Sweet Forgiveness (30 page)

And me? That single event changed my life. You see, just as everyone suspected, I took the Walkman. The class was right—I had no intention of giving it back. I'd wanted a Walkman, but my old man was out of a job. And Roger was an asshole, anyway. What the hell did I care?

But your profound belief in my goodness changed my entire mind-set. When I laid that Walkman beside the cabinet and walked out of that office, it was as if I had shed my old skin. That layer of callousness, the feeling that I'd been victimized all my life and the world owed me, peeled away. For the first time I ever remember, I felt like I was worth a damn.

So you see, Mrs. R., your apology was unwarranted. I left your class and went straight to the Adult Ed office. Six weeks later, I'd completed my GED. The thought that I might actually be good, that you believed in me, completely changed my way of thinking. The kid whose parents knocked him around, who blamed the world for his shitty fate, began to take control. I wanted to prove you right. Your lesson that final day of high school served as a catalyst for everything I did thereafter.

Please know that I, for one, am forever grateful that you saw the goodness in me and allowed me to act on it.

Sincerely yours,

Steven Willis, Attorney at Law

Willis and Bailey Law Firm

149 Lombardy Avenue

New York, NY

I blot my eyes on my shirtsleeve and turn to Dorothy. “You must be so proud.”

“Another candle is lit,” she says, and swipes her eyes on her terry-cloth bib. “My room is getting brighter.”

For every candle that we blow out, we light another. What a journey of trial and error this human experience is. The shame and guilt we carry are tempered by moments of grace and humility. In the end, we can only hope that the light we cast outshines the darkness we create.

I squeeze Dorothy's hand. “You are an incredible woman.”

“Yes, she is.”

I spin around and see Marilyn standing behind me. Just how long she's been there, I'm not sure.

Dorothy's eyes widen. “Is that you, Mari?”

Marilyn nods. “It's me.” She bends down to kiss her friend's forehead. “And for the record, Dottie, your room is not getting brighter. It has always been ablaze with light.”

It's one o'clock when I get back home, feeling lighter for having witnessed the reunion of my two friends—and for having found a letter from RJ in my mailbox. My hands shake as I slide my finger under the seal.

Dear Hannah,

Thank you for your letter. I wasn't sure I'd hear from you again. No need to apologize. It makes sense that a woman as impressive as you would be in a committed relationship. I respect your honesty and integrity.

I pace the kitchen, staring at the words
committed relationship
. But I'm not in a committed relationship anymore. I can see you now, guilt-free!

Please stop by next time you're in “the Mitten” with or without your mom—or your boyfriend. I promise I'll behave like a gentleman this time. And as always, when you tire of your current situation, I want to be at the top of your dance card.

Yours,

RJ

I lean against the refrigerator and reread the letter. RJ's obviously infatuated with the woman he thinks I am. I've never told him the truth about my past, and after the horrible fallout here, why would I? Like everyone else, he'd be horrified to learn of the girl I once was.

I'd love to see him again, but can I go back to pretending? Can I return to the same kind of superficial affair I had with Michael, or Jack, and once again try to stuff those old demons behind the trapdoor? I remember Jack's parting line:
No wonder it's so easy to let me go, Hannah. Fact is, you never really let me in.

No. I can't.

I practically sprint to my desk. I pick up my pen and grab a sheet of stationery.

Dear RJ,

My dance card is empty.

Fondly,

Hannah

M
y car is fully fueled, and I had the oil changed last week, after taking Marilyn and Dorothy out for lunch. Two suitcases are perched at my front door, along with a tote stuffed with power bars and nuts and water and fruit. I'm all set to leave for Michigan, first thing tomorrow morning. I'm sound asleep when I get the call at 2:00 a.m.

“He's gone, Hannah!”

Jesus, Bob's dead. I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “I'm so sorry, Mom. What happened?”

“I got up to use the bathroom. He wasn't in bed. He's not in the house. He's gone, Hannah. I've been outside searching for him, but I can't find him anywhere!”

I let out a sigh. He's not dead. That's good, I tell myself. But deep inside I can't help but think Bob's death would give my mother new life, though I know she wouldn't see it that way.

She speaks so quickly I can't understand her. “Can't find him. Looked everywhere.”

“Slow down, Mom. He's okay.” But I don't believe it. Bob has no survival skills. And with the woods so close to the house, and the lake, and the cold nighttime temperatures . . .

“I'm on my way. Call the police. We'll find him, I promise.”

She lets out a breath. “Thank goodness you're coming.”

Finally, her daughter will be there for her in her time of need. And what she needs is her husband.

I call the house every half hour but only reach her answering machine. I'm ten miles outside of Memphis when she picks up.

“The police found him, huddled in the bottom of his boat.”

The boat. The old fishing boat I reintroduced him to last month. I must have triggered a memory that day when I took him for a boat ride. God, even my good intentions go bad.

“Oh, Mom, I'm sorry. How is he?”

“Suffering from hypothermia. He was lying in three inches of cold water. The paramedics came. Wanted to take him to Munson for a checkup. But he'd had enough. I got him to eat some hot cereal and tucked him into bed.”

“I should be there by seven tonight.”

“I'll have dinner for you.”

