Sweet Forgiveness (3 page)

I
change from my dress and heels into a pair of leggings and flats. With my tote stuffed with fresh-baked bread and a bouquet of puffy white magnolia blossoms, I walk toward the Garden District to visit my friend Dorothy Rousseau. Dorothy lived next door to me at the Evangeline, a six-story condominium building on St. Charles Avenue, before she moved to the Garden Home four months ago.

I dash across Jefferson Street, passing gardens brimming with white foxglove, orange hibiscus, and ruby-red canna flowers. But even amid the beauty of springtime, my mind flits from Michael and his complete nonchalance, to the job prospect that now seems mandatory, to Fiona Knowles and the stone of forgiveness I just sent.

It's after three o'clock when I arrive at the old brick mansion. I walk up the metal ramp and greet Martha and Joan sitting on the front porch.

“Hey, ladies,” I say, and offer them each a magnolia stem.

Dorothy moved into the Garden Home when macular degeneration finally robbed her of her independence. With her only son nine hundred miles away, I was the one who helped her find her new place, a place where meals were served three times a day and help could be summoned with the touch of a buzzer. At seventy-six, Dorothy weathered the move like a freshman arriving on campus.

I step into the grand foyer and bypass the guest book. I'm a regular here, so everybody knows me now. I make my way to the back of the house and find Dorothy alone in the courtyard. She's slumped in a wicker chair, a pair of old-fashioned headphones covering her ears. Her chin rests on her chest, and her eyes are closed. I tap her shoulder and she starts.

“Hi, Dorothy, it's me.”

She removes the headphones, clicks off her CD player, and rises. She's tall and slim, with a sleek white bob that contrasts with her pretty olive skin. Despite her inability to see, she applies makeup every day—to spare those with vision, she jokes. But with or without makeup, Dorothy is one of the most beautiful women I know.

“Hannah, dear!” Her southern drawl is smooth and lingering, like the taste of caramel. She gropes for my arm, and when she finds it, she pulls me into a hug. The familiar pang lodges in my chest. I breathe in the scent of her Chanel perfume and feel her hand rub circles on my back. It's the touch, one I never tire of, of a daughterless mother, to a motherless daughter.

She sniffs the air. “Do I smell magnolias?”

“What a nose,” I say, and remove the bouquet from my tote. “I've also brought a loaf of my cinnamon maple bread.”

She claps her hands. “My favorite! You spoil me, Hannah Marie.”

I smile. Hannah Marie—a phrase a mother would use, I imagine.

She cocks her head. “What brings you here on a Wednesday? Don't you have to get gussied up for your date?”

“Michael's busy tonight.”

“Is he? Sit down and tell me your story.”

I smile at her signature invitation to settle in for a visit and plop down on the ottoman so that I'm facing her. She reaches out and places a hand on my arm. “Talk to me.”

What a gift, having a friend who knows when I need to vent. I tell her about the e-mail from James Peters at WCHI, and Michael's enthusiastic response.

“‘Never make someone a priority when all you are to them is an option.' Maya Angelou said that.” She lifts her shoulders. “Of course, you just tell me to mind my own beeswax.”

“No, I hear you. I feel like a fool. I've wasted two years thinking he was the one I'd marry. But I'm not the least bit convinced it's even on his radar.”

“You know,” Dorothy says, “I learned a long time ago to ask for what I want. It's not very romantic, but honestly, men can be such blockheads when you attempt innuendo. Have you told him you were disappointed in his reaction?”

I shake my head. “No. I was trapped, so I fired off an e-mail to Mr. Peters, letting him know I was interested. What choice did I have?”

“You have complete choice, Hannah. Don't ever forget that. Having options is our greatest power.”

“Right. I could tell Michael I'm ditching the job of a lifetime because I am holding on to the hope that someday we'll be a family. Yup. That option would give me some power, all right. The power to send Michael running for the hills.”

As if she's trying to lighten the mood, Dorothy leans in. “Are you proud of me? I haven't even mentioned my dear son.”

I laugh. “Until now.”

“All the more reason Michael is playing it cool. He must be terribly distraught about the idea of you moving to the same city as your ex-fiancé.”

I shrug. “Well, if he is, I wouldn't know it. He never even mentioned Jack.”

“Will you see him?”

“Jack? No. No, of course not.” I grab the pouch of stones, suddenly anxious for a change of subject. It's too awkward to talk about my cheating ex-fiancé with his mother.

“I've brought you something else, too.” I place the velvet pouch in her hands. “These are called the Forgiveness Stones. Have you heard of them?”

She brightens. “Of course. Fiona Knowles began this phenomenon. She was on NPR last week. Did you know she's written a book? She's going to be here in New Orleans sometime in April.”

“Yes, I heard. I actually went to middle school with Fiona Knowles.”

“You don't say!”

I tell Dorothy about the stones I received and Fiona's apology.

“My goodness! You were one of her original thirty-five. You never told me.”

