Sweet Forgiveness (7 page)

“That's heavy stuff.” Michael slung an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to him. “Shake it off, sweetheart. Your mom was really messed up. If only she knew what a gem she missed out on.”

He kissed the top of my head then, and something about that protective, almost paternal gesture pried a corner of my heart loose. But it was Jackson's parting shot, spoken nearly a year earlier yet still reverberating in my head, that peeled my heart open:
No wonder it's so easy to let me go, Hannah. Fact is, you never really let me in.
For the first time ever, someone was threatening to break through the emotional barricade I'd worked so hard to build. I spat out my words before I had time to rethink them.

“He . . . her boyfriend . . . Bob . . . he touched me. My mother didn't believe me. That's when I left Michigan. But she stayed behind with . . .”

The horror in Michael's face stopped me from elaborating. “I'm going to give you a piece of advice, Hannah. There are some secrets you'll want to keep hidden. As public figures, our image is everything.”

I looked at him, confused. “My image?”

“I'm just saying, you present yourself as the wholesome girl-next-door. You know, someone with a nice, normal background. That's your brand. Don't give anyone reason to think that brand is inauthentic.”

Hannah,

We're delighted to hear that you're interested in the position. The entire team was impressed by your proposal. A show with Fiona Knowles is exactly the type of programming we're aiming for, and your personal story gives it a unique angle.

My assistant, Brenda Stark, will be contacting you. She's scheduling interviews the week of April 7. Look forward to seeing you then.

James

“Shit,” I say, staring at my computer screen. “I'm going to be sick.”

Jade taps her finger against a brush of loose powder, sending ivory flecks cascading onto my plastic smock. “What is it?”

I open a Word document on my computer. “Check this out, Jade. Remember that proposal I had to write for WCHI? It sounds like they love it. But I told you, I made most of it up. I didn't tell them it took me two years to send my stone back to Fiona. And my mother . . . in my proposal I say that my mother would appear on the show. That's a lie. I never sent her a stone. I made that part up, too.”

Jade touches my shoulder. “Hey, calm down. It's just a proposal, right? They're not going to film it.”

I lift my hands. “I don't know for sure. But either way, it feels wrong. What if they ask me about it? I'm a horrible liar.”

“Send her the stone, then.”

“My mom? No. No, I can't just send her a stone out of the blue. I haven't seen her in years.”

Jade scowls at me in the mirror. “Sure you can. If you wanted.” She grabs a can of hair spray and shakes it. “But it makes no difference to me. I can't lie, I'm hoping you don't get the job.”

“Don't get what job?” Claudia steps through the open door, wearing a plum-colored wrap dress. Her hair falls in loose spiral curls, reminding me of a Barbie doll I once had.

“Oh, hi,” I say. “It's this job in—”

“Nothing,” Jade says, interrupting me. “What do you need, Claudia?”

She steps over to the makeup chair. “I'm doing a silly segment on the morning news. The best-smelling mosquito repellant.” She holds up two bottles of bug spray. “Can I get your opinions, ladies?”

She puts an open bottle next to Jade's nose, then switches it to the second bottle, with a spray nozzle.

“The first one,” Jade says, and turns away. I have a sneaking suspicion Jade never even inhaled. She just wants to be rid of Claudia.

“How about you, Hannah?”

I set my laptop on the counter and inhale the first one. “Not bad.”

Next she puts the spray bottle to my nose. I sniff. “Hmm. I can't really smell this one.”

“Oh, here,” Claudia says.

The last image I see is Claudia's finger, pushing down the nozzle. Then a thousand needles pierce my eyes.

“Ow!” I holler. “Oh, shit!” I put my hands to my eyes, which are now clamped shut.

“Oh no! I'm so sorry, Hannah.”

“Oh, damn! Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! My eyes are on fire!”

“Come here,” Jade says. “We need to rinse your eyes.”

I hear the urgency in her voice but I can't open my lids. With a hand on my arm, Jade pulls me to the sink and splashes water in my face. But my eyes refuse to open, even a crack. An involuntary stream of tears seeps past my closed lids.

“I am so sorry,” Claudia repeats, again and again.

“It's okay,” I say, doubled over the sink, panting like I'm in labor. “No worries.”

From across the room, I hear another set of footsteps approach. Judging by the quick gait, it's Stuart.

“What the hell's going on? Oh, Jesus! What the hell happened to you, Farr?”

“Claudia sprayed—” Jade begins, before I interrupt.

“I got mosquito repellant in my eyes.”

“Oh, nice going. You're on in ten minutes.” I feel him beside me now, and I imagine his head lowered to the sink, gawking down at me. “Oh, Jesus! Look at your face! You're a freak!”

“Thanks, Stuart.” I can only guess how lovely I look, with my red, puffy eyes and wet cheeks smeared with makeup. But did I really need confirmation?

“Okay, I'm calling an audible here,” Stuart says. “Claudia, I need you to pitch in. Can you start the show today, at least until this one looks remotely human?”

I pull my face from the sink bowl and look around blindly. “Wait. No. I . . .”

