Sweet Forgiveness (29 page)

P
aris Parker Salon is abuzz with pretty young women Friday afternoon. It's Le Début des Jeunes Filles de la Nouvelle Orléans—the coming-out of sixty-five young debutantes. Tonight they'll be presented to an assembly of New Orleans' elite. Relationships will form, which will one day turn into engagements, and later elaborate weddings. That's the way it works in New Orleans—old wealth marries old wealth. I sit in the reception area, pretending to read an article in
Cosmopolitan,
TW
ENTY
TIPS
FOR
LOOKIN
G
TEN
YEARS
YOUNGER
. But all the while I'm peering over the magazine, waiting for Marilyn to arrive.

Like many southern women of her generation, Marilyn keeps a standing appointment each week for a shampoo and a style. But I'm beginning to wonder if she's canceled today.

I return to the magazine article. Where was I? Ah, yes,
Tip #9.
Camouflage your turkey neck with a scarf
.

I look up when I hear the door open, but it's just another pretty young woman. I gaze out at the salon floor. Young, hopeful beauties smile into mirrors, filled with dreams and possibilities. At once, I feel so very old. Have I missed my opportunity, my coming-out? Each year another batch of women enters the dating scene, younger, fresher, more exciting. How is a thirtysomething supposed to compete?

I startle when I spy Abby halfway across the room. Shit! She's standing at a styling station with two other girls, watching a redhead get an updo. Abby's friend must be a debutante. My heart quickens. Abby laughs at something the stylist says, then looks over at me, as if she knew I'd been watching her.

I cringe, replaying the awful scene I'd made when Michael and I broke up. I called her a bitch! What was I thinking? I manage to raise a hand and smile before hiding my face in my magazine. A moment later, I hear a voice in front of me.

“Hey, Hannah.”

A volt of panic surges through me. Is Abby going to make a scene? Tell me off in front of the entire salon?

I peek up from my magazine. “Hi, Abby.”

“Getting a haircut?” she asks.

In my entire courtship with her father, I don't think she'd ever asked me a personal question. What is she up to now? I set the magazine aside and stand, so that we're at eye level. If she starts yelling obscenities at me, I can make a run for it.

“No. I'm waiting for a friend.” I gesture to the room. “Looks like y'all are having fun.”

“Yeah. Deb season. It's crazy. I'm over it, though.”

I nod, and an awkward silence comes over us. “Abby,” I say, gripping my purse strap, “I'm really sorry for what I said last Friday night. I was wrong. You have every right to hate me.”

She lifts her shoulders. “Honestly? For the first time, I actually liked you.”

I stare at her, baffled, sure she's being sarcastic.

“You finally stood up for yourself. It's just . . . I know you're smart and all . . . but I could never understand why you didn't get it.”

I wait, still not “getting it.”

She looks me straight in the eye. “Hannah, my dad was never going to marry you.”

I rear my head back, stung by her truth.

“It's true. His stock is way higher as a widower and single father than it would ever be as a married man.”

I let the words sink in. I think of the way the media refer to Michael.
Mayor Payne, single father
.
Widower, Mayor Payne
. It's practically embedded in his title.

“Voters love that shit,” Abby says. “So many times, I just wanted to strangle you, like that night at Broussard's when that couple got engaged and you sat there all teary-eyed. I couldn't believe you could be so stupid.”

She's not being mean. For the first time, she's actually treating me like she cares. And what she's telling me makes sense. A single, devoted dad who lost his wife in a tragic accident. That's Michael's brand. I should have known, his brand means everything to him.

I rub my brow. “I feel like an idiot,” I say, void of pretense or the desire to impress. “I cannot believe I never realized this.”

“Hey, you made up for it last week. You were awesome, delivering those punches. Of course, my dad was ape-shit pissed, but I thought to myself,
Wow, the woman has a spine after all
.”

A ding comes from her cell phone and she glances at it. “Okay. Well, I guess I'll see you around.”

“See you around, Abby. And thanks.”

She walks away, then looks back at me. “Hey, you know that bread you make, especially that apple one with the crunchy stuff on top? You should, like, start a bakery or something. For real.”

My smile fades when Marilyn walks into the salon. She's wearing a pink linen skirt and a cotton blouse, with a pale yellow sweater draped over her shoulders. She pauses at the reception table, and the redhead behind the desk smiles at her.

