Sweet Forgiveness (13 page)

I
head straight to the Garden Home Saturday morning. I need to see Dorothy. I need to tell her that I'm confused and no longer sure my mother needs forgiving. I'm surprised when I reach the porch and see Jade and her sister, Natalie, coming out the door.

“Hey!” I say. “What are y'all doing here?” The words leave my mouth before I have time to read their faces. It's their father.

“We're looking for a place for Dad,” Natalie says, confirming my suspicions.

Jade shrugs. “We got the results of his PET scan yesterday. Chemo doesn't seem to be working.”

“I'm so sorry.” I lay a hand on her arm. “Is there anything you two need? Anything I can do for your mom?”

“Just your prayers.” Jade shakes her head. “You'll never believe what Daddy said to me when we were driving home from his appointment. He said, ‘Jade, the night of your sixteenth birthday—was Erica Williams drinking?'”

I groan. “He's still talking about that party? Did you finally tell him?”

“I wanted to. I really did. But I just couldn't.” Her voice is thick. “I looked him straight in the face and said, ‘No, Daddy.'” She looks at me, then at Natalie. “He's so proud of his girls. I can't disappoint him now.”

Natalie puts an arm around her sister, and I suspect they're both silently completing the sentence:
now that he's dying
.

Jade turns to me with a halfhearted smile. “How was Chicago?”

It actually takes me a second to think about Chicago. Right. The interview. I've been so consumed with thoughts of Michigan and my mother and Bob that Chicago seems incidental now. “I think it went okay. I'll tell you about it Monday.”

“Did you tell Claudia you had an interview?”

“No. Just you. Everyone else thought I was taking a couple vacation days. Why?”

“The news was on while I was doing her makeup. They were talking about the blizzard in Chicago, and Claudia said, ‘I hope Hannah's okay.'”

“That's weird,” I say. “I'm sure I didn't tell her.”

“Be careful. The girl doesn't miss a thing.”

I find Dorothy in the parlor, seated at the piano playing “Danny Boy.” I stand quietly and listen as she plays. I've heard her sing this song many times, but today the lyrics choke me up. It seems to be a song about a mother saying good-bye to her son, and wishing him a quick return.

It's I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow

Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

I clap. “Bravo.”

Dorothy swivels on the piano bench, her face alight. “Hannah, dear!”

“Hello, Dorothy.” My voice cracks and I wonder what's wrong with me. My emotions have been raw since my visit to Michigan. “Oriental poppies,” I say. I bend down and kiss her cheek, placing the bouquet in her hands. As I do, I remember my mother's flower gardens, and the way she always compared her blossoms to the colors of fruit. “The color of Georgia peaches,” I add.

She touches the velvet petals. “Beautiful. Thank you. Now sit down and tell me your story.”

Together we move to the sofa. We settle in beside each other and I smooth down a stray lock from atop her head. “First, tell me what's happening with Patrick Sullivan.”

Her face blooms. “He's a real gentleman. Always was.”

But he stole your essay, and your chance to study abroad,
I want to remind her. I let it go. She's happy, I can tell. “Have the two of you rekindled the old flame?” I tease. “Is it better the second time around?”

She pulls her cardigan across her chest. “Don't be silly. He'd be sorely disappointed after all these years.”

She's thinking of her mastectomy. We resist exposing ourselves for fear of disappointing. I squeeze her hand. “Not a chance.”

“Now,” she says, “tell me about your visit with your mother. Did you give her the stone?”

“I couldn't. It felt wrong.” I tell her about seeing Tracy, and the stories of Bob, and the memories of that summer. “So now I can't give her the stone.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I'm not sure she needs to be forgiven.”

She looks me straight in the eyes, as if she can see right through me. “I never instructed you to grant forgiveness. I wanted you to make peace with your mother. It was you who decided to slap some halfhearted apology on the saga and call it good.”

She's right. I never considered that the stone was intended for repentance. I bite my cheek.
Certain.
Judgmental. Black-and-white.

“There's more to the story, Dorothy. A piece I've never told anybody—not even Michael. But now I'm beginning to doubt myself. I'm no longer certain what happened that summer.”

“Certainty is a fool's comfort. Learn to live with ambiguity, my dear.”

I close my eyes. “I'm not sure I can. What if the story I've clung to for over twenty years is a lie?”

She raises her chin. “We humans have a wonderful trait—the ability to change our minds. And oh, what enormous power it gives us.”