“Of course,” I hear Claudia say. “I'm happy to help.”

“Please, just give me a minute,” I say, trying to pry my lids open with my fingers.

“You're a team player, Claudia,” Stuart says. I hear his loafers clipping toward the door. “Farr, you're off today. And next time, don't be so careless.”

“Oh, no worries there,” Jade says, her voice oozing sarcasm. “And Stuart, don't you dare leave without taking this nasty piece of garbage with you.”

I hear Claudia gasp.

“Jade!” I say, shocked that she could be so rude.

The room sizzles with tension, until finally Jade breaks the silence.

“Your mosquito spray,” she says, and I hear her fling the can to Stuart.

The door closes, leaving me and Jade alone.

“That conniving bitch!” Jade says.

“Oh, come on,” I say, holding a tissue to my eyes. “You don't think she did that on purpose.”

“Sunshine, which syllable in
ma-nip-u-la-tion
don't you hear?”

T
wo weeks later, I arrive at O'Hare Airport. It's a Wednesday morning and I'm dressed in a navy suit and heels, my carry-on bag slung over my shoulder. A burly man in his twenties greets me, holding a sign that reads
HANNAH FARR
/
WCHI
.

We step out of the terminal, and I'm smacked by a frigid headwind that knocks the breath from me.

“I thought it was springtime,” I say, lifting the collar of my coat.

“Welcome to Chicago.” He tosses my bag into the back of an Escalade. “Last week it was sixty degrees, last night it was sixteen.”

We travel east on I-90, toward WCHI's headquarters in Logan Square. I wedge my hands beneath my legs hoping to warm them, and try to ease my anxiety about this job interview. Whatever possessed me to make up that forgiveness story?

From the backseat I gaze out the frosty window, watching clouds spit a rain-snow mixture onto the glistening pavement. We pass suburbs of brick ranches with detached garages. And without warning, I think of Jack.

It's silly. Jack lives in the city, not the suburbs. But being here in Chicago makes me wonder what our life would have been like, had he not cheated on me. Would we be living in one of these cute houses, had I joined him like he'd begged me to? And would I be happier now, if I were oblivious to the fact that he'd screwed his intern? No. A relationship built on dishonesty could never work.

Looking for a distraction, I pull my phone from my tote and call the one person I think might actually miss me.

“Dorothy, hi, it's me.”

“Oh, Hannah, I'm so happy to hear from you. Would you believe I received another pouch of Forgiveness Stones this morning? Patrick Sullivan—you know him, the gentleman with the deep voice? He always smells like he just left the barber.”

I smile at Dorothy's description, based on smell and sound, rather than sight. “Yes, I know Patrick. He gave you a stone?”

“He did. He apologized for years of what he calls ‘neglect.' You see, he and I go way back. He's old N'awlins, like me. We were an item back at Tulane, until he earned a summer scholarship to study at Trinity College in Dublin. We parted amicably, but I never understood why he severed contact so abruptly. I thought we were in love.”

“He finally apologized?”

“Yes. The poor man has carried a horrible burden all these years. You see, he and I were both applying for the prestigious Trinity Scholarship. We had plans of going off to Ireland together, spending the summer studying poetry and visiting the romantic countryside before returning home. The two of us spent hours perfecting our application essays. My goodness, the wastebasket in the commons was littered with pieces we'd written and scrapped.

“The night before the postmark deadline, Paddy and I sat in the commons, reading our final essays aloud to each other. I nearly cried when he read his.”

“It was that touching?”

“No. It was that abominable. I knew he'd never get accepted.

“That night I didn't sleep a wink. I was quite confident that I'd receive the scholarship. I had the grades and a fine essay, if I can be so bold. But I didn't want to go without Paddy. And it would break his heart if I got the scholarship and he didn't.

“I made a decision the next morning. I wouldn't apply.”

“He was okay with that?”

“I never told him. Together we went to the mailbox, but unbeknownst to him, the envelope I slid into the slot was empty.

“Three weeks later, Paddy got the news. He'd been accepted.”

“Accepted? Oh no! You really could've gone together.”

“His parents were so pleased. He'd be studying in their home country. I tried to hide my surprise . . . and my regret. He was over the moon and convinced that I'd hear my own good news soon. I certainly couldn't tell him I had so little faith in him that I'd disqualified myself.

“I waited two days before telling him I'd been rejected. He was sick about it. He swore he wouldn't go without me.”

“So you both lost out.”

“No. I told him he'd be a fool to stay back, that I'd be waiting to hear all about it come September. I absolutely insisted that he go.”

“And he did?”

“He left in June. I never heard from him again. He ended up staying in Dublin for twenty-five years. Became an architect. Married an Irish lass and had three sons.”

“And today he finally apologized for leaving you?”

“Like me, Paddy knew he wasn't competitive for the coveted award. And he, too, hated the idea of our separation. He needed something to boost his odds of getting the scholarship. That night in the commons, he took one of my discarded essays from the trash. Later, he retyped it. Apparently it was a lovely essay about the importance of family and finding our roots.” She lifts her hands. “I haven't the foggiest recollection of it.