“Hello, Mrs. Armstrong. I'll let Kari know you're here. Can I get you some tea?”

“Thank you, Lindsay.” She turns toward the waiting area and stops when she sees me.

“Hannah,” she says, her voice cool.

I rise and meet her, rubbing the Forgiveness Stone in my hand. “Hello, Marilyn. I came here hoping to speak to you. It'll only take a minute. Please, can you sit down?”

She huffs. “Well, I don't suppose I have much choice, do I?”

I take her by the hand and we sit side by side. I tell her, once again, how foolish I'd been to let her and Dorothy on the show. And then I hand her a Forgiveness Stone. “I was selfish. And wrong. You were blindsided.”

“You're right about that. You tricked me, that's why I'm so angry with you.” She looks down at the stone in her hand. “But it wouldn't have mattered where Dorothy had made the confession. Truth is, it would have been devastating, regardless.”

“It was a terrible decision,” I say.

“Yes, as was your own on-air confession. I see you suffered a real beating. I was sorry to see that happened to you, Hannah.”

How do I explain that Dorothy and I feel the same way? We deserved our comeuppance.

“I'm going to Michigan for a while. That's why I'm here. Dorothy will need a friend.”

Marilyn raises her eyes. “How is she?” she asks quietly.

“Sad. Lonely. Heartbroken. She misses you terribly.”

“Even if I were able to forgive, I'd never be able to forget.”

“That old adage to forgive and forget is bullshit, if you ask me.” I lift a hand. “I'm sorry for the profanity, Marilyn, but you aren't going to forget Dorothy's mistake. It would be impossible. And I promise you, Dorothy will never forget, either.” I take one of her hands and squeeze, as if I can physically implant this message. “I'm no Fiona Knowles, but I believe forgiveness is even sweeter when it's granted with a vivid memory, when someone's fully aware of the pain the other person has caused, yet they make a choice to forgive anyway. Isn't that more generous than putting blinders on and pretending the grievance never happened?”

A pretty blonde dressed in a black approaches. “Mrs. Armstrong? Kari's ready for you.”

Marilyn pats my hand. “I appreciate you coming, Hannah. But I can make no promises. My heart is broken, too.”

I watch as she walks away, sad to think that two broken hearts have made a hole, rather than a whole.

I
'
m in my bare feet kneading bread Wednesday morning when my door buzzes. I wipe my hands. Who's coming to visit on a weekday morning? I thought I was the only unemployed person in New Orleans.

I press the intercom. “Yes?”

“Hannah, it's Fiona. Can I come up, please?”

I stare at the buzzer as if I'm being punked. “Fiona Knowles?” I ask.

“How many Fionas do you know?”

I can't help but smile at her smart-aleck reply. I buzz her up, and quickly toss a team of measuring cups and spoons into the kitchen sink. What's she doing here? Another book event? And how did she get my home address?

“Aren't you supposed to be on tour?” I say when she steps off the elevator. It comes out more of an accusation, and I tweak it. “I'm surprised to see you, that's all.”

“Last night was Nashville. Tonight I'm supposed to be at a bookstore in Memphis. I canceled and flew back here instead.” She steps through the door. Her eyes shift and she glances about the foyer. She's nervous, like me. “Because you're right, Hannah. Sometimes ‘I'm sorry' isn't enough.”

She came all the way back for me? Her publisher must be footing the bill. I shrug and lead her into the kitchen. “Look, forget it. You caught me at a low point the other night.”

“No. You were right. I owe you a sincere, face-to-face apology. And I need to know what I did to break up your family.”

I glance at my coffeepot. It's half full. What the hell, it's going to be thrown out anyway. “Coffee?”

“Uh, sure. If it's not too much trouble. And if you have time.”

“Time is the one thing I do have.” I pull two mugs from the cupboard. “As I mentioned in my rant, I'm unemployed.”

I fill the cups and we move into to the living room. We sit on opposite ends of the sofa, and she wastes no time getting to the point. Maybe she's hoping to get back to Memphis in time for tonight's gig.

“First, I know it's not enough, but I have to tell you how sorry I am for everything that's happened to you.”

