Sweet Forgiveness (31 page)

“No. My apology to Bob was too late.” I take a deep breath. “I want to apologize to his kids.”

For several seconds she just stares at me. “Hannah, no.”

“Please, Mom. I've been thinking about this, about how they grew estranged from their dad. It's my fault.”

“You don't know that, sweetie.”

“Can you arrange a meeting with Anne and Junior? Please?”

The candle's flame illuminates the lines in her face. “It's been years since we seen the kids. It's likely to open a can of worms. You sure you want to do this?”

No, I'm not the least bit sure. In fact, I'd like to avoid Bob's kids for the rest of my life. But I can't. I owe it to them, and to the man whose reputation I ruined.

“Yes. Please. I need to do this, Mom.”

Her face turns toward the darkness. “What if they won't come?”

“Tell them it's urgent. Tell them whatever you need to. They must hear this, from me. Anything less would be cowardly.”

“When?”

“Can we arrange it for Saturday? Please?”

She nods, and I'm certain she thinks I'm hoping to be absolved. But I'm not. I'm hoping they absolve Bob.

I
settle myself on a stool, forcing myself to eat a tuna sandwich while my mom rinses cherries for her pies. I check my watch for the umpteenth time. They'll be here in three hours. My stomach pitches, and I toss my sandwich onto my plate.

My mother stands in profile, running water over the metal colander. She's wearing a pair of white capris and a sleeveless blouse.

“You look pretty, Mom.”

She spins around and smiles. “I thought you'd like this.”

“I do.” I notice the perfect piecrust rolled out on the counter. “You've always loved to bake, haven't you?”

She looks over at her crust. “Nothing fancy, like you got in New Orleans. Just good old-fashioned fruit pies and cookies and cakes. The stuff my mama used to make.”

She uses her shoulder to push a stray lock of hair from her face.

“I hope they like cherry pie. Once, years ago, they came for Christmas. Staci—that's Junior's ex-wife—she ate two slices.” She glances up at the clock above the stove. “Anne was planning to leave Wisconsin at eight, which should put her here around three. Junior promised he'd come around the same time. I got a spaghetti casserole for dinner. And a salad, of course.” She talks quickly, without breaking for dialogue. I notice her hands are shaking.

“Mom, are you okay?”

She looks up. “Honestly? I'm a wreck.” She pours the cherries into a bowl, then tosses the colander in the sink. The metal clang startles me.

I stand and go to her, holding her by the arms. “What is it?”

She shakes her head. “It's been a long time since they seen Bob. They don't know what they're in for. And Anne? She's going through another divorce. She snapped at me when I called, let me know I was putting her out by asking her to come.”

I close my eyes. “I'm so sorry, Mom. This is my fault.”

She glances toward the bedroom where Bob naps and lowers her voice, as if he might overhear and comprehend the conversation. “I told her it might be the last time she'd see him.”

I suck in a breath. She might be right. Bob hasn't spoken since they pulled him wet from the boat Wednesday. And his cough is getting worse, not better. Again, I feel culpable. Would he have wandered out to the boat if I hadn't insisted on taking him for that ride last month?

“I'm sorry, Mom. You've got a lot on your plate, and I'm piling on more.”

She swallows hard and holds up a hand, as if she can't talk about it now. “And Junior, he's always polite, but I could tell he wasn't too happy.”

“I've done so much damage.”

For the first time my mother's facade breaks. “Yes. Yes, you have. I'll give you that. I just hope it's not too late. I hope Bob recognizes them.”

A cloud comes over me. This is a mistake. My mother and I both have unrealistic expectations.

She pours a cup of sugar over the cherries. “Maybe, just maybe Bob will understand that he's been forgiven.”

Forgiven? The hair on the back of my neck rises. How odd that my mom uses the word
forgiven
. How can he be forgiven when he's done nothing wrong?

She stands at the living room window, checking her watch every few minutes. At 2:40, a van pulls into the drive.

“Anne's here,” my mom says, grabbing her lipstick from her pocket and dabbing her lips. “Should we go greet her?”

My heart pounds. From the window, I watch a middle-aged woman climb from a van. She's tall, with graying shoulder-length hair. From the passenger side, a girl who looks to be about nine steps out.

“She brought Lydia,” my mother says.

I'm flooded with emotions, everything from sadness to terror to relief. I'm going to be crucified by this woman. And I deserve it.

The van is followed by another vehicle, this one a white pickup truck. It reminds me of RJ's truck, and I'm comforted by the fact that, regardless of the outcome here today, I'll see him on Monday. I'll tell him everything about my past, create a fresh, clean slate. Somehow, I know he'll understand.

The truck crawls to a stop behind the van. Anne and Lydia wait, their synchronized arrival clearly planned.

My heart picks up speed. I need air. I turn away and step to where Bob has been staged in his velour recliner. My mother and I managed to get him out of bed this morning. I combed his hair, and my mother shaved his face. He's awake now, but the newspaper she positioned in his lap is askance, and he's far more interested in his reading glasses. He turns them in his hands, picking at one of the plastic nosepieces.

