Sweet Forgiveness (6 page)

“You think I've only hurt one person in these seventy-six years? Don't you know, deep inside, we're all just bundles of shame? I suppose that's the beauty of these silly stones. They give one permission—or perhaps an obligation—to be vulnerable.”

When I arrive late that afternoon, Dorothy's face has transformed. Her frown lines have softened, and she looks positively serene. She sits in the courtyard, under the umbrella table, with Fiona Knowles's audiobook in front of her. I scowl. The girl who treated me so badly is now an icon for forgiveness, and no doubt cashing in, big-time.

“People carry secrets for two reasons,” Dorothy tells me. “To protect themselves or to protect others. That's what Ms. Knowles says.”

“What a revelation. The woman is brilliant.”

“She is,” Dorothy says, obviously not catching my sarcasm—or perhaps choosing not to. “Did you bring my pouches, dear?”

“Uh-huh. White tulle,” I say, placing them in her hand. “With tiny lime-green polka dots.”

She fingers the fabric, and draws open the strings. “Beautiful. Now, there's a cup of stones on my nightstand. Fetch it for me, would you, please?”

I return with a plastic cup filled with pebbles. Dorothy pours them onto the table.

“Marilyn gathered these from the courtyard yesterday.” With care, she separates the stones into groups of two. “This first set will be for Mari,” she says. “Though she doesn't know it yet.”

“Marilyn?” I'm surprised when she cites her closest and lifelong friend. But on reflection, it makes perfect sense. “Well, I guess when you've known a person your entire life, you're bound to have hurt her feelings at one time or another, right?”

“Yes,” she says. “And it was a doozy.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head, as if the very memory sends a shiver through her.

“I've always imagined that life is a cavernous room filled with candles,” Dorothy says. “When we're born, half the candles are lit. With each good deed we do, another flickers to life, creating a bit more light.”

“Nice,” I say.

“But along the way, some flames are extinguished by selfishness and cruelty. So you see, we light some candles, we blow some out. In the end, we can only hope that we've created more light in this world than darkness.”

I pause a moment, imagining my own room of candles. I wonder, have I created more light than darkness? “That's a beautiful analogy, Dorothy. And you, my friend, cast a very strong light.”

“Oh, but I've extinguished my fair share along the way.” She searches until her hand finds another set of stones. “These will go to Steven.”

“How charitable,” I say. “I thought you despised him.”

I met Stephen Rousseau twice, when I was dating Jackson. He seemed like a decent man. But Dorothy rarely speaks of her ex-husband, except to say that she has no use for the lout who divorced her nine months after she'd had a mastectomy. Though three decades have passed, I suspect neither of Dorothy's scars has fully healed.

“I'm talking about Steven Willis, my former student. He was a bright boy, but his family life was atrocious. I let him slip through the cracks, Hannah, and I've never forgiven myself. I think his brothers still live in town. I'm going to track him down.”

Such bravery. Or is it? Maybe an apology will soothe Dorothy's guilty conscience, but might it be an unwelcome reminder to Steven of a childhood he'd rather forget?

She moves her hand to the next set. “These are for Jackson,” she tells me. “I never apologized for meddling.”

This stops me cold.

“Had it not been for me, y'all would be married now. I'm the one who advised him to fess up to you, Hannah. The shame he carried was too big a burden. A mother knows these things. His secret would have destroyed your relationship, and later your marriage. I was certain you'd forgive him if he confessed. I was wrong.”

“I forgave him,” I say, and squeeze her hand. “But you bring up a good point. Perhaps Jack would have been better off never telling me the truth. Some secrets are better left unshared.”

She lifts her chin. “Like the secret you're carrying with your mother?”

I stiffen. “I never said anything about a secret.”

“You didn't have to. A mother does not desert her child, Hannah. Have you sent her your stone yet?”

A mixture of sadness and defeat comes over me. “There were no letters. I checked with Julia.”

She gives a little harrumph. “And that gives you a pass, the fact that your father may not have told his girlfriend?”

“I need time to think about this, Dorothy.”

“‘Until you pour light onto whatever it is that cloaks you in darkness, you'll forever be lost.' That's what Fiona Knowles says.”

I
stop by Guy's on Magazine Street and get takeout. It's dusk now, and I stand at my kitchen counter, staring blankly at the glow of my open laptop as I chow down on a fried oyster po'boy and a bag of Zapp's potato chips.

Until you pour light onto whatever it is that cloaks you in darkness, you'll forever be lost.
Dorothy's words—or Fiona's—rattle me. What would it feel like to have a clear conscience, to feel whole and worthy and clean?

Damn it! I don't need this right now. As if my job and my relationship aren't enough to keep Guy's in business.