I lay a hand over my steaming cup. “Whatever. It's not like someone put a gun to my head. I made the confession with my own free will.”

“I thought what you did was courageous.”

“Uh-huh. You and maybe one or two other people. The rest of this city thinks I'm a hypocrite.”

“I wish I could do something. I feel awful.”

“Why did you hate me?” The words tumble from my mouth before I can catch them. In all the years that have passed, that insecure teen still wants answers.

“I didn't hate you, Hannah.”

“Every day you made fun of me. The way I talked, the way I dressed, my low-rent family. Every damn day.” I clench my jaw. She will not see me cry.

“Until one morning you decided I wasn't worth your time. And then I became invisible. Not just to you, to all your friends, too. That was even worse, eating alone, walking to class alone. I used to pretend I was sick, so I didn't have to go to school.

“I remember sitting in that cramped counseling office while my mom told Mrs. Christian how I got stomachaches every morning. She couldn't understand why I hated school. I wasn't about to tell on you. You would have crucified me.”

Fiona hides her face in her hands and shakes her head. “I am so sorry.”

I should stop, but I can't.

“After the meeting, she and Mrs. Christian were making small talk, trying to pretend they'd just had a productive meeting. My mom mentioned she wanted to have our kitchen remodeled.” I pause, picturing the scene in the hallway, the two of them yammering on while I fiddled with someone's locker combination, wishing my mom would hurry up.

“Mrs. Christian recommended a construction worker. Bob Wallace, the wood-shop teacher at the public school.”

Fiona's head falls back. “Don't tell me. The man she married?”

“That's right. If it hadn't been for you, my mother never would have met Bob.”

As I spew the words, a dim picture takes shape in my mind. It's of my mother, smiling at Bob, her eyes full of love as she feeds him a forkful of spaghetti. I push the image away. Because right now I need to be angry at Fiona, not grateful.

“I could try to explain myself,” Fiona says. “I could even spin a pretty sympathetic tale of a girl riddled with anxiety, who could never meet her mother's expectations.” Her face is red and blotchy, and I have to force myself not to touch her arm, tell her it's okay. “But I'll spare you. The long and short of it is this: I was pissed off at the world. I was hurting. And people who hurt, hurt.”

I swallow hard. “Who knew you were just as miserable as I was?”

“We do so much harm when we try to hide our pain. Because in one form or another, it always leaks out.”

I offer a halfhearted smile. “Yours was more like a jet spray, actually.”

The corners of Fiona's lips turn up. “No. It was a fucking geyser.”

“There you go.”

She lifts her hands in the air. “Even now, when I've created this bizarre forgiveness phenomenon, I feel like a fraud. Half the time I don't know what the hell I'm talking about.”

I laugh. “Sure you do. You're the forgiveness guru. You wrote a book.”

“Yeah, right. I'm flying by the seat of my pants. Truth is, I'm just a girl standing in front of an audience, hoping for forgiveness. An ordinary person, like everyone else, who just wants to be loved.”

I feel my eyes sting and shake my head. “Isn't that the line Julia Roberts delivered to Hugh Grant at the end of
Notting Hill
?”

She smiles. “I told you I was a fraud.”

It's been two days since the Memorial Day parade, and tiny American flags still line the sidewalk of the Garden Home. I enter the house, surprised to find Dorothy seated at an empty table in the dining room. Lunch won't be served for another thirty minutes. Someone has snapped a terry-cloth dish-towel-turned-bib around her neck. I want to fling it off her, remind these people that this woman has dignity, but I realize the bib is innocent. The caregivers are covering her from a mess that she might make. I wish I'd had a bit of protection when I made my mess.

I pull the loaf from my tote as I approach the table.

“I smell Hannah's bread,” she says. Her voice is chipper today. Maybe time is working its magic. Or better yet, maybe she's heard from Marilyn.

“Good morning, Dorothy.” I bend down to hug her. The smell of Chanel perfume, the feel of her thin arms around my neck, makes me sentimental today. Or maybe it's the fact that I'll be leaving next week. For whatever reason, I cling to her more tightly this morning. She pats my back as if she senses my emotional frailty.

“You're okay, Hannah Marie. Now come, sit down and tell me your story.”

I drag a chair from the next table and tell her about my visit from Fiona. “I was shocked that she actually came all the way here just to apologize again.”

