Sweet Forgiveness (32 page)

“Anne,” I interrupt, and start toward her. “It's okay. I told you—”

I stop when I see her face, wounded and aching. She turns to me, and our eyes meet.
Did he hurt you?
Were you molested?
I don't put voice to the questions. I don't have to. She reads them in my face.

From across the room, she nods her head, ever so slightly.

I
lie in my mother's guest bed, staring at the ceiling. It all makes sense. Anne's difficulty with male relationships, her distance from her father, even before I came into the picture. She's kept it hush all her life, and there I was, making it public. She didn't want anyone to know her secret. And that apology I offered? She saw right through it.

I feel a quickening of my pulse. A bizarre mix of disgust and vindication comes over me. I was right, all those years ago. I didn't make a false accusation. I've been acquitted. I can go back to New Orleans and reclaim my reputation! I can let my mother know that after all we've been through, I was right! I'll send RJ a letter—no, I'll drive to the vineyard. First thing tomorrow morning! I'll tell him that I was right, let him know I wasn't some evil child trying to ruin his father's life.

But Anne is gone now. What if nobody believes me? I have no proof. What if I mistook an innocent nod for confirmation of a heinous act?

But that look on her face, the horror and the pain. I know what she was telling me with that slight nod of the head.

I throw an arm over my pillow. I cannot spend the rest of my life second-guessing myself. If only I had a piece of evidence to prove to RJ—and to myself—that I was right.

I bolt upright. But I do have evidence. And I know exactly where to find it.

The crescent moon creates a silver trail on the lake's surface. I race toward it, my bare feet slipping on the wet grass, the beam of the flashlight bouncing like a jackrabbit. My body is trembling when I reach the boat. I prop the flashlight against a life jacket, and grab the tackle box.

I work to fit the tiny key into the padlock. The lock is corroded with rust, refusing the key's entry. I try again, poking and jabbing at the rusty lock.

“Damn you!” I say through clenched teeth. I pry the latch with my bare hands until they ache. But it's futile.

I push the hair from my brow and drop my head. There, at the bottom of the boat, I spy an old screwdriver. I place one knee on the tackle box and slide the screwdriver beneath the metal latch. With all my might I pull.

“Open, goddammit.” My fingers cramp as I strain to break the lock. It's no use. The lock won't budge.

I glare at the box as if it's human. “What are you hiding, huh?” I give it a kick. “Girlie magazines? Kiddie porn?” I hiss at it, then try one more time. This time the tiny key slides into the lock as if it were brand-new.

Fusty smells of mold and tobacco assault me when I lift the metal lid. I raise the flashlight, both dreading and anticipating what I'll find within. But the trays are empty. No bobbers or fishing lures. Just a deck of cards and a half-filled pack of Marlboro Reds. I lift the damp package. And there, at the bottom of the tackle box, I see a plastic sandwich bag, bulging at the seams.

I aim my flashlight at the bag, my heart banging against my chest. It's zip-locked, and stuffed with what looks like photos . . . glossy magazine photos. My stomach lurches and I think I'm going to be sick. Pornography, I'm certain. Maybe even a written confession. I lunge for it like it's my salvation.

Just as my fingers meet the bag, I freeze. I hear Dorothy's words, as clearly as if she were sitting at the helm shouting them to me.
Learn to live with ambiguity. Certainty is a fool's comfort.

I lift my head to the heavens. “No!” I whimper. “I'm so tired of ambiguity.”

I gaze out at the flat gray lake and think of RJ. This bag could clear my reputation. RJ would learn the truth, once and for all. Surely he'd forgive me now.

But he would never forgive his father. That scar that would never fade.

I drop my head in my hands. Fiona is right. We lie and cover up for two reasons: to protect ourselves or to protect others. Alzheimer's has rendered Bob harmless now. I no longer need protection from him. But those who love him do. I need to protect
their truth
.

I slam the lid shut. No one needs to know the truth. Not RJ. Not my mother. Not my old fans or former employers. Not even me. I will learn to live with ambiguity.

