Sweet Forgiveness (2 page)

Her eyes dart to the clock above the door. She stands silent, biting her lip. Suddenly it occurs to me: Jade took the streetcar to work. I grab my tote from the locker and fish out my keys. “Take my car,” I say, extending the keys.

“What? No. I can't do that! What if I—”

“It's a car, Jade. It's replaceable.”
Unlike your father
, but I don't say this. I tuck the keys into her palm. “Now get out of here before Stuart comes along and finds out you skipped out on me.”

Her face floods with relief and she captures me in a hug. “Oh, thank you. Don't you worry, I'll take good care of your ride.” She turns to the door. “Stay in trouble,” she says, her favorite parting line. She's halfway to the elevator when I hear her call, “I owe you one, Hannabelle.”

“And don't think I'm going to forget it. Give Pop a hug for me.”

I close the door, alone in my dressing room with thirty minutes to spare until preshow. I find a compact of bronzer and brush it over my forehead and across the bridge of my nose.

I free the snaps of my plastic cape and pick up the letter, rereading Mr. Peters's words as I meander past the sofa and over to my desk. There's no question the job's a fantastic opportunity, especially given my current slump here. I'd be moving from the fifty-third to the third largest television market in the country. Within a few years, I'd be a competitor for nationally syndicated programs like
GMA
or the
Today
show. No doubt my salary would quadruple.

I sit down behind my desk. Obviously, Mr. Peters sees the same Hannah Farr everyone else sees: a happily single career woman with no roots, an opportunist who'd gladly pack up and move across the country for a better salary and bigger assignment.

My gaze lands on a photo of my father and me, taken at the Critics' Choice Awards in 2012. I bite my cheek, remembering the swanky event. My dad's glassy eyes and ruddy nose tell me he's already had too much to drink. I'm wearing a silver ball gown and a huge grin. But my eyes look vacant and hollow, the same way I felt that night, sitting alone with my father. It wasn't because I'd lost the award. It was because I
felt
lost. Spouses and children and parents who weren't drunk surrounded the other recipients. They laughed and cheered, and later danced together in big circles. I wanted what they had.

I lift another picture, this one of Michael and me, sailing on Lake Pontchartrain last summer. A shock of Abby's blond hair is visible at the frame's edge. She's perched on the bow to my right, her back to me.

I set the photo back on my desk. In a of couple years I hope to have a different picture on my desk, this one of Michael and me standing in front of a pretty home, along with a smiling Abby, and maybe even a child of our own.

I tuck Mr. Peters's letter into a private file marked
INTEREST
, where I've stashed the dozen or so similar letters I've received over the years. Tonight I'll send the usual thanks-but-no-thanks note. Michael doesn't need to know. For, as cliché and terribly outdated as it sounds, a high-profile job in Chicago is nothing compared to being part of a family.

But when will I get that family? Early on, Michael and I seemed completely in sync. Within weeks we were speaking in future tense. We spent hours sharing our dreams. We'd toss out possible names for our children—Zachary or Emma or Liam—speculate on what they'd look like and whether Abby would prefer a brother or a sister. We'd scour the Internet for houses, sending links back and forth with notes like,
Cute, but Zachary will need a bigger backyard
, or
Imagine what we could do in a bedroom this size.
All that seems like ages ago. Now Michael's dreams are focused on his political career, and any talk of our future has been tabled for “once Abby graduates.”

A thought occurs to me. Could the prospect of losing me trigger the commitment from Michael I've been hoping for?

I pull the letter from the file, my idea gaining momentum. This is more than a job opportunity. It's an opportunity to speed things along. Abby's graduation is only a year away now. It's time we start making a plan. I reach for my cell phone, feeling lighter than I have in weeks.

I punch in his number, wondering if I'll get lucky and catch him in a rare moment of solitude. He'll be impressed that I'm being courted for a job—especially in a big market like Chicago. He'll tell me how proud he is, and then he'll remind me of all the wonderful reasons I can't leave, the most important reason being him. And later, when he's a chance to reflect, he'll realize that he'd better seal the deal, before I'm snatched from his clutches. I smile, giddy with the thought of being sought-after both professionally and personally.

