Forgive Me (18 page)

Thirty-six

NANTUCKET TO STARDOM

This morning, Mom said she was going to a big gala Saturday night. Her “old friend” is getting an award. He’s a photographer, she said. “Am I invited?” asked Dad.

“Of course, hon,” said Mom, but it seemed like she didn’t really want him to come.

“I’ll try to make it,” said Dad. “I’ll do my best.”

“Great,” said Mom. She usually ate Hostess mini muffins for breakfast, but this morning she was eating my Special K.

“What are you so happy about?” Dad asked.

“Nothing,” I said. I have decided to keep Malcon and the audition to myself. I’m sort of afraid how Mom and Dad will react. I know they won’t like the sound of Malcon, and they might be worried about me getting my hopes up again. I’ll tell them about
American Superstar
after I win the Boston audition. I mean, they’ll have to know if I’m moving to Orlando. In the meantime, I already told them I was having a sleepover Saturday night with my old friend Roger Fell.

“You know,” said Mom, pointing to an airline ad in
The New York Times,
“we should all go to London.”

“Why?” I said.

“I don’t know,” said Mom. “Maybe I’ll write about it.” This was Mom’s excuse for any crazy trip she wanted to go on. Her first book had come out the year before. It was called
Give Me the Sun,
and was all about motherhood in different cultures. She had even gone to Africa for ten days, almost missing my birthday. The book was dedicated to me and Dad, and I tried to read some of it, but it had really long sentences and lots of footnotes.

“There’s lots of great theater in London,” said Dad.

“What about LA?” I said.

“Hm,” said Mom. “Well, that’s something to think about.”

“Or we could go to Orlando again,” I said.

“Orlando,” said Mom.

“Again,” said Dad.

M
om is acting weirder and weirder. She got her hair done at Hot Locks, and even her eyebrows look different. She went jogging yesterday, trudging along the beach in a Nike tracksuit. She ordered some fancy silver dress and a pair of matching high-heeled shoes. She started spending time again in her “office,” which is really the third-floor storage room. She has a big poster in there. It’s a man gazing at a red moon. She said she used to go to a museum in Mexico and stare at this painting. It looks creepy to me.

Mom said she was going to try writing a memoir about her journalist days. But when I brought her some Constant Comment tea, she wasn’t writing, just sitting at her little desk and staring at the packing boxes that took up most of the room. I put the tea on her desk, and she looked up at me with tired eyes. “It’s hard to know where to begin,” she said.

The word of the day on Friday was
cryptic.

I
have started skipping school and practicing my routine all day in the salon basement. Joe paid to dry-clean my seersucker suit, and Kyla hemmed my pants, sewing a perfect seam. I am nervous and so excited about my Boston audition.

M
an oh man. Today started out normal but now everything is a disaster. I am writing this on the ferry, sailing away from my old life. Well, not really
sailing,
but anyway.

Let me start at the beginning. This morning, I was practicing in my room when Mom came in. She was wearing the silver dress, and held her jewelry box. “Dangly earrings or pearls?” she said. But then her face froze.

I followed her gaze. She was staring at the farm picture, which was hanging above my dresser. “What’s that?” she said, her voice low.

“It’s a farm,” I said.

She marched over and pulled it from my wall. “Mom!” I said. “What are you doing?”

She turned around. Her eyes were blazing—I had never seen her look this way. “You don’t know one thing about this picture,” she said. “I will not have it in my house. Where on earth did you get this?”

I lunged at her and pulled the picture out of her hands. I held it to my chest. “I saw you throw it away. On the ferry. I like it,” I said. “I want it. It reminds me of…a really good day.”

“The ferry?” said Mom, bewildered. But she couldn’t take her eyes off the picture and her voice got strange. “Honey,” she said. “Give me the photograph. I mean it.”

“No,” I said. My secret sat heavily in my stomach, like a huge hamburger. I wanted to tell her about the audition, about Malcon, but I was afraid. I was afraid telling her would puncture my dream like a big pin.