My hands tremble as I reattach the padlock and snap it shut. Before I have time to change my mind, I remove the tiny key from the fob. With all my might, I hurl it into the lake. It waffles atop the moonlit water for a moment, then sinks.

F
or the next four days, I mourn. I mourn the loss of RJ's friendship and all the possibilities I'd imagined. I mourn the diminishing life of the man in the next room, struggling for each breath as the woman at his side sings him comfort. I mourn the loss of two decades with my mother, and the superhero I thought was my father.

In time I'll come to accept that we are not so different from one another. We are each of us flawed human beings, filled with fears and desperate for love, foolish people who chose the comfort of certainty. But for now, I grieve.

My mother wakes me at 4:30 a.m. “He's gone.”

This time there's no mistaking her message. Bob is dead.

It's surprising how much one learns about a person at his funeral, and how many unanswered questions will be buried alongside him. At my father's memorial two years ago, I learned that my dad dreamed of being a pilot, something he never realized, though I'm not sure why. Today, as I stand before Bob's grave site listening to his fellow AA members recount Bob's struggle, I learn that Bob was a foster child. I discover that he ran away at age fifteen and was homeless for a year before a restaurant owner took him under his wing, offering him a job in the kitchen and a room upstairs. It took him six years, but he put himself through college.

What happened in that foster home that drove him to the streets? And what demon was he fighting in that twelve-step program? Alcoholism, as he claimed, or something even more destructive?

I hold my mother's hand and bow my head as the preacher says a final prayer, asking for God's forgiveness. From the corner of my eye, I see RJ's stoic profile, where he stands on the other side of my mom. I close my eyes.
Please forgive Bob, and me.
And please, please soften RJ's heart.

The preacher makes the sign of the cross, and Bob's casket is lowered into the ground. One by one, the crowd disappears. A man walks over to my mother. “Your husband was a good man,” he says.

“The best,” she says. “And he'll be rewarded.” If Dorothy were here, she'd be pleased. Hope is wishing he'd be rewarded. Faith is knowing that he will be.

I squeeze her arm and turn toward the car, allowing her a few final minutes alone to say good-bye to the love of her life. When I do, I come face-to-face with RJ.

He's wearing a dark suit and white shirt. For a quick moment, our eyes lock. I can't be certain what I see there. It's no longer the disdain I saw a week ago. It's more of a disappointment, or longing. I imagine he, too, grieves the loss of what might have been.

I startle when I feel a pair of arms around my waist. I look down and see Lydia. She buries her face in my dress, and her shoulders quake.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “You okay?”

She squeezes me tighter. “I killed him.”

I pull away. “What are you talking about?”

“I gave him that pneumonia. I got too close to him.”

Slowly, her mother's words come back to me.
Get away from him!

I squat down and take her by the arms. “Oh, honey, you didn't hurt your grandpa.”

She sniffles. “How do you know?”

“Because I did.” I swallow hard. “Your grandpa snuck off to his boat, all because I took him on a boat ride. They found him cold and wet the next morning. That's when he got sick. And he never got better.”

I dig around in the dirt with my shoe until I find two stones. I offer one to her, then take her other hand in mine. Together we walk to his grave.

“But if you think you've done something wrong, whisper it to the Forgiveness Stone, like this.” I cup the stone next to my mouth and say, “I am sorry, Bob.”

Her face is skeptical when she looks at the stone in her hand, but she cups it to her mouth anyway. “I'm sorry if I gave you my bronchitis, Grandpa. But maybe it really was Hannah, because she's the one who took you on the boat ride and all.”

I smile. “Okay, on the count of three, we toss our stones into the grave, and Grandpa will know we're sorry. One. Two. Three.”

Her stone lands on the casket. Mine lands beside it.

“I hope that worked,” she says.

“Hope is for wussies,” I say, and take her hand. “You've got to have faith.”