I move to the other side of the kitchen and throw open the freezer door. I peer into the frosty abyss until I spot it: a brand-new quart of sea-salt caramel ice cream. I reach for it, but then, at the last minute, I stop myself. I slam shut the freezer door, wishing I had a padlock. In the television business, calories are career killers. Though Stuart has stopped short of placing a scale in my dressing room, he has made it clear that horizontal stripes are no longer an option.

Get a grip!

I toss my wrappers into the trash basket and walk to the living room. From beyond the French doors, the day fades into evening. Families are eating dinner, mothers are bathing their children.

Without permission, my mind veers to Jack. Do I believe what I said to Dorothy today? Had Jack not confessed, I'd be oblivious to his affair and we would have been married three years now. He'd be consulting for restaurants here in New Orleans rather than in Chicago. Child number one would be a year old now, and we'd be working on our second.

Why did he have to screw it all up, literally? Amy was his goddamn intern! Twenty years old, for God's sake!

I push back sentimentality. Would I have wanted him to keep his secret from me? It's impossible to know. Besides, it was all for the best. I know that now. I wouldn't have met Michael. And Michael is a far better match for me than Jack ever was. Sure, Jack was sweet. And yes, he made me laugh. But Michael is my rock. He's warm and wise, and what he lacks in the way of time, he makes up for in loyalty.

From across the room I spy my tote, splayed on a chair where I'd dropped it earlier. I cross the room and remove the little pouch. The stones tumble onto my palm. I move to my desk, rubbing them in my palm like worry beads, and pull out a sheet of stationery.

My heart speeds when I write the first word.

Mom,

I take a deep breath and continue.

Perhaps it's time we made peace.

My hand shakes so badly I can barely write. I toss the pen aside and rise from my chair. I can't do this.

The open French doors beckon me. I step onto my balcony, six floors above street level, and lean against the iron railing, admiring the haze of purples and oranges in the western sky. Below, the St. Charles Streetcar shuffles into view, stopping in the grassy strip that slices through the wide avenue.

Why is Dorothy so insistent? I shared my background with her the very day we met, in the lobby of the Evangeline. We'd been chatting for ten minutes when she suggested we continue our conversation upstairs. “I'm in apartment six-seventeen. Join me for a cocktail, won't you? I'll make us a batch of Ramos Fizzes—you do drink, don't you?”

I liked Dorothy from the start. Her personality was two parts honey, one part bourbon—and she had a way of looking directly into my eyes that made me feel like we'd known each other all our lives.

We sat in mismatched armchairs, sipping the delicious old New Orleans cocktail made with gin and cream and citrus juices. Between sips, she told me that she'd been divorced for thirty-four years, twenty years longer than her marriage. “Apparently Stephen was a breast man, and back then mastectomies weren't performed quite so delicately. It was a low point, but I rallied. The expectation for a southern gal with a three-year-old son was to hit the social scene until I found a new husband and a father for Jackson. Mother was appalled that I chose the single life, teaching English at Walter Cohen High School. Next thing I knew, twenty beautiful years had disappeared like raindrops on a summer sidewalk.”

She spoke wistfully of growing up in New Orleans, the daughter of a popular obstetrician.

“Daddy was a dear man,” she said. “But the wife of an obstetrician wasn't prestigious enough for Mother. She was raised in one of the grand mansions on Audubon Drive. Her expectations always exceeded Daddy's ambition.”

The Ramos Fizz must have gone to my head, because before I knew it, I was telling her about my own family, something I rarely did.

I was eleven years old when my father was traded from the Atlanta Braves to the Detroit Tigers. In the span of six weeks, my parents bought a house in in the wealthy suburb of Bloomfield Hills and enrolled me in some la-di-da private girls' school. But I knew on the very first day I'd never fit in with the close-knit circle of sixth-graders. The descendants of auto tycoons like Henry Ford and Charles Fisher had no interest in a skinny newcomer whose father was an unsophisticated baseball player from Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania. At least that's what the ringleader, Fiona Knowles, decided. And the other fifteen girls followed Fiona like lemmings off a cliff.

My mother, the pretty daughter of a coal miner and only thirty-one at the time, was my only friend. She was as much an outcast in our affluent neighborhood as I was. I could tell by the way she smoked her cigarettes down to a nub, staring out the window with a faraway look in her eyes. But what choice did we have? My dad loved the game of baseball. And my mother, who had no education or skills of her own, loved my dad—or so I thought.

My world upended on a chilly night in November, thirteen months after we'd arrived. I was setting the table, watching the snow fall from the window of our breakfast nook, complaining to my mother about the endless parade of gray days, the approaching winter. We both missed our Georgia home and loved to reminisce about the blue skies and warm breezes. But for the first time since we'd arrived, she didn't take my side.

“It's a trade-off,” she said tersely. “Sure, the weather's nice down South, but that only accounts for so much. You need to change your attitude.”

I was stung to think I'd lost my ally, but I never had a chance to rebut, because at that moment my dad stepped through the back door, grinning. At forty-one years old, he was one of the oldest players in Major League Baseball. His first season in Detroit had been a disappointment, souring his temper. But that night he tossed his jacket on a hook and grabbed my mother into a hug.