“I will tell you,” said Mom. “Someday, sweetheart. But not now. Please. Just know that I need you to give me that picture. It doesn’t belong—” Her voice broke. “It has no place in this house,” she said. She rushed toward me and grabbed the frame. I wouldn’t let go. She tried to rip it from my hands and I stumbled. The whole thing smashed and a shard of the glass cut me. Blood gushed out of my hand.

“Honey,” she said.

“I’m bleeding,” I said.

“Come here, honey.”

“No,” I said. The cut hurt and I was filled with a terrible anger.

“Honey,” said Mom. “Come here, your hand.”

“Get out of my room!” I screamed. We stared at each other for a minute, and then I said, “I hate you!”

My mom was always so strong, but I saw her face fall. “Don’t say that,” she whispered, and there was pain in her voice and I simply couldn’t stand it. I grabbed my backpack and ran downstairs and out the door. I jumped on my bike and rode away as fast as I could. I finally understood that I didn’t belong in that house or on this stupid island.

Mom tried to run after me in her new shoes. “Don’t leave!” she said, and she was so pathetic that I hated her even more. I rode away and I said with each pump of the pedals,
I am never, ever coming back.

Thirty-seven

N
adine stared at George’s scrawled note, and then she threw it in the trash. She settled herself at her wide desk, opening her notebook and pulling the cap off a Hotel Victoria pen. She had to get to work, but the words wouldn’t come.

In Mexico City, Nadine had a ritual. She would stuff notes into her backpack and head for Chapultepec Park, an oasis in the middle of the busy city. She would walk through the wrought-iron gates and settle underneath her favorite ahuehuete tree. The grassy spot afforded a view of the lake, where lovers pedaled in circles on rented boats. Around Nadine, Mexican families picnicked. She wrote in the shade of the tree, grasshoppers crawling over her papers, and rewarded herself with a fruit cup when the story was done.

Nadine tried to taste the fresh pineapple, mango, and jicama sprinkled with chili powder, but the thoughts of her shady refuge didn’t help. Nadine opened Jason’s journal to the last page, reading the entry dated April 6, 1988: the night before his murder. “I am discouraged,” Jason wrote. “I think I am helping these kids, but then there are the bad ones, they’re on Mandrax, all fucked up, they’re angry. Sometimes I wonder if I’m even making a difference here.”

Nadine swallowed, and read on.

“Most of all,” Jason had written, “I am afraid that I will never find someone to love. I get so down, imagining a life without a lover, without someone to sleep next to at night. I have my students, and I have things to teach them. I guess I’m just lonely, at the end of the day.” After this sentence, the page was blank.

Nadine looked down. Before leaving, she had hung the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign on her door: the cloth-covered trash can held both a pregnancy test and George’s note. She stared into the can, trying to find meaning in its contents.

Hank’s duffel bag was propped next to the desk, Nadine’s clothes spilling out. She was always packing or unpacking, washing her underwear in hotel sinks, shaking out her cotton shirts. Nadine could not remember the last time she had folded clothes into a dresser drawer.

She thought of her father, more comfortable standing on the concrete floor at Falmouth Fish than in his home on Surf Drive. For a moment, she let herself love him. She was filled with the same fear that had made Jim force his shoulders back each morning and drive away from Nadine and his memories.

But one day, when Nadine was eight, he had turned the car around. Nadine was climbing up to the turret when she heard Jim pull back into the driveway. She ran to the front door and threw it open. “Daddy,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, “did you forget your lunch?”

“Deanie,” her father said, “did you know it’s the first day of spring?” They looked out at the leafless trees, the chilling sleet beginning to fall. “I heard it on the radio,” said Jim. “It’s true.”

Nadine could scarcely speak. She was filled with a fierce hope.

“I’m taking the day off,” Jim announced. “Tell Clare to skedaddle. Your mom always said the first day of spring was a day to celebrate, and we’re going to have a party.”

Nadine stared at her father. How had he known about the spring parties? They had been something she had shared with her mother alone. Every year, on the first day of spring they dressed up and went for a fancy tea at the Dunbar Tea Shop in Sandwich. For two years, the day had passed without mention.

“Go on,” said Jim gruffly. “Get in the shower, Deanie. I’m going to need some lessons before we head to Sandwich. Do I hold out my pinkie when I drink my tea?” He demonstrated, and Nadine erupted in giggles. Just when she had stopped hoping he would come back, he had surprised her.

