Sweet Forgiveness (18 page)

She's looking at her fingernails, whether bored or nervous or scared, I couldn't say. But still I continue. “Don't worry, Claudia. It's not too late. And just think how great you'll feel when your secret is out in the open.” As I say the words, I wonder if I'm talking to her or to myself.

Eventually she nods. “Sure. Just let me think about it for a bit, will you?”

And there it is. Claudia Campbell is just like me. She, too, has stuffed her inner demon behind the trapdoor. And like me, she's terrified of what might happen if that door should spring open.

Maybe it's Claudia's tears. Maybe it's her scar, or Priscille's voice telling me I am distant. Or maybe it is just a moment of weakness. I only know that for whatever reason, I choose this person, this moment, to pry open my trapdoor.

“Wait until you hear what I did.”

I
t happened in July, on a whim, something I did impulsively, without malice or premeditation. At least I can say that.

We'd gone up north, a phrase Michiganders use when talking about the fingertips of the mitten-shaped state. Bob owned a tiny cabin in Harbour Cove, a sleepy old fishing village on the shores of Lake Michigan. Miles from town, his rustic place sat on a murky lake meant for fishing, not swimming. Bob had to be out of his mind to think anyone—let alone a thirteen-year-old girl—would want to spend her summer in this no-man's-land. The only person remotely close to my age was a ten-year-old girl next door named Tracy.

For three days, the humidity had been stifling. We'd been hit with a record-breaking heat spell not even the air conditioner could tame. Bob and my mom had gone to the movie theater to see
Sleepless in Seattle
. Bob invited me to tag along, almost pleaded that I join them. “Come on, Sister, I'll buy you some popcorn. Heck, I'll even throw in some Junior Mints.”

“I hate Junior Mints,” I said, never looking up from my
YM
magazine.

He tried to act disappointed, but I knew he was relieved I wouldn't be tagging along. He was nothing but a phony. He probably wished I'd die . . . or at least be shipped off to Atlanta.

I called my dad that night. It was an hour earlier his time, and he had just gotten off the golf course.

“Hey, how's my girl?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I miss you, Dad. When can we come to Atlanta?”

“Anytime you want, cupcake. The ball's in your mom's court. You know that, don't you? I want you here, and your mother, too. I love you both. You work on her, won't you, doll?”

I started to tell him about my awful summer, but he cut me off. “Hold on,” he said. He covered the phone and spoke to someone in the background. He laughed, then came back to me. “Call me tomorrow, won't you, sweetie? We'll talk then.”

I hung up the phone, feeling more alone than ever. I was losing my father, I could tell. He seemed more distant now, not nearly as desperate for my mom and me to move home. I had to do something before he forgot all about us.

I flopped down on the sofa and turned on the television. I stared at the ceiling, listening to
Married . . . with Children
, while tears pushed past my temples and drained into my ears.

At some point, I fell asleep. I startled when I heard the car pull in the driveway. I sat up and stretched, my skin damp and sticky from my nap and the night's relentless heat. The television was still on, tuned to
Saturday Night Live
. I spied my bra on the arm of the sofa, where I'd tossed it after taking it off earlier. I grabbed it and stuffed it under the sofa cushion.

I heard their laughter as they approached the screen door. I didn't have time to make a mad dash to my bedroom. So I lay back down and squeezed shut my eyes. I didn't want to hear about their stupid movie.

“I bet someone wants popcorn.” It was Bob, the buffoon. Footsteps neared the sofa, but I pretended to be asleep. I could feel Bob and my mother hovering over me. I could smell the popcorn and his aftershave, and something else, something I used to smell on my father. Whiskey? But that couldn't be. Bob didn't drink.

I lay still, suddenly self-conscious of my half-naked state. I could feel my newly budded breasts pressed against my clingy tank top, my long bare legs draped across the sofa.