“We're going home!” he announced. “You're looking at the Panthers' new head coach!”

I had no idea who the Panthers were, but I knew where home was. Atlanta! Even though we'd only lived in Georgia for two years, we claimed it as our own. Our lives were happy then. We had neighborhood parties and barbecues and took weekend trips to Tybee Island.

My mother shooed him away. “You smell like a distillery.” But he didn't seem to care. And neither did I. I let out a whoop, and he swept me into his arms. I breathed deeply, his familiar scent of Jack Daniel's whiskey and Camel cigarettes filling my nostrils. It felt foreign and embarrassingly wonderful to be held by this big, handsome man. I looked over at my mom, expecting to see her dancing with joy. But her head was turned to the window. She stared out at the gloomy night with her hands braced on the edge of the sink.

“Mom,” I said, wriggling from my dad's clutches. “We're leaving. Why aren't you happy?”

She turned around then, her pretty face marred with red splotches. “Go up to your room, Hannah. Me and your dad need to talk.”

Her voice was thick, the way mine sounded when I felt like crying. I scowled. What was her problem? This was our ticket out of Michigan. We'd be going back to Georgia, to warm weather and sunny skies and girls who liked me.

I let out a huff and skulked from the kitchen. But instead of climbing the stairs to my bedroom, I crouched behind the sofa and listened to my parents from the darkness of the living room.

“A college coaching job?” I heard my mother ask. “What's this about, John?”

“You haven't been happy here, Suzanne. You've made no bones about it. And frankly, I'm too old for this game. This college job is a tactic. In a few years I'll be able to compete for Major League assignments. And let's be honest, we've got more money than we'd ever imagined, even if I never worked another day in my life.”

“Is it the drinking again?”

His voice grew loud. “No! Damn it, I thought you'd be happy.”

“Why do I suspect there's more to this story?

“Suspect all you want. I've been offered this position, and I'm taking it. I've already told them so.”

“Without asking me? How could you?”

I shook my head. Why was my mother upset? She hated it here—didn't she? And my dad was doing this for her, for us. She should be thrilled.

“Why can I never please you? What is it you want, Suzanne?”

My mom's tears practically seeped through the walls. I wanted to run to her and comfort her. But I covered my mouth and waited.

“I . . . I can't leave.”

I had to strain to hear my dad, his voice soft and flat. “Je-sus Christ. It's that serious?”

And then I heard it, a sound as haunting as an animal's wail. My dad's desperate sobs, his choked voice, begging my mother to come with him. He needed her. He loved her.

At once, panic and terror and embarrassment filled me. I'd never heard my dad cry. He was strong and solid. My life's foundation was crumbling. From my hiding place, I watched my mom climb the staircase and then heard the bedroom door close.

In the kitchen, a chair scraped against the floor. I imagined my dad slipping into it, burying his face in his hands. Then it began again, the muffled howl of a man who'd just lost his love.

A week later the mystery was solved. Once again, my father had been traded, this time by his wife. His replacement was a man named Bob, a wood-shop teacher by day, carpenter during the off-season. My guidance counselor had given my mother his name. My dad had hired him the previous summer to remodel our kitchen.

I ended up getting what I'd hoped for, though it would be another nine months before I finally left Michigan and joined my father in Atlanta. My mother stayed behind with the man she loved more than my father. And more than me.

And now I'm supposed to make nice? I sigh. Dorothy doesn't know the half of it. Only four people know the rest of the story, and one of them is dead.

I actually tried to tell Michael my saga, but he spared me. It was our third date, and we'd had a wonderful dinner at Arnaud's. Afterward, we sat on my sofa drinking Pimm's Cups. He'd just confided in me the details of his wife's tragic accident, and we were both in tears. Though I'd never before shared my story, it felt safe and right that night, snug in the crook of his arm. I started at the beginning of my story, but of course I ended where I always did, just shy of telling him about the late-night encounter with Bob.

“So I moved to Atlanta with my dad. For the first two years, I saw my mother about once a month, always in a neutral location—usually Chicago. My dad wouldn't let me visit her home—not that I wanted to. He was protective of me, which I have to admit was a heady feeling. I'd never had much of a relationship with my dad when my mother was around. She and I were the twosome, and my dad was somewhere out in left field, literally and figuratively. He was always on the road, or at practice, or, more often than not, at the bar.”

Michael raised his eyebrows.

“Yes,” I said. “He was a party boy. Loved his whiskey.” I looked down then, ashamed that I was still covering for the man who would be more aptly described as a hard-core alcoholic.

My voice broke, and I had to wait a moment before I was able to continue.

“So there you have it. I haven't seen or heard from her since my high school graduation. And I'm fine, I'm really fine. I have no idea what these tears are about.”