“Mayor Payne.” His voice is already heavy, and his day has just begun.

“Happy Wednesday,” I say, hoping the reminder of our date night might cheer him. Last December Abby started babysitting every Wednesday evening, relieving Michael of his parental duties and allowing us one weeknight together.

“Hey, babe.” He sighs. “What a crazy day. There's a community forum at Warren Easton High. Brainstorming session on school violence prevention. I'm on my way over there now. I hope to be back by noon for the rally. You're coming, right?”

He's talking about the Into the Light Rally, to spread awareness about child sexual abuse. I lean my elbows on the desk. “I told Marisa I wouldn't be at this one. Noon is cutting it too close. I feel awful.”

“Don't. You give them plenty. I can only make a quick appearance myself. I've got meetings all afternoon to discuss the escalation in poverty. They'll run through the dinner hour, I suspect. Would you mind if we take the night off?”

Poverty issues? I can't argue with that, even if it is Wednesday. If I hope to become the mayor's wife, I'd better learn to accept that he is a man of service. After all, it is one of the things I love most about him. “No. It's okay. But you sound exhausted. Try to get some sleep tonight.”

“I will.” He lowers his voice. “Though I'd prefer to get something other than sleep.”

I smile, imagining myself wrapped in Michael's arms. “Me, too.”

Should I tell him about the letter from James Peters? He's got enough to worry about, without me adding a threat.

“I'll let you go,” he says. “Unless there was something you needed.”

Yes,
I want to tell him,
I do need something. I need to know that you'll miss me tonight, that I am a priority. I need assurance that we're heading toward a future together, that you want to marry me
. I take a deep breath.

“I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Someone's after your girlfriend.” I say it with a lighthearted, singsong voice. “I got a love letter in the mail today.”

“Who's my competition?” he says. “I'll kill him, I swear.”

I laugh and explain the letter from James Peters and the job prospect, hoping to convey just enough enthusiasm to sound a little warning bell in Michael.

“It's not exactly a job offer, but it sounds like they're interested in me. They want a proposal for an original story idea. Kind of cool, right?”

“Very cool. Congratulations, superstar. Another reminder that you're completely out of my league.”

My heart does a little jig. “Thanks. It felt good.” I squeeze shut my eyes and plow on, before I lose my nerve. “The show premieres in the fall. They need to move quickly.”

“That's only six months away. Better get a move on. Have you scheduled the interview?”

The wind is knocked from me. I put a hand to my throat and force myself to breathe. Thank God Michael can't see me.

“I . . . no, I—I haven't responded yet.”

“If we can swing it, Abby and I'll come with you. Make a mini-vacation of it. I haven't been to Chicago in years.”

Say something! Tell him you're disappointed, that you were hoping he'd beg you to stay. Remind him that your ex-fiancé lives in Chicago, for God's sake!

“So, you wouldn't mind if I left?”

“Well, I wouldn't like it. Long-distance would be a bitch. But we could make it work, don't you think?”

“Sure,” I say. But inside I'm thinking of our current schedules, where even in the same city we can't seem to carve any alone time.

“Listen,” he says, “I've got to run. I'll call you later. And congratulations, babe. I'm proud of you.”

I punch off the phone and slump into my chair. Michael doesn't care if I leave. I'm an idiot. Marriage is no longer on his radar. And he's left me no choice now. I have to send Mr. Peters my résumé and an episode proposal. Otherwise it'll look like I was being manipulative, which, I suppose, I was.

My eyes land on the
Times-Picayune,
peeking from my tote. I lift the paper and scowl at the headline.
CLAIM YOUR SHAME
. Yeah, right. Send a Forgiveness Stone and everything will be forgiven. You're delusional, Fiona Knowles.

I knead my forehead. I could sabotage this job offer, write a crummy proposal and tell Michael I didn't get the interview. No. I have too much pride. If Michael wants me to pursue the job, dammit, I will! And not just pursue it, I'll get the offer. I'll move away and start fresh. The show will be wildly popular and I'll be Chicago's next Oprah Winfrey! I'll meet someone new, someone who loves kids and is ready to commit. How do you like me now, Michael Payne?

But first I need to write the proposal.

