Sweet Forgiveness (12 page)

I
wake the next morning, torn between heading back up the peninsula to let RJ know I didn't purposely blow him off, or going straight to my mother's. I opt for my mom's house, and maybe, just maybe, if I have time after I've met with her, I'll make a quick drive back up the peninsula.

Last night's storm has vanished, leaving behind a pristine, whitewashed day. But the weather forecast calls for another snowstorm beginning early afternoon. It's got to be tough living up here, and I feel a little surge of pride for my mother.

I try not to think about RJ as I drive, or my disappointment that I didn't get to talk to him last night. I need to forget about that nice vineyard owner. The harmless flirting was fun, but I have no business perpetuating it.

Birch Lake sits ten miles west of town, and I thank my GPS at every hairpin turn and snaking curve. It leads me straight to Dorchester Lane, a misleading name that sounds like it should be a cobblestone street in London rather than a narrow dirt road circling a small fishing lake.

Oak trees, still bare from winter, line both sides of the road like a crowd of cheering fans at the end of a marathon. The road hasn't been plowed, and I follow the tire tracks earlier vehicles have created. I cruise slowly, taking in the homes, and every now and then catching a glimpse of the frozen lake to my left. The houses create a checkerboard of old and new. Huge rebuilds belittle the quaint, sometimes tacky summer cottages I remember.

I'm confused when I pass what was once a home so tiny that I used to imagine seven dwarfs living there, but where now stands an impressive contemporary. I get my bearings a bit farther down the road when I spot a prefabricated double-wide trailer, exactly as I remember. I cruise slowly past an empty lot, then a patch of woods. Sweat gathers behind my neck. I'm close. I can feel it.

The car skids on the icy trail when I brake, and lurches to a halt. There it is. Bob's cabin. My heart thunders in my rib cage. I can't do this. This is a mistake dredging up the past.

But I must. If Dorothy's right, it's the only way I'll find peace.

My hands are clammy and I wipe them on my jeans, then check the rearview mirror. Nobody's on the road this morning. I rest my arms atop the steering wheel and gaze to my left. The wooden cabin looks miniature now, set in a pretty yard bejeweled with green fir trees and blue spruce. It's desperate for a coat of paint, and someone's covered the windows with clear plastic, for wind protection, I'm guessing. My stomach churns with anticipation and dread.

I sit for ten minutes, rehearsing what I'll say.
Hello, Mom. I've come to offer forgiveness.
Or maybe,
Hi, Mom. I'm willing to try to forget the past.
Or,
Mom, I've come to make peace, I forgive you.
None of the choices sounds quite right. I pray the right words will come when I'm face-to-face with her.

I'm staring at the house, trying to gather my courage for the reunion when the front door swings open. I crane my neck, staring, my heart picking up pace. Before my very eyes, a woman steps from the house. For the first time in sixteen years, I see my mother.

“Mom,” I say aloud. My chest squeezes. I crouch down in my seat, even though I'm sure my car is out of sight. She looks so different now. Somehow I expected to see the thirty-eight-year-old woman I last saw at my high school graduation, the one who was just starting to weather but still passed for pretty, even borderline beautiful.

But she'd be fifty-four now. Gone is the flashy woman with lips the color of raspberry sorbet. Her face is plain and her hair dark now, rolled into a lackluster bun. Even from here I can see she's still rail-thin. Please don't tell me she still smokes. She's wearing a green wool coat, unbuttoned to reveal a pair of black slacks and a pale blue blouse. A uniform, I'm guessing.

I stuff a knuckle into my mouth and bite down.
You're here, Mom. You're right here. And so am I
.

I put my car into gear and crawl forward, tears blurring my vision. My mother walks toward a brown Chevrolet parked in the driveway. She stops and brushes the snow from the windshield with her bare hand. As I pass, she looks over and waves, just another passerby to her. Her smile wrenches my heart. I lift my hand and keep driving.

I travel another mile down the lane before I stop the car. I lean my head back and let the tears roll past my temples. She's not a monster. I know this. With all my heart and soul, I know this.