“Shall we leave her here?” Bob asked, his voice low. I pictured his dark eyes peering down at me. A prickle went up my spine. I longed to cover myself, or shoo him away.

“No,” my mom whispered. “Let's take her to bed.”

Without warning, one hot, calloused hand found its way under my bare legs. The other wedged itself beneath my shoulders. These weren't my mother's hands! My eyes flew open and Bob's shadowy face loomed large. My scream was as piercing a sound as I'd ever heard. And it felt fucking amazing! All my pent-up rage and disgust and frustration bellowed from my lungs. Every white-hot atom of hostility and jealousy and madness that had been simmering for the past eight months scorched my throat.

Bob's face was a portrait of confusion. He seemed ignorant of the situation, baffled as to why I was screaming. If only he'd have let loose his hold on me right then and there, everything would have been different. Instead, he pulled me tighter, swaddling me like an infant he'd awoken from a nightmare.

“Let me down!” I screamed, wriggling from his grasp like a feral animal. But he held firm. My skimpy shorts twisted in the transition. My rear, partially exposed now, wedged in the crook of his arm. My bare skin pressed against his bare skin. It sickened me.

“Get away from me!” I bellowed.

He startled. To this day I can see his eyes widen, as if he were terrified of me. He fumbled as he lowered my writhing body back onto the sofa.

And that's when it happened. His hand grazed my crotch as he pulled it out from beneath me.

What the hell? What the hell! At last, I had my moment of opportunity.

In one swift instant, I made my decision. I could finally keep my promise to my dad.

“Get your hands off me, you fucking pervert!” I looked away from Bob. I didn't want to see his face. I didn't want to have to decide whether his touch was intentional or innocent. I hurled myself from the sofa, tripping over my flip-flops and scraping my knee as I landed on the wood floor.

When I looked up, I saw the shock in his eyes, the hurt . . . and what I decided was guilt. I'd struck a chord, I could tell. And I yanked it for all it was worth. “You asshole! You sick bastard!”

I heard my mother gasp. I turned to her before I had time to think. “Get him out of here!” Tears sprang to my eyes. I jumped to my feet, yanking an afghan from the back of the sofa to cover me.

My mother's eyes, round and bewildered, traveled from daughter to lover. Her mouth hung open, and all I could think of was a trapped animal, terrified and uncertain of her next move. She was questioning herself now, I was sure of it. She was doubting her lover, everything she believed. She was questioning me, too. I could tell. Good. The moment of truth. Let her choose between us.

She seemed frozen, unable to move or even comprehend the situation. I felt myself soften for a second, before I shook it off. I couldn't lose my momentum. I had to make this an issue. I'd waited eight months for this opportunity, and I wasn't about to waste it. “Mother!” I screamed.

Still, she stood unmoving, as if strategizing her next move.

I became strangely calm and drew in a breath. “I'm calling the police.” My voice was flat but strong, void of the earlier hysteria.

I started for the phone, struck by an almost out-of-body feeling, like I was playacting and the director had walked off the set. I was ad-libbing, with no idea of my next line or scene, or how the play would end.

My mother came alive and grabbed me by the arm. “No!” She turned to Bob. “What happened? What did you do?”

Ah, yes. At last I'd won. A billowing bubble of gratification filled me. We'd leave this godforsaken place. We'd go back to Georgia, to my dad. We'd be a family again. But as quickly as the bubble rose, it sank. Doubt crept in when I saw the pleading look in Bob's eyes.

“Nothing,” he said. “You saw me, Suzanne. For goodness' sake, I didn't do a thing!” His voice was filled with desperation. He sought me out. “Sister, I'm sorry. You don't think—”

I couldn't let him finish. I would not allow him to break my resolve. “Shut up, you child molester!” I slipped from my mom's grasp and darted to the telephone.

I never called the police. Instead, I called my dad. He arrived the next day. After months of being a helpless bystander while my life was being dismantled, I was calling the shots now. My parents were in the same town, the same room! The power was intoxicating.

