Forgive Me (20 page)

Forty-one

NANTUCKET TO STARDOM AND THEN BACK TO NANTUCKET, AGAIN

So my tearful reunion with Mom ended up on the six o’clock news, and now three reporters want to talk to me! But that will all wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I just want to write about the end of a really important day, and then I want to sleep.

As we walked toward her rental car, I asked Mom how she had found me. She had been a reporter, she said, didn’t I remember? She knew how to find people. She laughed, and said it hadn’t been hard: she had called Hot Locks, and Joe had told her about the auditions. Then she had flown to Boston. We climbed in the car, and she turned to me. “Why didn’t you tell me about all this?” she said.

I said I didn’t know. I wanted to tell her that I hated the worry line between her eyes. I said I was afraid she wouldn’t let me go to Boston and meet Malcon. She got really tense and said, “Who is Malcon?”

I was silent.

“Harry?” she said quietly, and I told her.

She asked if he had hurt me, and I said no. She said she thought we should tell the police about him, and I wasn’t sure, but I decided maybe she was right.

As we drove to the police station, my mom said some really nice things. She said that she was proud I had made it to the Boston audition. She was sorry if I felt like I couldn’t confide in her, but I could. She said that she would try to tell me things, too, like if I wanted to know about the farm picture, or her life before she married my dad and moved to Nantucket. “I wanted you to think the world could be a certain way,” she said. “I wanted you to feel safe.”

“Okay,” I said.

Did I want to hear about the farm picture, she asked. I said not really, not right now.

W
e sat in the police station and a policeman with a moustache asked me all about Malcon. He opened a book of black-and-white pictures and said, “Do you see him?”

“He didn’t do anything,” I said. “He’s a talent agent.”

But then I saw Malcon’s face in the policeman’s book. I touched the page, pushing Malcon’s nose until my finger hurt. “That’s him,” I said.

Mom hugged me.

We called Dad from the policeman’s office. I thought he would be mad, but he was just happy. “This house is way too quiet,” he said. “Come home and let us know how it feels to be famous.”

“I lost, Dad,” I said.

“But first you won,” said Dad. “Joe’s sitting here telling me all about it.”

“Joe’s there?” It was weird thinking about Joe and my dad, hanging out having St. Pauli Girls in the kitchen.

“Joe thinks we should take you to see some Broadway shows,” Dad continued, “or maybe you want dance lessons?”

“How about leather pants?”

“Don’t push it.”

“Okay,” I said, sort of crying and giggling at the same time.

A
s we drove away from the police station toward the airport, it was dark. “Mom,” I said. But then I didn’t know what should come next. I wanted to tell her I was sorry. I wanted her to see that I had dreams that were bigger than Nantucket.

She put her hand on my head, combed through my hair with her fingers. It felt good. I wanted to tell her everything I had kept inside. But it’s hard, even now, to explain my feelings. I love Mom and Dad, and they are doing their best. But there’s something bigger out there for me, that’s all I know. And the big thing might take me away from them.

“Mom,” I said, “I’m growing up, Mom.” She didn’t speak for a little while. She was looking out the windshield, at the stars. She was looking beyond the stars. I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of her: newsprint, soap, the ginger perfume she ordered from somewhere off-island. The wheels hummed on the pavement.

“I mean,” I said. “I’m not going to stay on Nantucket forever.”

Mom leaned her head toward mine. In the rearview mirror, we looked like ghosts, all lit up from the passing headlights. “I know,” she said.

Forty-two

T
he windows in the house were dark by the time Nadine reached home. Hank was dreaming, or awake, and listening for them. Perhaps she would tuck Harry in bed and she and Hank would make love. They would move together easily, warmly, and he would say
How I love you
in her ear. Or he would cling to her with the fierceness of the earliest years, when he still thought she might leave.

It was hard to stay still, to stay on Nantucket. But the quiet joys had filled her: the smell of apples in the fall, the way a gray sky could shine, dinner by the fire on chilly nights, summer days at the beach with plastic pails.

Nadine did not turn off the car. She watched her sleeping son. The moments were so clear: his hot weight in her arms, lips suckling her in the quiet hours before dawn. The last time he had nursed, and how she had mourned losing the ability to feed him. The evening he came upon her spraying perfume and exploded into tears: he stood in pajamas and cried until his face was mottled and wet. She and Hank walked out the door, Hank’s hand on her back, steadying her, Harry’s cries ringing out over the babysitter’s soothing. For a year, Harry hid her shoes in the old grandfather clock so she could not go away.

