a beach or by a pool; did not like sleeveless dresses or a hemline above the knee. She retained an aversion to dogs, and still carried a scar on her left ankle where the neighbor’s wire-haired terrier had sprung into the yard and bitten her when she was just a toddler. She hated being photographed in direct sunlight, could not go out without her sunglasses, an umbrella and a freshly laundered hankie tucked into her right sleeve. She had never danced to live music (but in her bedroom had shuffled her feet to Andy Williams, the volume turned to a low hum so her father would not hear, pop music being considered “the devil’s refrain”).
    She had a dislike of certain foodstuffs: shop-bought bread, corn on the cob, tomatoes and cheese—such things having a tendency to make her feel unwell. She never ate between meals or standing up, hence her steady, unfluctuating weight. She hated crowds and went shopping in the early morning to avoid them. She was obsessed with time, was never late for an appointment and looked with disfavor on those who kept her waiting. She believed in the guiding power of the Lord, attended service every Sunday, could sing most hymns without straining her voice and could recite all twenty-seven chapters of Leviticus by heart.
    In short, she was her father’s daughter, and it took his death and his absence from her life to confirm for her that she had become a walking contradiction. Perhaps now that he was gone, she could finally be the person she wished to be. She pushed open the car door with a fresh resolve. It’s time to change, she thought, and slammed it shut, causing a flock of ravens to bluster free of the garden elm.
    In the kitchen she prepared the breakfast she’d postponed in deference to her mother. She had the best part of two hours to herself while Elizabeth got primped. She guessed that the hairdresser could do for her mother what drink, or other indulgences, could do for others. The styling of her hair was one of the few pleasures she had left.
    Lydia sat down at the table, spread her napkin wide, poured tea, and smeared her toast with a film of Golden Bee honey from a frilly-topped pot. All at once she became conscious of the solitude, and how it was not a negative quality but one that gave her strength in the calm, bright room. She noted the hush that swelled between the random sounds: the traffic hissing past on the road outside, a child crying faintly in the house next door, the clicking of stiletto heels on a nearby sidewalk. And, nearer still, the thinning whine of the kettle cooling on the stove, the clink of her cup on the china saucer, the thrum of the fridge in the corner, her own sips and swallows.
    She became aware also of her mother’s cluttered kitchen and the emblems it contained, snagging for a moment on the nail of a childhood she wished she could forget. It seemed that all the bric-a-brac on walls and shelves hauled her back to the episodes that had put them there. Those things Lydia knew could not be removed until her mother died. Those connections. Those reminders.
    The risen Christ looked fondly down upon her from a gilt-edged print on the far wall; an anniversary gift which she’d bought her parents in The Good Shepherd bookstore when she was twelve. The man behind the