My father was strong again. He used words like
unfit
and
pedophile
. But my mother was strong now, too. She'd witnessed the event, after all. She knew what happened, he didn't. She countered with words like
manipulative
and
bully
.

Six hours later, I was on my way to Atlanta to start a new life with my father. They'd struck a deal. She'd allow me to go with him, and my dad wouldn't press charges. My mother had sold me out.

I can almost see that girl, watching out the airplane window as Michigan disappeared below the clouds, along with her mother . . . and her innocence.

“And there it is,” I tell Claudia. “A tale was put into motion, and the thirteen-year-old staring out the window of that 757 saw no way to stop it. The tale was part fact, part fiction, but which was which, I wasn't entirely sure. I knew I'd drive myself crazy second-guessing. So instead I claimed the tale as fact and clung to it like a tree in a tsunami.”

C
laudia and I enter stage right and the audience erupts. Together we smile and wave, like a pair of Miss America contestants who've chosen to share the crown. It no longer feels like I am auditioning for my job, or that Claudia is crouched on the sofa with her teeth bared, waiting to pounce. Her presence as my cohost is comforting today, rather than threatening. All because we shared our secrets.

We begin with the usual introductions, then welcome Fiona. I stand back and take in the older version of the girl who tormented me for two years. She's petite, with dark hair and sharp green eyes that used to cut right through me. But those eyes are soft now, and she smiles when she sees me.

She crosses the stage and takes my hand. She's wearing a navy wrap dress and a pair of wedge sandals. “I'm so sorry, Hannah,” she whispers into my ear. Without intending to, I pull her into a hug, surprised to feel a lump rise in my throat.

When I called her hotel last night, Fiona graciously agreed with me. I sensed she was just as relieved as I was that we wouldn't be talking about our history on today's show. The conversation was short. We didn't reminisce about our days back at Bloomfield Hills Academy. Given her change of heart, I'm guessing those memories are just as painful for her as they are for me, maybe even more so.

Claudia and I take our places in the matching chairs facing Fiona. For twenty minutes, Claudia lobs brilliant questions, and Fiona returns them with witty and insightful answers. I look on, feeling oddly separated from my show, just the way I'd insisted.

“The stones have been such a blessing in my life,” Fiona explains. “I feel as if I've given back to the universe a small piece of myself.”

How did you come up with the idea for the Forgiveness Stones?

“The idea came to me after I'd attended a friend's wedding. I'd taped the wedding toast and forgot to turn off my camera. I left the table having no idea that the phone was still recording. The next day I replayed it. I was about to turn off the video when I heard the audio of my friends—and what they said wasn't pretty.

“I mean, who would've thought that when one friend leaves a group, the other women might talk about her?”

Chuckles rise from the crowd. I smile. She's a pro, no doubt about it.

“For the first two days, I was angry and defensive. Then I just felt sad. Deep down, bone-sad. The truth was painful. I was a snob, what some might call a mean girl. But more than anything, I was a fraud. And I'd been a fraud all my life. You see, at that wedding, I made everyone believe I was a successful attorney. I'd even rented a Mercedes, just to impress my old friends. Truth was, I drove a twelve-year-old Kia. I hated my job. I was nothing more than an ambulance chaser, with a salary that barely covered my law school loans. I lived in a shabby studio apartment, and spent most nights alone watching Bravo and eating Hot Pockets.”

More chuckles from the audience.

“But I was too afraid to let people see that person. She wasn't good enough. It's ironic, don't you think? We try so hard to camouflage our weaknesses. We don't dare let that soft part show. But it's that very place, that sweet spot of vulnerability, that allows love to grow.”

Our eyes meet briefly then, and I have the strongest urge to move to the sofa and sling an arm around her. Instead, I turn away.

“I wanted to find a way to atone,” she says. I think of Dorothy and her grace and bravery. I wish I were wired that way.