“Lovely. And do you feel better?”

“I do. But I'd say the jury's still out on whether shedding our shame is a good thing or a foolish thing. Take us, for example. Will our lives ever get back to normal?”

“Dear, don't you know? Confessing freed us. But next time, we need to take more care when we expose those fragile pieces of our hearts. Tenderness is meant to be shared only with those who'll provide a soft landing.”

She's right. Claudia Campbell wasn't a worthy confidant. My mind travels to Michael. No, he didn't provide a soft landing, either.

“I'm glad you're so optimistic.”

“I am. We have everything now.” She lays a hand on my arm. “We finally have ourselves.”

I mull it over for a moment. “Yeah? Well, let's hope that's enough. So tell me, how's life? How's Patrick?”

“Dandy.” She pulls a letter from her pocket and hands it to me.

I smile. “He wrote you a love letter?”

“It's not from Paddy. It's a response to my stones.”

Marilyn has forgiven her! Fantastic! But then I see the return address.

“New York City?”

“Go ahead, read it. Aloud, please. I'd like to hear it again.”

I unfold the letter.

Dear Mrs. Rousseau,

I was stunned to receive your letter of apology. As you can see, I'm returning the stone to you, but please know, your apology was never necessary. I sincerely regret that you carried such guilt for losing contact with me after that day in class.

It's true, I never returned to Walter Cohen High. And no doubt you thought you'd lost me. I wish you'd known, all these years, that you were the very person who saved me. It sounds cliché, but I walked into your classroom that June day a troubled boy, and I walked out a man. And what's more, a man I actually liked.

I remember that morning so clearly. You'd called me up to your desk to look at your grade book. Nothing but
I
's—incompletes. I hadn't turned in a single project that semester. You were apologetic and explained that you had no choice but to fail me. I wouldn't graduate.

It wasn't exactly a surprise. All semester you'd been on my case. I can't recall exactly how many times you called me at home, and once, you even showed up on my doorstep. You begged me to come to school, you pleaded with my mother. I was six credits shy of graduating, which meant I had to pass all my classes that semester. And you were hell-bent on helping me get them. Not just your English credit, either. You'd talked to my other teachers, too. But I didn't make it easy for you. I had a million excuses, and yes, some of them were even valid. But bottom line was, you couldn't give a credit to a kid who came to class but once a week, at best.

So yes, we both remember that day. But I'm not sure if you remember the rest of that class.

Before you began the day's lesson, you asked Roger Farris to put his Walkman away. He groaned and stashed it under his desk. Halfway through the hour, Roger announced that his Walkman was missing. He pitched a fit, sure someone had stolen it.

Kids started pointing fingers. Some suggested you search us. You wouldn't hear of it.

Very calmly, you told the class that someone had made a mistake. You claimed that one of us in the room was having serious regrets and wanted very much to do the right thing. Then you walked over to your little cement-block office attached to the classroom and turned out the light. You announced that every student in class would spend twenty seconds alone in the dark room. We were to take our backpacks and purses. The person in possession of the tape player would leave it behind in the office, you were certain.

We all moaned and whined. What a load of crap, making us feel like thieves. Everyone knew it was Steven Willis. He was the poor kid who smoked a lot of weed. It was shocking that he was even in school that day. Most of the time he was truant.

Why not just confront him, search his backpack and spare the rest of us? He'd never give up Roger's Walkman, now that he had it. We tried to convince you that people didn't operate that way, that you were naïve.

But you insisted. You said we were all, by nature, good. That the person who had “accidentally” taken the Walkman was struggling right now, wishing they could have a do-over.

So reluctantly, we obliged you. One by one, we stepped into the blackness of your tiny cubicle. Gina Bluemlein kept time, tapping on the door to let us know when our twenty seconds had elapsed. By the end of class, we'd all spent our allotted time alone in the dark office.

And then the moment of truth arrived. We huddled at the door as you entered the office. By then, we were as anxious as you to see the results of your experiment. You flipped on the lights. It took a minute before we spotted it. But there it was, on the floor beside your file cabinet. Roger Farris's Walkman.

The class was stunned. We erupted in cheers and high fives. The entire class left that day feeling a newfound optimism for humanity.