Mom,
he had said,
I’m growing up, Mom.
She had always known the time would come, but she wasn’t ready. She looked at his nose, his eyelashes. He had lit the vibrant center of her life, and she knew that from this day on it would be a long farewell as he found his place in the world without her.

When she turned off the engine, when they stepped sleepily from the car and went inside. When he woke in the morning, when he made his own breakfast, when she sat in her office, staring at the page, remembering when it was enough, when it was everything. There was a day when he sat outside the door all afternoon, singing, telling himself stories, listening to her type, waiting for her to return to him.

This moment would end. The overheated car, the loving husband, the slow start of snow. This boy, beside her, asleep. The wind began to rise up, and Nadine waited.

Acknowledgments

M
any books helped me in my attempts to understand South Africa. I was especially moved by the work of Nadine Gordimer, Greg Marinovich, Joao Silva, Antjie Krog, William Finnegan, Lisa Fugard, and Lynn Freed. The Voice by Vusi Mahlasela and music by Khayelitsha’s the Moonlights, Cape Melodies, Jam Band, and Pace provided a glorious soundtrack to my writing days. Masha Hamilton—and her novels examining the intersection of love and war—inspired the character of Nadine.

The worst part about finishing a book is losing the excuse to call my brilliant editor, Anika Streitfeld, six times a day. I’ll try to limit myself to four calls a day now, I promise, A. Michelle Tessler has believed in every crazy idea I’ve brought her; I am fortunate to have her representation and friendship.

Rebecca and Bill Johnson filled my Cape Cod nights with laughter and oysters. Becca and Andy Bunn, Jeanne Tift, the Great Escape Book Club, and George Eckstrom made a temporary stop into a home. Thank you to the McKay family for unwittingly allowing Nadine and Hank to fall in love in their Nantucket house.

For reading early drafts of this book, thanks to Wendy Wrangham, Sarah McKay, Kelly Braffett, Liza Ward, Ellen Sussman, Juli Berwald, Allison Lynn, Clare Smith, Clare Conville, Emily Hovland, and David Francis.

Thank you, Clay Smith, for the Avenue A Writers’ Retreat and Restaurant.

Thanks to Don Filiault and Walter Sullivan for welcoming me to the Beach Breeze Inn in Falmouth, Massachusetts, where much of this book was written. The Falmouth Public Library librarians made even the dreariest days bright, especially Kat Renna and Laurie McNee. Mary-Anne Westley called every morning (and some afternoons) and told me what she knew.

Tip Meckel, my great love, thank you for the scallops with white wine, and for bringing me home to Texas in grand style. WAM, you are the definition of joy. Let’s build a house, boys.

In South Africa, I was helped immeasurably by Jennifer Patterson, Phillip Boyd at the amazing Dance for All (where Thola would have learned her moves), and Tertia Albertyn. Patrick Lutuli made his home, Khayelitsha township, come alive with his energy and wide smile, and it is impossible to believe that he is gone.

Forgive Me

A NOVEL

A
MANDA
E
YRE
W
ARD

A R
EADER’S
G
UIDE

A CONVERSATION WITH AMANDA EYRE WARD

Amanda Eyre Ward spoke with Masha Hamilton, author most recently of
The Camel Bookmobile.
Masha and Amanda first met at Pete’s Candy Store, a bar in Brooklyn, where Masha had taken her underage daughter to hear Amanda read from her first novel,
Sleep Toward Heaven.
(Amanda had brought her new baby.) They hit it off immediately, and have been friends ever since.

Masha Hamilton:
I’ve loved and admired all three of your novels, and each one probes different themes and settings. This time around, why did you choose to write about South Africa?

Amanda Eyre Ward:
I’ve always been fascinated by South Africa. When I was in high school, I reviewed Alan Paton’s autobiography
Journey Continued
for my high school newspaper. Paton is the author of
Cry, the Beloved Country,
and I was stunned by his descriptions of South Africa. It sounded like such a beautiful place, and I was moved by Paton’s sorrow about what had become of his homeland. The world seemed very confusing to me. I wasn’t happy and didn’t have the power to fix things in my family. I think the fact that apartheid was such a clear wrong appealed to me. I wanted to fly to South Africa and do something to help. I thought I could help South Africans in a way I could not help myself. The first time I left the Eastern time zone, during my junior year in college, I flew to Africa. But I couldn’t visit South Africa at that time—there were no study abroad programs. I went to Kenya instead. It took me seventeen more years to finally set foot in South Africa.