“Of course, I had no idea if people would forgive me. I kept—and still keep—a vase of flowers on my bookshelf, filled with pebbles. Somehow, the stones spoke to me. They served as an anchor. They also symbolize weight. It just happened magically.

“After I'd sent the stones to several of my friends at the wedding, I realized I had more apologies to make. So I just kept sending stones. About a week later, they started showing up in my mailbox, with letters telling me I was forgiven. The incredible weight of self-hatred I'd been carrying for years became lighter and lighter. It's a powerful thing, shedding shame. And the people who forgave felt better, too. I knew I had to share the gift with others.”

“And you'll be hosting a reunion this summer,” Claudia says.

“That's right.” Fiona sighs, as if it's a mighty task. “We've chosen Chicago's Millennium Park for our First Annual Forgiveness Stone Reunion. Recipients of the stones will gather on August ninth to celebrate their weight loss, so to speak.” She winks, and the audience laughs. “But it's a huge undertaking. We're always looking for volunteers. You can sign up on my website.” She looks at the audience. “Any takers?”

The crowd nods and claps. Fiona points to an elderly woman. “Great. You're hired.”

Claudia puts her hands to her heart. “What a blessing you are to the universe. We'll have you back on the show after the reunion to tell us all about it. But now it's time for my favorite part of the hour. Let's open it up for questions.”

I feel the back of my neck bristle. It's really not her show. But this was what I wanted. And so far it's working. I haven't had to endorse the stones or Fiona Knowles, and there's only fifteen minutes to go. Nothing we've discussed infringed upon the proposal I presented to WCHI. James Peters should have no problem with this.

As planned, I step down to the audience level with the microphone, while Claudia and Fiona remain onstage.

Today's crowd isn't shy. Hands fly up, ambushing Fiona with questions.

“Aren't some apologies better left unspoken?”

“Perhaps,” she says. “An apology that's sure to hurt someone, and has no purpose other than to relieve one's guilt. That's when you have to learn to forgive yourself.”

I think of Dorothy's apology, her misguided attempt to relieve her guilt. But that was never her purpose. She was hoping to relieve Marilyn's.

I hand the mike to a tall brunette.

“What's the best story of redemption you've heard?”

Fiona glances at Claudia. “Do you mind?”

Claudia closes her eyes and nods. “Go ahead.”

Fiona launches into the same story Claudia had told me, about her trip to Cancún and the mess she'd made of Lacey and Henry's relationship. I look on, my mouth agape. I can't believe Fiona is outing her—on air! I sneak a peek at Claudia, expecting to see her slouched in her chair, red-faced with humiliation. Instead, she sits up straight, with her head held high. The woman is clearly made of stronger material than I am.

“Lacey's marriage to Mark ended after sixteen months,” Fiona tells the guests. “Claudia just couldn't forgive herself for what she'd done to Lacey and Henry. So she did what any good journalist—and friend—would do. She tracked down Henry.”

Wait . . . what?

A collective sigh of approval comes from the audience. Fiona nods to Claudia. “Please, you tell the rest.”

Claudia smiles and stands. “I made it my life mission to find Henry.” She puts air quotes around
Henry
. “Obviously, I've changed names here to protect their privacy.” She closes her eyes and lifts a hand, pausing like a Broadway actress. The audience sits stock-still, waiting for the story's climax. “Seven months ago, I finally did it. Henry and Lacey are getting married in September!” Her voice has the same excited squeal as Oprah's when announcing that every member of the studio audience has just won a shiny convertible.

The crowd cheers like they'd been handed the keys. I stand with the microphone at my side, trying to clear my head. Did I miss part of the story? Because I'm pretty sure I'm the one who suggested Claudia find Henry, just yesterday. And she sure as hell didn't find him last night.

A middle-aged woman three seats from the aisle raises her hand. I lean over and pass her the mike.