I lower the window and breathe in the cold, biting air, fighting the impulse to race back to her now, throw open my car door, and wrap my arms around her too-thin body. Jesus, my mother is right here, almost within touching distance. The urgency to see her is sudden and fierce. What if she were to die, right now, today, without ever knowing I was here? The thought makes me dizzy, and I put a hand to my forehead. And then, before I have time to reconsider, I whip around in the nearest driveway and speed back toward the house. I need to tell her she's forgiven. I'll find the words, I'm certain now.

I slow the car when the property comes into view. My heart races and I take a deep breath. I can do this. The driveway is just up ahead. The brown Chevrolet is gone now and the house is dark. “No!” I cry. An overwhelming sense of despair comes over me. “I'm here now, Mom. Where are you?” I've let her down once again. But that's crazy. I didn't let her down. She let me down.

I peer down the lane, hoping to catch a glimpse of taillights or exhaust fumes, something that I could follow. But the bleak road looks as lonely and deserted as I feel.

I park on the opposite side of the road and step from the car.

My knees feel unsteady as I cross the road and enter the woods. I say a silent thank-you to RJ for insisting I take the Wellingtons. Brambles and branches poke at me as I push my way through the thicket. When I emerge a few minutes later, I'm standing in the snowy backyard of the cabin I detested.

The clouds have thickened now, and tiny snowflakes dance in the air. I gaze up at the old house, resting on a slight incline. The dark windows show no sign of life. Bob's not here. For some reason, I'm certain of it.

I wander down toward the lake and find myself at end of the dock. A pair of geese swoop down, creating a burst of spray on a patch of the lake's thawed surface before the water returns to its typical state of lull. I take a deep breath, then another. The tranquil setting seems to be an antidote for my unsettled state, and I find the sorrow, the old bitterness easing their grip on me. I study the frozen tundra, the wide-open plane of white ice. To my right, I watch a bird land on a barren, white-tipped tree branch. For the first time, I can almost see why my mother loved it here.

“Can I help you?”

I whip around, my heart tripping. A young woman stands at the other end of the dock. Her face is plain but pleasant, and her bright eyes take me in, curious. She's wearing a wool cap and a black down-filled parka. An infant bundled in a snowsuit is asleep in her front pack. She keeps one hand on the child in a protective way that both pleases me and disturbs me. Does she think I'm dangerous?

“I'm so sorry,” I say, and make my way down the dock. “I'm probably trespassing. I'm just leaving.”

I step from the dock and look away, uncomfortable, as I pass in front of her. I have no business being here, sneaking around when my mother's away. I hustle toward the woods, preparing to leave the same way I'd come. I'm almost to the opening in the hedge when I hear her call behind me.

“Hannah? Is that you?”

I
spin around. Our eyes meet. I stare at her blankly. Should I know this young woman?

“It's me, Tracy, from next door. Tracy Reynolds.”

“Tracy. Yes, of course. Hi.” I hold out my hand and she shakes it.

Tracy was ten that summer of '93, a three-year chasm that seemed vast and untenable back then. Almost every day she'd come to the door, inviting me to ride bikes or go swimming. The fact that I'd play with a ten-year-old illustrates how bored I was. My mother used to refer to Tracy as my friend, but I'd correct her each time. “She's not my friend. She's a little kid.” Because having a friend might make this place bearable. And I was not about to let that happen.

“Of course I remember you, Tracy. You still live here?”

“Todd—that's my husband—well, he and I bought my parents' place seven years ago.” She looks down at the baby. “This is Keagan, my youngest. Jake is a first-grader, and Tay Anne is in preschool.”

“Wow. How nice. Keagan is darling.”

“What are you doing here, Hannah? Does your mom know you're here?” I'm reminded of RJ, and our banter yesterday. If this woman were a glass of wine, I'd say she carries notes of curiosity and protectiveness, with a dash of resentment.

“No, I—I was nearby and . . . well . . . I just wanted a peek at the old place.” I gaze up at the house, and watch a squirrel balance along a telephone line. “How is she, my mother?”

“She's fine. She works for Merry Maids, cleans houses. She's meticulous, as you know.” Tracy laughs.

I smile, but inside I feel my chest squeeze. My mother is a cleaning lady. “Is—” I have a hard time spitting out the words. “Is she still with Bob?”