Change my mind, after all I've put my mother through? I lift a hand to my throat. My voice is choked when I speak. “But you'd all hate me if you knew what I've done—or what I might have done.”

“Nonsense,” Dorothy says and reaches for my hand. “Fiona calls that owning our true selves, however ugly that may be. Relationships are all about being vulnerable, being real.”

“I can't be real! I don't want to find my ‘true self.' Because even if my mother could forgive me, I would never be able to forgive myself.”

“Contact your mother, Hannah. Reveal yourself. Learn to love the ugly.”

The Ritz-Carlton is packed with well-dressed donors Saturday night, all who've come to support the National Children's Alliance's Annual Spring Gala. Michael is impeccable in his black tuxedo, and he gushes over my red dress. But I'm not myself tonight. Instead of feeling proud, like I usually do when Michael and I are together, my smiles feel forced and artificial. It's as if I'm going through the motions, without any heart.

I tell myself it's because, for the first time in four years, I wasn't on the planning committee for this gala. I needed a break after chairing the Into the Light Christmas Ball. But I know that's not the real reason.

From across the ballroom I watch Michael do what he does best—schmooze. Even with people I know he dislikes. Every handshake and fist bump and pat on the back seems contrived tonight. I try to shake it off, but a cloud of melancholy trails me. I think of my mother's bare hand, brushing the snow from her windshield. Her sweet smile as I passed by. In my mind's eye I see the weathered balance beam and hear Tracy's words. I can't share any of this with Michael. He wants the smiling woman in the ball gown and strappy sandals, not the woman revisiting the tumbledown cabin wearing a pair of borrowed Wellingtons. And the truth is, so do I. How can I possibly put the lid back on this jar of snakes I've foolishly pried open?

Without warning, my thoughts travel to RJ and the easy banter we shared. Why is this stranger still creeping into my thoughts? Maybe it's because sitting in that tasting room on the leather barstool, sipping wine and talking to RJ, was fun. And I can't remember the last time I've had fun with Michael.

I finger my diamond-and-sapphire necklace and watch him chat with the new school superintendent, a single mom the city recruited last fall from Shreveport. She's tall and willowy, with a posture so upright you'd swear she was balancing the King James Bible on her head. She screams of self-assurance, someone without a ghost lingering in her closet.

I cross the room and make my way to them, chastising myself for daydreaming about RJ. I should be grateful for what I have. The man I'm dating is a catch.

“Hannah,” Michael says, and places an arm on my back. “Meet Jennifer Lawson. Jennifer, my friend Hannah.”

I take her outstretched hand, wishing that Michael had clarified that I was more than just his friend. But that's his way. He thinks the word
girlfriend
sounds juvenile. So do I, which is why I'd prefer the word
wife
.

“Welcome to New Orleans, Jennifer. I've heard so many wonderful things about you.”

“Well, thank you. I've seen your show.” She leaves it at that, without any editorial comment, and I naturally assume Jennifer Lawson's not a fan.

I smile and nod, listening to the two of them yak about the new magnet schools and the city's plan to invest in education. And all the while I cannot help thinking these two would be a far better match than Michael and me.

“Can I get you ladies a drink?” he asks.

And that's the moment it hits me. After all the wine-tasting and the soup and the breadsticks . . . I never paid RJ! I walked out of Merlot de la Mitaine without leaving so much as a tip. I'm horrified. I have never in my entire life left without paying a bill. RJ must think I'm either a complete mooch or a total ditz, and I can't decide which is worse. But I brighten when I realize what this means: I can contact him now. Yes! I have a valid, well-intentioned reason to look up the address of his vineyard and send him an apology and a check. In fact, it's the honorable thing to do. I begin composing the letter in my head when I hear Michael.

“Hannah, I take it that's a yes?” he asks, his brows raised.

“Yes,” I say, putting a hand to my mouth in an attempt to tamp down my smile. “A 2010 Michigan merlot if they have it.”

He looks at me quizzically, then saunters off to the bar in search of a wine I'm positive they don't have.

My apartment smells of bread Sunday afternoon. I've baked a loaf of cherry almond for work tomorrow, and two dozen rosemary asiago breadsticks for RJ.

After the last batch has cooled, I wrap the breadsticks in plastic, then slide them into a paper bag. I smile as I tuck them into a priority mailing box lined in bubble wrap and place the letter I've written on top. I'm practically giddy as I seal the package. Using my lucky fountain pen, I carefully address the label.