I pace the room, trying to drum up an idea for a killer rundown, something thought-provoking and fresh and timely. Something that would land me the job and impress Michael . . . and maybe even make him reconsider.

My eyes return again to the newspaper. Slowly, my scowl softens. Yes. It might work. But could I do it?

I pull the newspaper from my tote and carefully tear out Fiona's article. I move to my desk drawer and suck in a deep breath.
What the hell am I doing?
I stare at the closed drawer as if it's Pandora's box. Finally, I yank it open.

I fumble past pens and paper clips and Post-it notes until I spot it. It's tucked in the very back corner of the drawer, just where I'd hidden it two years ago.

A letter of apology from Fiona Knowles. And a velvet pouch containing a pair of Forgiveness Stones.

I
draw open the pouch strings. Two small, round ordinary garden pebbles tumble onto my palm. I run my finger over them, one gray with black veins, the other ivory. I feel a crinkle within the velvet fabric and pull out the accordion-pleated note, like a fortune in a cookie.

One stone signifies the weight of anger.

The other stone symbolizes the weight of shame.

Both can be lifted, if you choose to rid yourself of their burdens.

Is she still waiting for my stone? Have the other thirty-four she sent been returned to her? Guilt chokes me.

I unfold the cream-colored piece of stationery and reread the letter.

Dear Hannah,

My name is Fiona Knowles. I sincerely hope you haven't a clue who I am. If you remember me, it's because I left a scar on you.

You and I were in middle school together at Bloomfield Hills Academy. You were new to the school, and I chose you as my target. Not only did I torment you, but I turned the other girls against you, too. And once, I almost got you suspended. I told Mrs. Maples I saw you take the history exam answer key from her desk, when in fact, I'd taken it.

To say I am ashamed does not begin to convey my guilt. As an adult, I've tried to rationalize my childish cruelty— jealousy being the top contender, insecurity the second. But the truth is, I was a bully. I make no excuse. I am truly and desperately sorry.

I am so pleased to discover that you're a huge success now, that you have your own talk show in New Orleans. Perhaps you've long forgotten about Bloomfield Hills Academy and the rotten person I was. But my actions haunt me every day.

I am an attorney by day, a poet by night. Every now and then I'm even lucky enough to have a piece published. I am not married, and I have no children. Sometimes I think loneliness is my penance.

I'm asking that you send one stone back to me, if and when you accept my apology, lifting both the burden of your anger and the burden of my shame. Please offer the other pebble and an additional stone to someone you have hurt, along with a heartfelt apology. When that stone comes back to you, as I hope mine will come back to me, you will have completed the Circle of Forgiveness. Throw your stone into a lake or a stream, bury it in your garden, or settle it into your flower bed—anything that symbolizes that you are finally free from your shame.

Sincerely yours,

Fiona Knowles

I set the letter down. Even now, two years after it first landed in my mailbox, my breath comes in short bursts. So much collateral damage came from that girl's actions. Because of Fiona Knowles, my family disintegrated. Yes, if it hadn't been for Fiona, my parents may never have divorced.

I rub my temples. I need to be practical, not emotional. Fiona Knowles is all the buzz now, and I'm one of her original recipients. What a story I have, right here in front of me. Exactly the kind of idea that would impress Mr. Peters and the others at WCHI. I could propose we bring Fiona on the air, and the two of us could tell our story of guilt and shame and forgiveness.

Only problem is, I haven't forgiven her. And I wasn't intending to. I bite my lip. Do I need to now? Or, is it possible I can finesse this? After all, WCHI is only asking for the idea. The show would never be filmed. But no, I'd better be thorough, just in case.

I pull a sheet of stationery from my desk, then hear a tap on the door.

“Ten minutes till showtime,” Stuart says.

“Be right there.”

I grab my lucky fountain pen, a gift from Michael when my show took second place in the Louisiana Broadcast Awards, and scribble my reply.

Dear Fiona,

Enclosed you'll find your stone, signifying the lifted weight of your shame and the loss of my anger.

Sincerely,

Hannah Farr

Yes, it's halfhearted. But it's the best I can do. I slip the letter and one of the stones into an envelope and seal it. I'll drop it in the mailbox on my way home. Now I can honestly say I returned the stone.