Two cars remain on the narrow cemetery lane, my mother's Chevrolet and RJ's truck. They're parked thirty yards from each other. A light mist begins to fall. Beneath a plaid umbrella, I walk arm in arm with my mother. To our right, Lydia spins circles with her hands outstretched, either oblivious to the sprinkles or enjoying them. I glance behind me. RJ walks with Anne. Her head is close to his, as if they're deep in conversation. I need to say something to him. This may be the last time I ever see him.

We're nearly to her car when my mother stops.

“Get in, honey. It's open. I'm going to invite the kids back to the house.”

I hand her the umbrella and watch as she traipses over to her stepchildren, two adults she never really knew. They won't be coming to the house; I already know it. And it's not because of her; it's because of me.

A moment later, she turns back toward me, her clouded face telling me I was right.

I stand in the sleet, watching RJ move farther and farther away from me. My heart aches. This is my last opportunity. I need to say something. But what?
I'm sorry
?
I still don't know what happened that night
?
I'm learning to live with ambiguity, can you?

They've reached the truck now. Lydia runs over and hops in the backseat. Anne steps into the passenger seat. RJ grabs hold of his door handle. Instead of opening it, he turns around. Through the misty air, his eyes find mine, as if he sensed I'd been watching him.

My heart trips. He lifts his head, a simple, neutral gesture of acknowledgment. But it's not simple to me. It ignites a tiny flicker of optimism. I let go of my mother's arm and raise my hand.

Slowly, I move toward him, terrified he'll bolt if I move too quickly. My heel gets stuck in the grass, and I nearly trip. There go the last vestiges of grace. I regain my balance and trot, faster now, desperate to reach him.

I stand before him, drops of rain falling from my hair and eyelashes.

“I am so sorry,” I say, my breath heavy. “Please believe me.”

He reaches out and touches my arm. “I do.” He turns toward his truck. “You take care.”

Once more, I watch as RJ gets in his truck and drives away.

My mother and I spend the following week and a half cleaning out Bob's closets and drawers. She keeps his robe, a flannel shirt, and three sweaters. She won't part with his shaving kit or his hairbrush.

“My husband passed two weeks ago,” she tells me as she tapes the flaps of a cardboard box. “But Bob has been gone for five years.”

She sets aside two small piles of mementos for Anne and RJ. “I'll pack Anne's and send them to her. But I thought maybe Junior would like to come over for—”

“No, Mom. He's not going to come here until I leave.”

“Then let's the two of us take this stuff to the vineyard. I never been there. Bob was already too far gone when Junior moved home.”

“He won't see me.” It strikes me that the man who refuses to see me is perhaps the only man who ever did. He saw the face without makeup, the klutzy girl with flat hair and a torn dress. He's aware of the surly teen who thought she knew it all. RJ knows every ugly side of me I've tried to keep hidden. And unlike Fiona's fairy-tale version of forgiveness, he's not able to love the ugly.

By the third week, it's clear my mother is strong enough to be alone again. It's also clear I'm not going to hear from RJ. I tell her of my plans before I have a chance to change my mind.

The first Monday in July, I load my suitcase in my trunk, struck again by the almost nonexistent footprint I leave these days. I still talk to Dorothy and Jade every day, but I have no job, no boyfriend or husband or child to kiss good-bye or worry about. It's both liberating and horrifying, knowing how easily I can disappear. I put the key in the ignition and buckle my seat belt, hoping to drive the ache from my heart.

“You be careful,” my mother says, leaning in to kiss my cheek one more time. “Call when you get there.”

“You sure you don't want to join me?”

She nods. “I like it here. You know that.”

I pull the diamond-and-sapphire necklace from my purse and hand it to her. “This belongs to you,” I say, tucking the platinum chain into her hand.

She stares at the sparkling stones, and I see the recognition flicker. “I—I can't take this.”

“Sure you can. I had it appraised. It's only a fraction of what you deserve.”

I drive away and picture her returning to her empty house, her heart heavy. She'll think I forgot something when she finds the papers on the kitchen counter. I imagine her, staring down at the official appraisal, covering her mouth when she sees the figure. And then she'll open my letter, and learn about the money I've transferred into her account. At last, she will have received the settlement from my father that she should have gotten two decades ago.