“No. That's okay. I'll grab something.”

“I insist. And, Hannah?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you. You can't imagine what a comfort you are to me.”

I think about it all the way to Michigan. Perhaps I'm a fool, not having learned my lesson after all I've lost. The thought terrifies me, but I must. There's no question about it. I have two more apologies to make, this time to Bob's son and daughter, before it's too late.

I've never met Anne and Bob Junior. They were adults when their father became involved with my mother. How they found out about my accusation, I'm not sure. But they know. My mother tells me she and Bob have very little contact with Anne and Junior. I can only guess that I'm responsible for their distance. Our old neighbor Mrs. Jacobs told the school district, and surely people talked. Bob's ex must have known. But would she have been cruel enough to tell her children? Apparently so.

I stare ahead at an endless string of traffic along I-57. Anne, the older of the two, must be in her late forties, not much younger than my mother. She was already married and living in Wisconsin during that summer of '93. Junior was in college, I think.

Will they come alone or bring their families? I'm not sure which would be worse, facing their wrath in a small group or large.

My stomach knots. I crank up the volume of my iPod. Lifehouse sings, “I'm halfway gone and I'm on my way . . .” The song seems to mimic my journey. I'm halfway there. Just a few more apologies to make. I've come a long way but still not far enough. I've removed the hood on my cloak of darkness, but the collar is still choking me.

My head falls against the headrest. How can I possibly face them? If someone told me they'd falsely accused my father of sexual molestationI would despise them, probably more fiercely than my father would. And no apology, no matter how sincere, can make up for lost time.

I could sugarcoat the accusation, offer my excuses, try to explain that I was just a young girl, holding fast to a silly fantasy that my parents might reunite. I could even tell them the truth, that to this day I can't be certain whether the touch was accidental. But that seems insincere, as if I'm hedging. No, if I'm going to do this, I'm going to accept 100 percent culpability, not 50 percent, or even 99 percent. I'm all in.

The sun has disappeared behind the lake when I pull into the driveway. I turn off the ignition and spy my mother standing on the porch stoop, as if she'd been waiting for me all day. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was the one with Alzheimer's. Her hair is piled in a haphazard ponytail, and she's wearing a pair of glasses that are dated and too big for her thin face. Her jacket is unbuttoned, revealing faded sweatpants and a T-shirt beneath. From a distance, she looks like a twelve-year-old girl.

They come back to me now, all those comments we'd get, people mistaking us for sisters. A thought strikes me before I can strike it. Was that what Bob found attractive, that my mother looked like a child?

I run to her. “Mom!”

She looks up, as if she were startled to see me. “Hannah.” She meets me in the damp grass and pulls me into a hug, tighter today, almost desperate.

“How is he?” I ask.

“Been sleeping on and off all day.” She puts a hand to her mouth. “I was so careless. I've been meaning to put a bell on the bedroom door. You should've seen him, Hannah. He was soaked through and shivering like a wet puppy.”

I cup my mother's face, as if she's the child and I'm the parent. “He's okay now. And it's not your fault, Mom. You've found him. You've got him back.”

I think about the metaphor for my mother's life. Losing the ones she loves, having them slip away, leaving her to wonder where they are or if they'll survive.

It's been twenty-two years since I've spent a night in this cabin. I wonder if it could ever feel like home. I stand at the threshold of their tiny bedroom, listening to my mother sing to Bob the same song she used to sing to me.

“Like a bridge over troubled water. I will lay me down.” Her voice is husky and slightly off-key, and a lump rises in my throat.

She smooths Bob's hair and kisses his cheek. Just before she turns out the light, I notice a photo on Bob's nightstand.

“What's this?” I ask, and wander over to it.

“Bob's favorite picture,” she tells me.

I lift the oak frame and see my teenage self, standing at the end of the dock with Tracy. We're looking over our shoulders at the camera, as if he'd just yelled, “What are you boys up to?” and we'd spun our heads as he snapped the photo. I squint at the picture. The left leg of my bathing suit has risen a bit, exposing the flesh of my white buttock in contrast with my tan thigh.

I set the photo back down. An uneasiness comes over me. Of all the pictures, why has he chosen this one to keep on his bedside table?

As quickly as my suspicions flare, I squelch them. I was in my swimsuit nearly every day that summer. Of course that's what I'd be wearing in a picture.

I turn out the lamp, remembering what I told Marilyn.
Forgiving doesn't always require forgetting.
But in my case, I think it does. That fuzzy snapshot of my truth is impossible to bring into focus. If I'm going to forgive, I need to forget.

My mother and I sit on the back deck sipping lemonade. The night air is cool, punctuated with chirping crickets and honking bullfrogs. She lights a citronella candle to keep the mosquitoes away and tells me about the fancy homes she cleans.

She leaves for a moment to check on Bob. When she returns to her seat on the glider, she smiles at me. “Where were we?”

Where were we? It's as if she's skipped over all those bad years, the years I'd hurt her and refused to see her. Her love for me seems as strong as it ever was, as if she's completely forgiven my cruelty. This is the sweet forgiveness that Fiona is talking about.

“I want to apologize.”

“Oh, honey, stop. We forgave you years ago.”