“He claims that's how he got accepted. My essay. Imagine that. He's been wallowing in guilt all these years.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, I forgave him, of course. I would have forgiven him years ago, had he asked for it.”

“Of course you would have,” I say, wondering what might have been, had Patrick Sullivan trusted Dorothy's love. “What a story.”

“These stones, Hannah, they're more popular here than a new male resident.” She laughs. “At our age, the stones give us the opportunity to clear the air, to make amends before the final curtain, so to speak. It's a wonderful gift Ms. Knowles has given us. A group of us residents are going to see Fiona when she's at Octavia Books on the twenty-fourth. Marilyn's coming, too. Perhaps you'll join us.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But I'm still not convinced. A stone seems hardly sufficient for stealing someone's essay. Or bullying someone, for that matter. Seems like people are being let off the hook a little too easily.”

“You know, I've been thinking the same thing. Some grievances are just too big for a stone, or even a boulder. There are times when a simple apology isn't enough. Times when we deserve a little comeuppance.”

I think of my mother and feel my pulse quicken. “I agree.”

“That's why I've yet to send my stone to Mari. I need to come up with a way to truly atone.” Dorothy's voice becomes soft, as if we're coconspirators. “How about you? Have you reached out to your mother yet?”

“Dorothy, please, you don't know the whole story.”

“And you do?” Her voice is challenging, as if she's the teacher and I'm her pupil. “‘Doubt is not a pleasant condition, but certainty is absurd.' Voltaire said that. Please, don't be so sure of yourself, Hannah, dear. Hear your mother's side of the tale.”

Forty minutes later, the Escalade pulls to a stop in front of a sprawling two-story brick building. My little station in New Orleans would fit in just one wing of this monstrosity. A sign beside the entrance, nestled among a gang of fir trees, reads
WCHI
. I step onto the slushy pavement and take a deep breath. Showtime.

I meet James Peters, who leads me into a conference room, where five of the top executives at the station are gathered at an oval table. Three are men, two women. I'm prepared to be grilled, but instead it's more like a congenial chat among colleagues. They want to hear about New Orleans, my interests, what I envision for
Good Morning, Chicago
, who my dream guests might be.

“We're especially excited about your proposal,” Helen Camps says, from the far end of the table. “Fiona Knowles and her Forgiveness Stones have become quite a craze here in the Midwest. The fact that you know her, that you were one of her original recipients, is indeed quite a story, one we'd be very interested in producing, should you be selected.”

My stomach cramps. “Great.”

“Tell us what happened once you received the stones,” a gray-haired man whose name I can't remember asks.

I feel my face heat. Damn. This is exactly what I was afraid of. “Um, well, I received the stones in the mail, and I remembered Fiona, the girl who bullied me back in sixth grade.”

Jan Harding, vice president of marketing chimes in. “Just curious—did you send the stone back right away, or wait a few days?”

“Or weeks,” Mr. Peters says, as if weeks were the maximum time allowed.

I laugh nervously. “Oh, I waited weeks.” Like, one hundred twelve weeks.

“And you sent the second stone on to your mother,” Helen Camp says. “How difficult was that?”

Jesus, can we please wrap this up? I touch the diamond-and-sapphire necklace as if it's my talisman. “Fiona Knowles has a line in her book that really resonated with me.” I think of Dorothy's favorite quote and repeat it like a damned hypocrite. ‘Until you pour light onto whatever it is that cloaks you in darkness, you'll forever be lost.'”

My nose burns and tears spring to my eyes. For the first time, I realize the truth in these words. I am lost. So very lost. Here I am, making up a story of forgiveness, lying to all of these people sitting in front of me.

“Well, we're happy you've been found,” Jan says. She leans in. “And lucky for us, we've found you!”

James Peters and I sit in the backseat of a taxi as the driver speeds down Fullerton Avenue toward Kinzie Chophouse for our lunch meeting with two of the anchors. “Well done this morning, Hannah,” he says to me. “As you can tell, it's a terrific group here at WCHI. I think you'd be a great fit.”

Sure, a great fit who's misrepresented herself. Why the heck did I choose the Forgiveness Stones for my proposal? There's no way in hell I'd have my mother on the show. I smile at him. “Thanks. It's an impressive team.”

“I'll tell it to you straight. You've got a terrific proposal and some of the best demo tapes we've seen. I've been aware of you for a decade. My sister lives in New Orleans and says you're the real deal. But your ratings have been on a downward trajectory for the past three months.”

I groan. I'd love to explain my frustration with Stuart and the inane topics he selects, but that just sounds defensive. It is, after all,
The Hannah Farr Show
. “It's true. They've been better. I take full responsibility.”

“I know Stuart Booker. Worked with him in Miami, before I came here. Your talents are being wasted at WNO. You'll have a voice here, your ideas will be valued.” He points a finger at me. “You come on board and we'll make the Fiona Knowles proposal happen, day one. That's a promise.”

My heart does a double take. “That's good to know,” I say, feeling simultaneously proud and panic-stricken and utterly despicable.