I remove the paper from his lap and smooth down the wisps of gray hair on his head. He coughs, and I grab him a tissue.

“So good of you to come,” I hear my mother call through the open door.

They're walking into the house now. The tiny room is closing in on me. I want to run.

“Thanks, Suzanne,” a male voice says.

I spin around. And that's when I see him.

RJ.

F
or a moment it doesn't register. What's RJ doing here? How did he find me? I smile and take a step toward him, but the look on his face stops me cold. He's already put the puzzle pieces together. And I do, too.

Oh, dear God. RJ is Robert Junior, Bob's son.

“You're Hannah,” he says. It's not a question. It's more of a plea. His eyes are heavy, and he looks down at his feet. “Jesus. I am so sorry.”

“RJ,” I say, but I'm at a loss for words. He thinks I'm the girl his father molested. In a moment he'll learn the truth. But right now I can't speak.

He crosses an arm over his chest, and puts one hand to his mouth. He stares at me and shakes his head. “Not you.” The grief in his eyes shatters my heart.

“You know Junior?” my mother asks.

My throat is so tight I can barely breathe. I must nod, because she doesn't repeat the question. Time rolls in on itself. Of course. Why didn't I see it? It all makes sense now. He grew up near Detroit. His parents divorced when he was in college. He'd never forgiven his dad—for what, he didn't say. It seemed too personal to ask at the time, but now I know. All these years, RJ thought his father was a monster.

My mother introduces me to Anne, and RJ steps behind me, over to where his father sits.

I search for a nickel of warmth in Bob's daughter's blue-gray eyes but find nothing but ice. My hand shakes when I offer it. Anne takes it perfunctorily. She doesn't bother to introduce me to her daughter, so I do it myself.

“I'm Hannah,” I say to the thin girl wearing denim shorts and a tank top.

She coughs, the same deep cough I hear from Bob. “I'm Lydia,” she croaks. She stares up at me. If it's true that children see people for who they really are, then I'd say Lydia is the exception. She's gazing up at me as if I'm a star, when really I'm a misguided missile who has decimated her family.

Anne glances at her father in the chair but makes no attempt to go to him. I force myself to touch her arm. I speak loudly, so that RJ hears, too.

“I asked my mother to gather you here.” I stop and take a deep breath, clenching and unclenching my fists.
I can do this. I must do this.
“I have something I need to tell you.”

“Can I get anyone a drink?” my mother asks. She's smiling, as if she's hosting a holiday, but I can hear the tremor in her speech. She's terrified. “I got tea, lemonade. Or Lydia, maybe you'd like a Coke?”

Lydia starts to reply, but Anne cuts her off. “Let's get on with it,” she says, as if she already knows why she's here and what I'm about to say. “We need to get back.” She puts a hand on her daughter's shoulder. “Go outside, now.”

They're going back tonight? It's a seven-hour drive back to Madison. No. They must have a motel in town, or maybe they're staying with RJ. I think of the meal my mother prepared, and her tactful request that I sleep on the sofa tonight so Anne could have the tiny guest room. I helped her change the sheets, and watched her cut peonies from the garden to place on the dresser. One more disappointment for the woman who wants to be accepted. Maybe my father was right when he said the key to happiness was having low expectations.

After Lydia goes outside, Anne sits on the sectional, my mother perches on the arm of Bob's recliner. RJ takes the oak chair my mother brought out earlier from the kitchen table.

I lift the two pouches of stones I'd positioned on the coffee table earlier.

“I have an apology to make,” I say, standing before them. “I came here a month ago, hoping to make peace with your father. You see, when I was thirteen years old, not much older than Lydia, I decided an accidental touch was a deliberate one. I lied.”

It's the first time I've called it a lie. Was it a slip of the tongue, or am I finally willing to admit it? For the life of me, I still don't know. But for today, it was a lie. Without proof, that's the only way I can call it.

“Maybe you've heard about these Forgiveness Stones. I've given one to my mother and one to your father. Now I want to offer one to each of you.”

RJ plants his elbows on his knees, his chin resting on his folded hands. He stares at the floor. Anne says nothing. I glance over at Bob. He's sleeping now, his head fallen back on the cushion, his reading glasses cockeyed. My chest tightens.

“I thought that by giving your father a stone, it would ease my shame, or at least some of it. But the fact is, I haven't really made peace. Because I still need to apologize to you two.”

I take a stone from each pouch. “Anne,” I say, stepping toward her. “Please forgive me for what I did to you and your family. I know I can never give you back the time you lost. I am so sorry.”

She stares at the stone in my outstretched hand, and I wait, trying to keep my hand steady. She's not going to accept it. And I don't blame her. Just as I'm about to pull back my hand, she reaches out. For the briefest moment, her eyes flicker to mine. She plucks the stone from my palm and jabs it into her pocket.

“Thank you,” I say, and finally breathe. But I know this is just a step. She may have accepted the stone, but that doesn't mean it'll be returned to me with a pretty bow and a letter declaring her forgiveness. But it's a start, as much as I can hope for today.

One down and one to go. I move to RJ.