N
adine shook her head; this was no time for reverie. She tried again to think objectively. But instead of a lead, she wrote, I’m just lonely, at the end of the day. Jason had not lived long enough to change the ending of his story. For Nadine, though, there was still time. She put down her pen.

Nadine walked to the door of her room, and opened it. In the elevator, she pushed the button for the eleventh floor. She stared at the book spines as the elevator climbed. There was
Tristram Shandy
and there,
The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson.
When the gilded doors slid open, she strode down the plush hallway and knocked on Room 1102.

“I need to talk to Sophia,” said Nadine, when Krispin stood before her.

“The hell you do,” said Krispin. His bottle-green shirt was wrinkled and tucked unevenly into cotton pants. His hair, usually combed into an elegant mane, hung limply. He narrowed his eyes.

Nadine felt a rush of pity for Krispin, a man broken by circumstance, like her father. She took a breath, forging ahead. “I knew him,” said Nadine. “Don’t close the door. I knew Jason. He…” She swallowed.

“He
what
?” said Krispin.

“He and I were lovers,” said Nadine.

Krispin’s face crumpled as if he had been punched. He took a step back. “I can’t…,” he said. “I always thought,” he said.

Sophia appeared behind him, and put her hand on Krispin’s shoulder. There was a light in her eyes. “Honey,” she said. “Come in, honey.”

“I thought he was—” said Krispin, shaking his head.

“Well, obviously he wasn’t,” said Sophia.

Nadine sat in a richly upholstered chair and told the Irvings about her love affair with their son. The story spilled out of her as if it were truth. “I fell in love with him the first time I saw him. He,” she paused. “He took me to Camps Bay. Our first, our first kiss was on the beach.”

Krispin, sitting opposite Nadine, slapped his knee. “My boy,” he said. His eyes were full of tears.

“More,” said Sophia.

“We were just friends at the start,” said Nadine. “We had so much in common—I grew up in Woods Hole.”

Sophia shook her head. “Woods Hole,” she said, amazed.

“Your dad a scientist?” said Krispin.

“No,” said Nadine. “He works at Falmouth Fish.”

“Oh,” said Krispin.

“Regardless,” said Sophia. “Go on.”

“So one day,” said Nadine, “Jason bought some bread and cheese. He told me we were going to the beach for a picnic. Grapes, too. There were grapes. And wine. And smoked fish, and crackers.”

“Some picnic,” said Krispin.

“We went to Camps Bay,” continued Nadine. “Jason spread out a blanket. A red blanket. We sat on the blanket and ate the picnic.”

“A red blanket,” said Sophia wonderingly.

“So we finished the wine. The sand was nice and warm. We went swimming in the waves. Well, and then he kissed me.”

Krispin and Sophia were silent.

“I was with him in the hospital,” said Nadine. She did not cry. “I was with him. I told him I loved him. It was…it was hard to watch him go. But I stayed, and I held his hand.” Nadine closed her eyes, and saw Maxim’s open palm. “I held his hand to my face,” she said. “It was so soft,” she said. “I stayed with him all night,” she said. “I never left his side.”

“He was always so sweet,” said Sophia. “Even as a little boy. He was so kind…”

“He spoke once,” said Nadine.

“But you can’t keep them safe, you just can’t.” Sophia’s voice was high-pitched, verging on hysteria. “What can you do? You just…you let them go.”

“My God,” said Krispin. He leaned forward, his giant watch slipping down his wrist. “What did he say?”

“He said he loved me,” said Nadine. “He said he forgave the kids who…who…”

“Who killed him,” said Krispin simply.

“He said he forgave them,” said Nadine.

“You have to,” said Sophia, wringing her hands. “You have to let them go.”

“Sophia,” said Nadine. “He would want you to forgive the girl. He would want you to speak to her mother. He would, I know he would.”

Sophia was sobbing. She didn’t seem to hear Nadine. She put her hand on Nadine’s arm. “Oh, God,” she said. “My baby.” She looked at Nadine. “Did you know,” Sophia said quietly, searchingly. “He loved pancakes. He had a freckle on his elbow. When he was little, when I gave him a bubble bath, I would say, ‘Where’s my favorite freckle?’ and he would…he would bring his tiny elbow…he would lift it out of the bubbles…”

“I know,” said Nadine. “I remember that freckle.”