“My question is for you, Hannah,” she says. “What's your story of redemption?”

“I . . . my story?”

“Yes. Have you received a pouch of Forgiveness Stones?”

The breath is knocked from me. Across the studio, my eyes collide with Claudia's. Her mouth is slightly open, and her hand is on her chest. She's as stunned as I am.

I turn to Fiona. No, we agreed to keep our past a secret.

I look up to Stuart in the control booth. He's got a victorious grin on his face. How dare he!

“Um, well, yes. I did. It was quite a surprise.” I try to laugh, but it rings hollow.

I scamper up the aisle to a young woman wearing a long black skirt. “Your question, miss?”

“So, did you send your stone on to someone else?”

Shit. Another question for me! Something about her is familiar. Yes . . . the station's new IT gal, Danielle. Damn Stuart! He's planted audience members to ambush me. Or was it Claudia?

Again, the crazy laughter spills from my throat. “Ha, uh, yes . . . er, no. Not yet. But I will.”

The woman beside Danielle takes the mike without asking. “Who are you apologizing to?”

I glare at the control booth, aiming my ire directly at Stuart Booker. He shrugs, as if he were a helpless child.

“Well, um, my mother and I . . . we had a disagreement a while back . . .”

What's happening here? I'm being dragged down a deep abyss. Michael will be furious if I reveal my story—the story so horrible he wouldn't even allow me to tell
him
. And what's more, this story isn't mine to tell. It belongs to WCHI. My head feels light. I turn to see Claudia at my side. She places an arm around me and takes the microphone from my hand.

“Hannah is one of the bravest women I know.” She gazes out at the sea of faces. “She and I spoke about this just yesterday.”

“Please, Claudia. Don't,” I say, but Claudia holds up a hand to silence me.

“Hannah and her mother have a very tenuous relationship, like most mothers and daughters.” She smiles and I see heads in the audience nod.

“Hannah longs for a relationship with her mom, but it's complicated. Her mother abandoned Hannah as a child.”

An audible moan of sympathy comes from the crowd. I cringe, grateful that my mother will never see this show.

“It was extremely painful, as you can imagine. Hannah suffered severe emotional scars, scars that may never heal.”

I can't believe it. She's turning this around, making me appear sympathetic. Or is she? I feel like monkey in the middle, being thrown back and forth. Is Claudia trying to save or sink me?

“It was a man—a pretty despicable man—whom her mother decided was more important than her daughter.”

“Claudia, no,” I say, but she plows forward, and Ben's camera is fixed solely on her.

“Which is why Hannah feels so passionately about her cause, Into the Light. Most of you know Hannah Farr is a staunch supporter of this organization supporting victims of child sexual abuse. She hosts their annual fund-raiser and Christmas ball; she's on their board of directors.

“I, for one, am amazed that Hannah has the grace to forgive her mother, after all she's been through. But bless her heart, she's ready to do just that.”

I stare at Claudia, stunned. How could she? But the audience purrs and coos like a litter of contented cats. Claudia is telling them exactly what they want to hear. Hannah Farr is a good woman, someone with a huge heart, a victim so magnanimous that she's willing to turn the other cheek and forgive her evil mother.

Claudia hands the mike to a young Latino woman. “Hannah, when will you send the stone to your mother?” the woman asks.

I pull myself from the fog, my head thick. “Soon. Very soon.” I rub the back of my neck, feeling the sweat that's gathered. “But it—it's tricky. I can't imagine sending her a stone out of the blue. And I haven't had the time. She lives in Michigan . . .”

“A trip to Michigan, then?” Claudia asks, her head cocked and her brows raised.

From over her shoulder, I see Stuart at stage left, raising his arms, rallying the audience to applaud. As instructed, the entire audience erupts in claps and whistles. Jesus, is everyone in cahoots on this?

“Okay, then,” I say, feeling sick to my stomach. “I will. I'll deliver the stone to my mother.”