He continues to stare at the floor. I look down at him, wishing I could touch those unruly brown waves. His hands are folded as if in prayer. Suddenly he seems so pure to me. RJ is the perfect man, while I'm the sinner. How could such an unequal pairing ever flourish?

Please, God, help me do this. Help me get through to him
. My intention today was to soften their hearts, to pave the way for them to bid a final loving farewell to their father. But now everything's changed. I love this man. And I need his forgiveness.

“RJ,” I say, my voice wavering. “I am so, so sorry. Whether you find it in your heart to forgive me, I hope it's not too late to heal your feelings for your father.” I extend the stone, my palm flat. “Please accept this as a symbol of my remorse. If I could turn back—”

He raises his head and looks at me. His eyes are shot with red. His hand rises to meet mine, as if in slow motion. A surge of relief washes over me.

I hear the crack before I feel the blow. The stone rockets across the room, pelting the picture window.

Tears spring to my eyes. I clutch my stinging hand and watch as RJ rises from the chair and moves to the door.

“Junior,” my mother says, leaping to her feet.

The screen door slams shut behind him. From the window, I see him march toward his truck. I can't let this happen. I have to make him understand.

“RJ!” I say, running out the door and down the porch steps. “Wait!”

He throws open his truck door. Before I reach the driveway, his truck peels away. I watch until the billowing cloud of dust settles into the dirt road, a scene reminiscent of the day my mother was left standing at the end of the driveway, pebbles flying from my father's car tires.

It's only five o'clock when we four sit down to eat. Bob was still in his room napping when the baked spaghetti came out of the oven, and Anne insisted we not wake him. I could see the relief in my mother's face. The afternoon seemed to take its toll on everyone, including Bob. Mealtime wouldn't be easy today, with strangers at the table. She probably wanted to spare Bob his dignity.

We sit at the table, finishing our cherry pie. I pretend to eat, but I only move the cherries around on my plate. Swallowing is impossible. My throat aches every time I think of RJ and the hurt and disgust in his eyes.

Anne is just as silent as I am. My mom tries to compensate by passing around the ice-cream carton, offering another slice of pie.

Did we actually expect that the six of us would dine together, maybe open a bottle of wine, laugh, and chat? It seems impossible in hindsight. How stupid of me. RJ and Anne aren't my siblings. They have no reason to forgive me. The fact that Anne is still here is a wonder. Perhaps some part of her feels guilty about her brother's reaction. Or maybe she took pity on my mother when she found out she had prepared a meal.

Thankfully, Lydia breaks the awkward silence. She chatters about her bout of bronchitis and a horse named Sammy and her best friend, Sara. “Sara can do a back handspring. She took gymnastics. I can only do a front handspring. I'll show you if you want, Hannah.”

I smile, grateful for Lydia's youthful oblivion. If she only knew all the pain I've caused her mother. I push back my chair and toss my napkin onto the table. “Sure. Let's see what you've got.”

“Five minutes,” Anne says to Lydia. “We need to get going.”

“But I need to say good-bye to Grandpa.”

“Make it snappy.”

I follow Lydia from the kitchen. Behind me, I hear my mother. “Another piece of pie, Anne? A cup of coffee?”

“You're sweet to your grandpa,” I say as Lydia and I traipse to the backyard.

“Yeah. I only seen him a couple times.” Lydia kicks off her yellow flip-flops. “I always wanted one, though—a grandpa, I mean.”

I've robbed her of Bob, too. And poor Bob, never having known his grandchild. Lydia dashes across the yard, flipping herself with a perfect landing. I clap and whoop, though my heart isn't in it. All I can think about is the mess I've made of so many lives.

“Bravo! I'm thinking summer Olympics, 2020.”

She coughs and slides her feet into her flip-flops. “Thanks. Actually, I just want to make the dance team. In two years I'll be in middle school. My mom wants me to do soccer, but I suck at that.”

I look down at this carefree spirit, with her long legs and the slightest hint of breasts. Such undisguised beauty. When, exactly, do we begin to cover our glory?

“Be yourself,” I tell her, “and you won't go wrong.” I take her arm. “C'mon, let's go say good-bye to your grandpa.”

Bob lies atop the bed, beneath an orange-and-yellow afghan. His pink skin shines, and tufts of hair seem to pull in every direction, making him look like a little boy. My heartstrings tug. His eyes flutter open when he hears Lydia's honking cough.

“Sorry, Grandpa.” She crawls onto the bed, throwing off the afghan and snuggling up beside him.

As if it's instinctual, he pulls his arm up and wraps it around her. She curls her little body to his.

I hand Lydia Bob's favorite wooden puzzle and kiss his grisly cheek. He looks up at me, and for a second I swear he knows me. But then his eyes glaze over and he stares blankly at the puzzle piece.

“Look closely,” Lydia tells him, pointing to the wooden airplane. “See how this piece has a corner here?”

I turn to leave when Anne appears at the door. She peers into the room. I watch as her gaze lands on the bed, where her daughter and father lie together.

Her face sets. In two swift strides, she marches across the room. “Get away from him!” She grabs Lydia's arm and yanks. “How many times have I told you—”