Sweet Forgiveness (33 page)

I ease onto I-94 and turn on the radio. John Legend streams through the speakers, belting out a bittersweet ballad completely incongruent with the glorious July day. I crack my window and try to focus on the cloudless blue sky instead of the heartbreaking song that reminds me of RJ. Did I really think he'd call, after all I've put his family through?

I fight back tears and turn to another station. Terry Gross is interviewing a new novelist. I punch the cruise control and drift along with the traffic, listening to Terry's soothing voice, feeling the monotonous hum of the road beneath my tires. Just how long has it been since I've taken a road trip?

I smile, remembering the time Julia and I drove my old Honda from L.A. to New Orleans, a three-day trip that spanned almost two thousand miles. I scowl, trying to recall why my dad couldn't make it.
Julia can take you,
he'd said.
She's got nothing better to do.
Was that true? Because now it seems utterly disrespectful.

I picture Julia, singing along to Bon Jovi, her blond ponytail bouncing to the rhythm. Did my dad appreciate her? Did he know how loyal she was to him, how loyal she'd be even after he was gone?

I make a mental note to send her a Forgiveness Stone. I know Julia, and those hidden letters must be weighing heavily on her mind. She needs to hear that I was no different, that I, too, protected my father at all costs, including my integrity.

The streets of Chicago sizzle with energy and the summer's heat. It's four o'clock when I find the old brick building on Madison Street. I take the elevator to the third floor, and wander down the narrow hallway, searching for Suite 319. The handmade sign on the door tells me I've arrived.

Forgiveness Stones Reunion Headquarters

I peer through the glass door, the large room like a hive of swarming bees. And there she is, the queen bee, perched behind a desk with her nose in the computer screen and a phone at her ear. I open the door.

She doesn't see me until I'm standing in front of her. When she looks up, a flashbulb of fear goes off, and I know it's still there, her burden that I have yet to lift.

I place a stone on her desk.

“This is for you.”

Fiona rises and comes to my side of the desk. We stand facing each other like two awkward teens. “You are absolutely and totally forgiven. And this time, I mean it.”

“But I ruined your life.” Her response is half statement, half question.

“My old life,” I say. “And maybe that's a good thing.” I step back and glance about the room. “Need another pair of hands?”

I
pay a fortune for a one-month rental apartment in Streeterville, though I'm rarely there. During the next four weeks, I spend most every waking hour at headquarters with Fiona and a couple dozen other volunteers, or at Chicago City Hall picking up permits, or meeting with vendors or officials from Millennium Park. At night, we gather at Fiona's apartment for pizza and beer, or at the Purple Pig for happy hour.

We're at Sweetwater Tavern when Fiona orders me her new favorite drink, a Grant Park Fizz.

“It's a delicious concoction of gin, ginger simple syrup, lime, soda, and cucumber. I challenge you to drink slowly.”

“Oh, God,” I say between sips. “Best thing these lips have tasted in months.”

She smiles and slings an arm around my shoulder. “You do realize, don't you? We're actually becoming friends.”

“Yeah, well, don't blow it this time,” I say, and clink her glass with mine.

“Any news?” she asks.

She's talking about RJ and the final two stones I'm hoping to get.

“Nothing from him,” I say. “But I did get a stone back from his sister, Anne.”

“The one you suspect . . .”

“Uh-huh. Her message was short and cryptic. Something like,
Enclosed is your stone. Your apology is accepted. It happened once, long ago. I hope we can let it be now.
”

“So he did molest her! Only one time, but still.”

“Maybe. Or perhaps she's referring to the one time it happened to me.”

Fiona sighs. “Oh, for Christ's sake! She hasn't really told you a thing. You need to ask her—”

I lift a hand. “She's told me enough. She forgives me. And she's right. It's time we let it go.”

Rain by seven, done by eleven. We're all counting on the old wives' tale today. It's 6:00 a.m. and we're at headquarters, loading boxes of T-shirts and paraphernalia in a downpour.

“Hand me that box,” my mother tells Brandon, an adorable twentysomething volunteer. “There's room in that van for one more.”

“Sure thing, Ma.”

Since her arrival on Thursday, Fiona and the gang of volunteers have taken to calling my mother “Ma.” She smiles every time they do. I imagine that single word is like a symphony to her after years of being deaf.

The clouds break just after nine, an hour before the event officially opens. Already people are milling about, wearing T-shirts that say
STONE ME
,
THE CONFESSI
ON
OBSESSION
, or
STONED
AND
ATONED
. But mine simply says
STONED
. I can't pretend that I've been forgiven, or even that I've properly atoned. I'm not sure that's even possible. As Fiona says, forgiveness, like love and life, is complicated.

I turn my attention to the day, the celebration I've been looking forward to for weeks. In the smallest corner of my mind, I fantasize that RJ comes today. But I keep the thought backstage. My father taught me long ago to avoid expectations.

Fiona and I scurry from table to table, from vendor to vendor, making sure everything's in order. But it's just nervous energy. Everything's on autopilot now. My mother busies herself checking out the baked goods offered by the local vendors.

“Six dollars for a slice of pie,” she tells me. “Can you imagine? I'm in the wrong business.”

It's eleven when I spot Dorothy and her entire entourage. She's sandwiched between Marilyn and Patrick, clutching both their arms. I grab my mother's hand and we run over to them.

“Hello, guys! I want you to meet my mother. Mom, these are my dear friends Dorothy and Marilyn and Mr. Sullivan.”

“Paddy,” he says, correcting me.

Dorothy offers her hand. “You've got a beautiful daughter.”

“Don't I, though?” my mother says. “Now, if you'll please excuse me, I got some T-shirts to sell.”