MH:
That’s something that intrigues me: the fact that our reach out into the world, often seen as idealistic, is of course well-intentioned and generous of spirit, but scrape away the surface and you find it is often also motivated by very personal situations that have led to unmet yearnings. In your case, for example, an inability to fix things within your own family led to a desire to help South Africans. In
Forgive Me,
Nadine, too, has personal reasons that propel her into the world. Beyond that, I know the novel is inspired in part by a true story. What about that story captivated you?

AEW:
I think the Truth and Reconciliation Commission is amazing. The concept of telling the truth and being set free could not be more unlike the justice system in the United States, where victims might never know the truth about an incident, as the accused have to focus on winning a trial, rather than seeking forgiveness. Amy Biehl was a twenty-six-year-old Fulbright scholar when she went to South Africa. I had dreamed of going, but Amy made the trip, devoting herself to teaching underprivileged students. One night, Amy was driving a student home in Guguletu Township when her car was surrounded by an angry mob. Like the fictional Jason Irving, Amy was killed by the same children she was trying to help. Unlike the fictional Irvings, Amy’s parents supported amnesty for Amy’s killers from the beginning. The Biehls attended the TRC hearings and went on to found the Amy Biehl Foundation, which supports township children in a myriad of ways. I found the Biehls’ ability to forgive their daughter’s killers simply astonishing. Their story inspires me.

MH:
They were able to understand that underlying conditions were more responsible for Amy’s death than any individual, but I think that kind of comprehension is rare. Knowing the entire arc of the real story as you did, did you outline? How much research did you do before you began to write? Because you knew Amy’s entire story, did you know how your own story would end before you began?

AEW:
As usual, I had absolutely no idea where my novel was headed. I keep hoping that I will learn something and be able to save myself the trash cans full of mistaken routes. I rented a room at the Beach Breeze Inn in Falmouth, Massachusetts, and filled it with maps, photos, and index cards. I knew my characters, but I had no idea where they would lead me. For one thing, I thought Nadine and George were in love. The story changed over the winter as I wrote and watched the snow on the water.

MH:
I think this is one of the magical aspects of fiction—that it forks off from the strict outline of the facts, and manages to go somewhere deeper and, I believe, ultimately more truthful. The characters begin to take over and dictate their own actions; at least that’s always how it feels to me. So how did your visit to South Africa change the novel in progress?

AEW:
I have a young son, and didn’t want to leave him to travel to South Africa. I talked to everyone I knew who had been there, and tried to research the TRC online. People told me Cape Town was like San Francisco, so I tried to write the book imagining a San Francisco in Africa. It was ludicrous! In the end, I knew the book needed to appeal to a reader’s senses to work—I needed to breathe in South Africa in person. I called my sister Liza and said, “Would you come with me to Cape Town?” Without a second’s hesitation, she said, “Yes.” I bought the tickets about ten minutes later. Liza took photographs and followed me wherever I wanted to visit. We also lucked into an amazing cab driver, Rashid, who drove us to places many drivers wanted to avoid. (Anyone visiting Cape Town should contact me for Rashid’s phone number.) Our guide, Patrick Lutuli, introduced us to Khayelitsha Township, which was worse than I had imagined. I have traveled to some dangerous places, but I never felt afraid until I was a mother. Suddenly, I was no longer just responsible for myself. I lay awake for a few nights, thinking about the fact that one of the things I was most proud of—my ability to travel courageously—wasn’t necessarily a characteristic that made for a great mother. This journey into motherhood became one of the major themes of the book. By the time I was on the flight home, I had completely reimagined
Forgive Me.

MH:
How long were you in South Africa?

AEW:
Only six nights. (I couldn’t bear to leave my son for longer than that.) We stayed for three nights at the Mount Nelson Hotel, a gorgeous Colonial-era hotel with many swimming pools and luxurious rooms…men in pith helmets drinking high tea, a champagne bar, the whole nine yards. Then we went to Khayelitsha Township, a slum a few minutes away, for three nights. It was quite an adventure.