“Well, yes.” She says it as if it's a given. “They moved up here full-time the year you left. You knew that, right?”

Did I know that? My mother would surely have told me. But did I listen? Or did I tune her out, not wanting to hear about her life with Bob?

“That's right,” I say, irrationally miffed that this woman knows more about my mother than I do. “They sold the place in Bloomfield Hills. He's still teaching.” I say it with just a hint of a question, hoping I've guessed right.

“Goodness, no. Bob turned seventy-four last month. He never taught school up here. Honestly, I never even knew he was a teacher until a few years back. He's always worked construction.”

A gust of wind comes from the north and I turn my face. “It's been a while since my mom and I spoke. She doesn't know I'm here.”

“It's too bad about your falling-out.” Tracy looks down at her baby and kisses his forehead. “She was never the same after you left, you know.”

My throat tightens. “Neither was I.”

Tracy tips her head toward a bench. “C'mon. Let's sit down.”

This woman must think I'm a nut, showing up here out of the blue, tearing up like a two-year-old. But she doesn't seem to mind. Together we brush the snow from the concrete bench and sit facing the lake. The clouds roll by and I stare out at the water.

“Do you see her very often?”

“Every day. She's like a mother to me.” Tracy lowers her gaze, and I realize she's embarrassed for the confession. After all, it's my mother she's talking about, not hers. “And Bob,” she continues. “The kids adore him.”

I feel my jaw clench. Does she let little Tay Anne near him? I wonder if she knows.

“He's still a joker. Remember how he'd tease us, call us boys?” She lowers her voice an octave in imitation. ‘What are you boys up to?' I had a huge crush on him when I was a kid. He was so handsome.”

I turn to her, shocked. In my mind he's a monster. But yes, I suppose he was handsome, before he began to make my skin crawl.

“She never forgave herself for letting you leave.”

I brace my hands on either side of the bench. “Yeah, well, that's kind of why I'm here. I'm trying to forgive her.”

Tracy shoots me a look. “Bob never meant to touch you, Hannah. He loved you so much.”

Jesus, my mother told her? And of course she gave her side of the story. I'm choked with fury, as raw as that summer night. “That's easy for you to say, Tracy. You weren't there.”

“But your mother was.”

Who the hell does she think she is? Suddenly I'm thirteen again, and I'll be damned if I'll let this little know-it-all make me feel bad. I stand to leave. “It was good seeing you,” I say, and hold out my hand.

“I heard your father,” Tracy says, ignoring my outstretched hand. “The following afternoon, when you were leaving.”

My breath catches. As if in slow motion, I lower myself back on the bench. “What did you hear?”

She rubs circles on her sleeping baby's back. “I was standing in the driveway, and he was tossing your bags in the trunk. You were already in the car. You looked so sad. I knew you didn't want to go.”

I try to re-create the memory. Yes, she's right. I was grieving that day, leaving my mother. My sadness hadn't yet hardened into bitterness and anger.

“I'll never forget it. Your dad said, ‘When you've got someone by the balls, you squeeze.' That's exactly what he said, Hannah.” She gives a little nervous giggle. “I remember because I'd never heard an adult talk like that. I was shocked. I didn't even know what he meant back then.”

But she does now, and so do I. My dad was using the situation to his advantage, squeezing it for all it was worth. And in the end, the one being squeezed—and used—was me.

Tracy gazes out at the lake and speaks into the silence. “I remember one time you and I were out there, on the dock, just like we were today. Except we had our bare feet dangling in the water. Anyway, Bob pulled up in his old fishing boat.

“He was so excited. He'd just caught a huge trout.
Check it out, Sister,
he said. He always called you Sister, remember?”

I give a slight nod, wishing she'd stop talking.

“He pulled this huge fish from a bucket of water in his boat and held it up for us. It was still alive, and the most gigantic fish I'd ever seen. He was so proud, like a schoolboy showing off the gold star on his paper.
We'll cook it up for dinner,
he said. Do you remember?”