Sophia nodded, overcome. “And his ears…,” she said.

“His ears,” said Nadine.

Sophia opened her arms, and Nadine moved close. Someone else’s mother held her tight.

Finally, Sophia sat back in her chair. She took the tissue Krispin held out for her and dabbed her eyes. “Call the front desk,” she said, her voice gaining strength.

“Sophia,” protested Krispin.

“Do it,” said Sophia. Krispin rose and walked to the bedside table. Slowly, he dialed, and held out the phone.

“Hello,” said Sophia, taking it. She looked at Nadine. “Yes,” she said. “No, listen to me. I want to see her. Yes, I said I want you to send her up. Room 1102. Thank you.”

“Honey,” said Krispin, “are you sure…”

“Shhh,” said Sophia.

A
s they waited, the sounds of Cape Town filtered in through the open windows: honking horns, men yelling, the steady thrum of traffic. Nadine had once thought this noise would be the soundtrack to the rest of her life. She had imagined, lying next to Maxim, that she would never leave this city. With every year, she would know Maxim a little better: she would comprehend the nuances of his country, and together they would alert the world to both the horror of apartheid and the fierce spirits on both sides of the fight. These were grand plans, and they were born of her love for one man. Nadine’s dream of a life in South Africa died with Maxim. For a decade, work had filled the endless hours, but she could see now that there would always be another violent crime, a hungrier reporter.

Nadine’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. “Go on and open it,” said Sophia.

In her wheelchair, Fikile looked nervous. She was accompanied by the man in the panama hat. “I am Albert Malefane,” said the man. “This is my aunt, Fikile Malefane.”

“Come in,” said Krispin politely. Fikile looked at Nadine as she was wheeled in the room. “Ah,” she said.

Nadine smiled.

“You help me, Nadine,” Fikile whispered as Albert gaped at the opulent room. He removed his hat. Fikile stared out the window. She said something in Xhosa.

“She says the whole city looks different from above,” said Albert.

T
he two mothers sat facing each other. Krispin kept his arm around Sophia, and Albert translated for his aunt. “Her English is good,” he explained, “but she wants to speak from the heart, and not worry about the vocabulary.”

“Well, get on with it, then,” said Sophia.

Fikile clasped her hands on the cloth that covered her knees. She looked straight into Sophia’s eyes, and began to speak in Xhosa. Albert spoke a moment later. “I am thankful that you will speak to me,” he said. “I know I have no right. Your son is dead, and my daughter is to blame. But she is not a monster. She is a girl who is possessed by anger. Her friends were raped and killed. She was not given a proper education. Her beloved sister, Tholakele, was taken by the government. She was killed by the government. Today, in the court, you see a woman named Evelina, and you hate her. But she is the baby I held to my breast. She is the baby I sang to sleep. Please look at me.”

“I sang Jason to sleep,” said Sophia. “I sang him ‘Silent Night.’ He hated being in his crib, always tried to climb out. But if I sang ‘Silent Night,’ he lay down and closed his eyes. I reached through the slats, and combed his hair with my fingers.” She stared at a faraway place as Albert spoke to Fikile.

Fikile nodded, and reached out to touch Sophia’s hand. Sophia met her eyes. Fikile cleared her throat and continued in Xhosa, Albert translating. “My Evelina took the life of your son. And the last years in prison have taken away much of my baby girl. A ghost is all that is left. We are both mothers who have lost their children.”

“My whole life was my son,” said Sophia, leaning toward Fikile. “I live in a nightmare. Every day when I wake up, I remember again that he is gone. All I want is to die.”

“I ask for your forgiveness,” said Fikile. “We do not deserve it, but I ask for it nonetheless. I beg you, from one mother to another. Can you forgive her?”

Sophia glanced at Nadine. Nadine realized she was holding her breath. She felt as if Sophia held her fate, as well. Sophia turned back to Fikile. She sighed, and her strength seemed to rush from her. “For my son, okay. For Jason, I forgive her,” said Sophia.