MH:
Was it difficult to find people to share their stories while you were in South Africa? I’m wondering if your experience mirrored Nadine’s in that regard?

AEW:
It was interesting…. Many people were loath to talk about the past. This could be because many people I met were working for hotels or tour companies, and didn’t want to focus on the dark side of South Africa. There’s so much beauty to talk about too, so many amazing beaches, mountains, vineyards, and people. Parts of Cape Town feel like San Francisco, or Austin. Kloof Street is like South Congress Street in Austin, truly.

MH:
Your comment about how not really feeling fear until you were a mother is one that resonates with me; I’m the mother of three and yet have not been able to resist diving into Gaza or visiting the poppy fields near Kandahar where farmers harvest opium. There is no doubt that I am more careful and cautious, though, than before kids. Nadine, of course, is not yet a mother as the novel begins. What was the easiest part of her character for you to explore—in other words, what felt most familiar to you personally—and what was the hardest?

AEW:
As you know, speaking to you about your career gave me the idea of creating a character like Nadine, Masha. Our conversations about how journalists give up pieces of themselves to get an interviewee to reveal their truest story helped me so much in imagining what sort of a person Nadine would have to be to be successful in her field. She is also courageous—unafraid to drive right into a Mexican drug cartel or visit Subcomandante Marcos’s jungle hideout—but so frightened to trust anyone or care about anyone other than herself. I can certainly relate to these traits. So much of creating Nadine’s life was a simple process of research—where she would have been in the world at what age—but understanding her fierce independence, and trying to create the one man who might convince her to let her guard down, the emotional stuff, this was harder for me.

One day, I was hiking out to Nobska Lighthouse in Woods Hole and thinking about Nadine, and I realized she was a woman who had lost her mother. Then Nadine made sense to me, and I wrote the scene where Nadine and her mother, Ann, visit the same lighthouse toward the end of Ann’s battle with cancer.

MH:
This rings so true for me, Amanda: the idea that finding a way in, even a single point on which we can truly connect with our character, helps other less-familiar traits become more understandable. I think that’s true for journalists interviewing subjects as well as novelists getting to know their characters. Another important point you raise is how Nadine is courageous during moments many would find terrifying, and yet scared of things others find easy, such as being linked to (and possibly tied down by) a man. That brings us to Lily. She is a wonderful character. We see in many ways that her life, if more ordinary than Nadine’s, is just as important and challenging. What can you tell us about the genesis of this character?

AEW:
As a mother of two young sons, it wasn’t hard to come up with the character of an overwhelmed mother, let’s put it that way. I have many friends who are happily devoted to motherhood, and I admire them. But it’s really hard to be home with toddlers; it’s a whole indoor world.

MH:
Yet you’ve made Lily very strong and well-rounded, and I love that. I’d also like to know about the inspiration for the character of Thola, with her mixture of strength and vulnerability.

AEW:
While researching the book, I learned about the Freedom Fighters who had left South Africa to train in Mozambique and elsewhere. They then returned to South Africa to fight against the apartheid government, and many were killed.
Forgive Me
began with the idea of a sheltered girl on Cape Cod, a girl who grew up to be Nadine, writing to a young South African girl, who was Thola. I envisioned Thola and Nadine as pen pals. Thola was always fully formed in my mind, a grand personality from the start.

MH:
Forgive Me
has a complex structure. Did you know how it would all come together?

AEW:
Not at all. In fact, when I first told my editor about the book, I talked about South Africa and Nadine. We were sitting in her car, outside my hotel room in San Francisco. At the very end of our conversation, I said, “Then I keep hearing the voice of this boy who wants to be a star.” I told her a bit about him, and my editor said, “The boy is the heart of the story.” I remember going up to my hotel room thunderstruck. She was exactly right, so I picked up my hotel pad and pen and wrote, listening to what the boy had to say. Who he was and how his search for stardom would turn out all came later.

MH:
What are you working on now?

AEW:
I have a pile of newspaper clippings on my desk, and each one could be a novel. There are also some great stories I’ve heard that have stuck with me. I plan to take a few months to daydream and see what develops. This is the most wonderful time…. I get to wander around bookstores and museums, eavesdrop on people’s conversations, and come up with my next book, which is still perfect in my mind, before I write a word.