We wave her good-bye, and Marilyn turns to me. “Oh, Hannah, thank you for making this possible.”

“No. Thank
Dorothy
for making this possible. I would've taken a shortcut with these stones, but she wouldn't let me.”

Coming up behind them, I spy Jackson, his arm slung around a pretty brunette with a very pregnant belly. “Hannah, meet my wife, Holly.”

I feel a brief stab of envy. What I wouldn't give to be married and pregnant. Could I ever have truly forgiven Jack? I like to think I'm softer now, that the new me could get over his betrayal. But in truth, I think Jack was right. He wasn't the one.

I take Holly's hand. “It's really nice to meet you, Holly. Congratulations on your marriage, your baby.”

She looks up at her husband with pure adoration. “I'm a lucky girl.” She turns back to me. “Hey, I hear you're responsible for a whole slew of Rousseau apologies.”

I smile, thinking of the Chain of Forgiveness, from me to Dorothy, to Marilyn, to Jackson. “Well, it's actually Dorothy—your mother-in-law—who's responsible.”

Jackson shakes his head. “That's not what she says.” He clamps the shoulder of a short, silver-haired gentleman. “Hey, you remember my father, Stephen Rousseau.”

“Of course.” I take the hand of Dorothy's ex-husband, the man who left her after breast surgery. I wonder how Dorothy feels about having him here today.

“I'm happy to say my dad returned my stone,” Jack says. “I was once a selfish kid who thought my happiness was more important than his. Hard to believe, I know.” He grins, the same happy, lopsided grin I thought I'd stolen.

“And I sent my stone on to Dot,” Mr. Rousseau says, and glances at his ex-wife. “I wasn't the most sensitive husband.”

I study Dorothy. She keeps her head high and doesn't crack a smile. But there's a peace in her face now that had been missing.

“Nonsense,” she says, and quickly turns to me. “We're meeting Steven Willis here today. My old student who's living in New York. Remember, Hannah?”

“Yes. How could I forget your brilliant scheme with the stolen Walkman?” I pat Dorothy's hand. “Y'all have fun. I'll catch up with you later. I'm off to meet Jade at Crown Fountain.”

I head down the cement path. I'm about thirty feet away when I hear someone call my name. “Hannah!”

I wheel around and see Jack, trotting over to me.

“Hey, my mom told me about what happened in Michigan, and how the vineyard owner hasn't forgiven you. She said you really loved the guy.”

My heart shreds, and I want to disappear. I roll my eyes, feeling my face heat. “Love? C'mon. I hardly knew him.”

His face becomes tender. “It's okay, Hans. You can be soft.”

Tears well in my eyes, and I bat them away. “This is ridiculous.” My laugh curdles, and I hide my face. “I'm so sorry.”

“It's none of my business,” he says. “But don't blow it, Hans. If you really love this guy, fight for him.”

He squeezes my arm and turns away.

Thoughts of RJ invade my mind, as if the guard I'd hired to keep him at bay just walked out on the job. How is he? Does he ever think of me?
You never give up on someone you love.
Have I given up on RJ? No. I tried. He gave up on me.

Jade stands beside her father's wheelchair, the two of them clearly entertained by the fountain. She's pointing to a teenage boy whose face is a digital projection on a giant water screen. A cascade of water spurts from his mouth. Jade's father laughs.

“Hannabelle!” Jade shouts when she sees me. I throw my arms around her, then bend down to hug her father.

“How are you feeling, Pop?”

He's gaunt, with crescents of black beneath his eyes. But he's smiling, and his embrace is strong.

“Better than I have in months.”

“Dad and his brothers have been tearing it up this weekend, haven't you, Dad?”

While Mr. Giddens enjoys the fountain, I pull Jade aside. “How is he? And how are you?”

She smiles, but her eyes are heavy. “He's exhausted, but happy. We're talking weeks now, not months. I don't want to let him go, but if I have to, at least I know he's proud of me.”

“And all of your righteous wrongdoings.” I squeeze her arm. “How are things back home?”

“Marcus brought me roses last week. Told me he's sorry for the umpteenth time. Swore he'd be the perfect husband if I'd just give him one more chance.”

All my hard edges return. I suck in a breath and remind myself not to judge. “Okay. That's sweet. What'd you tell him?”

She slaps my arm with the back of her hand. “Don't get all soft on me now, Hannabelle. What do you think I told him? I told him to bugger off. There's no way in hell he's coming back. In my book, it's one strike, you're out!”

I laugh out loud and spin her in a circle. “Good for you! Sometimes ‘I'm sorry' just doesn't cut it.”

I glance at my watch. It's almost noon. From the direction of Pritzker Pavilion I hear a band playing Pharrell Williams's “Happy.”

“Is he here?” Jade asks.

She's talking about RJ. Like me, she thought maybe, just maybe, he'd come.

“No,” I say. “He's not coming.” And at this moment, I'm sure of it. That old cloak of darkness threatens to trap me. And just like that, I make a split-second decision.

“He's not coming here . . . which is why I'm going there, to Michigan, to his vineyard.”

Jade squeals. “Go! Get out of here!”

As I dash away, I hear her calling to me. “Stay in trouble!”

My mother claps a hand over her mouth when I tell her I'm leaving. “Oh, honey, are you sure that's a good idea? He knows you're here. I told him all about this reunion when I took Bob's things over to him last week.”

I deflate. My mother is afraid I'll be humiliated again. She knows RJ will never forgive me. I look into her eyes and see a woman whose life has been dictated rather than created. The only time she's ever gone after what she wanted was when she refused to leave Michigan, and Bob. Whether that was a good decision or a poor one, I honestly couldn't say.