The musky smell of the lake rises in my nostrils, and I can almost touch the cool spray from that old metal fishing boat as Bob pulled up to the dock. I feel the sun's heat on my already pink shoulders, and the warm breeze coming in from the east. And worst of all, I see the joy in Bob's face, the way his shoulders were set with pride as he hoisted the fish into the air, its silvery scales reflecting the summer sun.

I shrug. “Sort of.”

“He ran up to the house to grab your mother and get his camera.”

I look down at the sleeping baby, willing the images away. I can't bear to hear the rest. I want to tell her to stop, but my throat is too tight to speak.

“While he was up at the house, you jumped into his boat.”

I turn away and close my eyes. “Please,” I say, my voice thick. “Stop. I know the end of the story.”

Bob came bursting down the hill five minutes later with his camera in one hand and my mother's elbow in the other. He chatted wildly as he walked, yammering to my mom about his big catch. But it was too late. The fish was gone. I'd tossed the bucket of water back into the lake.

I put a hand to my trembling lips, and feel a tiny fissure in my resolve. “I was such a bitch.”

I say it more to myself than to Tracy. It's the first time I've ever acknowledged it, and it's almost a relief. Because it's true.

“Bob didn't miss a beat,” Tracy says. “Told your mom he'd been careless, left the lid off and the darn fish had jumped back into the water.” She smiles at me, and it's no longer a smirk of judgment. It's with humor now, and softness, as if she's trying to mend something in me. “He was protecting you, Hannah.”

I put a hand over my face.

“The harder he tried to love you, the more you resisted.”

I know that dance. It's the same one I have with Abby.

Tracy's baby starts to fuss and she rises. “Okay, little one, we'll be off.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Feeding time. You're welcome to come over to my place to wait for your mom. She'll be home by three.”

I swipe my nose with the back of my hand and offer a shaky smile. “No. Thanks. I'm good.”

She shifts her feet, as if she's uncomfortable leaving me. “Well, okay, then. It was good to see you again, Hannah.”

“You, too.”

I watch her cross the snowy expanse toward the little house that was once her parents'. “Tracy?” I call.

She turns around.

“Please don't tell my mother I was here. Okay?”

She shields her eyes from a spear of sunlight slicing through the thick clouds. “Are you coming back?”

“I think so. Just not today.”

She stares at me a moment, as if she's not sure if she should say what's on her mind. Finally, she does.

“You know, Hannah, it's so hard to say ‘I'm sorry.' Until you do. Then it's the easiest darn thing you ever did say.”

I manage to wait until she's out of earshot before bursting into tears. She thinks I should be the one apologizing. And I'm not so sure she's wrong.

I linger in the backyard for another half hour, replaying Tracy's words, her stories, and my actions, all those years ago. What have I done?

You're thinking too much.
I can hear my father's advice, just as he delivered it days after we'd left Michigan. I was struggling then, missing my mother.
There's a reason the rearview mirror is so small. You don't look back.

Closer to the house, I catch sight of something jutting from a snowdrift. I trudge through the snowy yard, my eyes pinned to the site. It can't be. With each step, memories close in on me.

I reach the raised plank and brush it with my forearm. A shelf of snow falls to the ground. My God, I can't believe it's still here. My old balance beam.

The blue suede cloth Bob used to cover the beam has disintegrated, revealing a graying piece of pine splintered down the center. Bob built it for me that very first week, when he saw me watching a gymnastics meet on television. He spent days gluing, sanding, and painting the boards. He anchored it with galvanized steel and two-by-four beams. “Give 'er a try, Sister,” he said as he unveiled his gift. “And be careful. You don't want to break your neck.”

But I'd be damned if I'd step on that stupid hunk of wood. “It's supposed to be four feet high,” I said, “not two.”

A gust of wind pushes in from the north and flakes of ice sting my cheeks. I run my boot over the frozen pine. Would it have killed me to walk across it, just once?

As if to atone, I hoist myself onto the weathered boards. Almost immediately my right boot slips. I land on my knees in the snow.

I fall back, and stare up at the sky. Overhead, the heavens twist and roil. I watch, wishing I could rewind my life, travel back in time. Because every belief I've held fast to for these past twenty-one years, I now question. And the very mission of this day—offering my mother forgiveness—suddenly feels all wrong.