I gaze across the grounds. Mr. Wiltshire sits in his wheelchair under the shade of a live oak tree, while Lizzy, Dorothy's favorite aide, reads him poetry. “I didn't plan to reply. I mean, does a Forgiveness Stone really make up for two years of bullying?”

Dorothy sits quietly, and I'm guessing she thinks it does.

“Anyway, I have to write a proposal for WCHI. I'm choosing Fiona's story. She's a hot topic right now, and the fact that I was one of the original recipients gives it a personal angle. It's the perfect human-interest story.”

Dorothy nods. “Which is why you returned her stone.”

I look down at my hands. “Yes. I admit it. I had ulterior motives.”

“This proposal,” Dorothy says. “Will they actually produce the show?”

“No, I don't think so. It's more of a test of my creativity. Still, I want to impress them. And if I don't get the job, I might be able to use the idea for my show here, if Stuart would let me.

“So, according to Fiona's rules, I'm supposed to continue the circle by adding a second stone to the pouch and sending it on to someone I've hurt.” I remove the ivory stone I received from Fiona and leave the second pebble in the velvet pouch. “And that's what I'm doing now, with this stone and my sincere apology to you.”

“Me? Whatever for?”

“Yes, you.” I tuck the stone into her hand. “I know how much you loved living at the Evangeline. I'm sorry I couldn't have cared for you better, allowed you to stay. Maybe we could have hired an aide for you . . .”

“Don't be ridiculous, dear. That condo was much too small to have another person underfoot. This place suits me fine. I'm happy here. You know that.”

“Still, I want you to have this Forgiveness Stone.”

She lifts her chin, and her unseeing gaze falls on me like a spotlight. “That's a cop-out. You're looking for a quick way to continue this circle so you can outline your episode for WCHI. What are you proposing? Fiona Knowles and I come on the set, creating the perfect Circle of Forgiveness?”

I turn to her, stung. “Is that so bad?”

“It is when you've chosen the wrong person.” She gropes for my hand and plunks the stone back onto my palm. “I cannot accept this stone. There's someone much more deserving of your apology.”

Jack's confession crashes down on me, splintering into a million jagged pieces.
I'm sorry, Hannah. I slept with Amy. Just once. It'll never happen again. I swear to you.

I close my eyes. “Please, Dorothy. I know you think I ruined your son's life when I broke off our engagement. But we can't keep rehashing the past.”

“I'm not talking about Jackson,” she says, each word deliberate. “I am talking about your mother.”

I
fling the stone onto her lap as if its mere touch burned. “No. It's too late for forgiveness. Some things are better left alone.”

And if my father were alive, he'd agree. “‘You can't mow a field once it's been plowed,'” he used to say. “‘Unless you want to get stuck in the mud.'”

She takes a deep breath. “I've known you since you first moved here, Hannah, a girl with big dreams and a big heart. I learned all about your wonderful father, how he raised you single-handedly, since you were a teen. But you've shared very little about your mother, except to say she chose her boyfriend over you.”

“And I want nothing to do with her.” My heart speeds. It angers me that the woman I haven't seen or spoken to in over a decade still wields such power over me.
The weight of anger
, I imagine Fiona would say
.
“My mother made her choice clear.”

“Perhaps. But I've always thought there was more to the story.” She looks away and shakes her head. “I'm sorry. I should have shared my thoughts years ago. It has always bothered me. I wonder if I wasn't trying to keep you all to myself.” She casts about for my hand and places the stone in my palm again. “You need to make peace with your mother, Hannah. It's time.”

“You've got it backwards. I've forgiven Fiona Knowles. This second stone is meant to seek forgiveness, not grant it.”

Dorothy raises her shoulders. “Grant forgiveness or seek it. I don't think there's a hard-and-fast rule for these Forgiveness Stones. The object is to restore harmony, yes?”

“Look, I'm sorry, Dorothy, but you don't know the whole story.”

“I wonder whether you do, either,” she says.

I stare at her. “Why would you say that?”

“Remember the last time your father was here? I was still living in the Evangeline, and y'all came for dinner?”

It was my dad's final visit, though we'd never have guessed it then. He was tan and happy and the center of attention, as always. We sat on Dorothy's balcony, swapping stories and getting tipsy.

“Yes, I remember.”

“I believe he knew he'd be leaving this world.”

Her tone, along with the almost mystical look in her clouded eyes, makes the hairs on my arms rise.

“Your father and I had a private moment. He shared something with me while you and Michael ran out for another bottle of wine. He'd had a bit too much to drink, I'll grant him that. But I believe he wanted to get this off his chest.”

My heart pounds. “What did he say?”

“He told me that your mother still sent you letters.”

I work to breathe. Letters? From my mother? “No. It was definitely the alcohol talking. She hasn't sent a letter in almost twenty years.”

“Can you be sure? I got the distinct impression your mother has been trying to reach you for years.”

“He would have told me. No. My mom wants nothing to do with me.”

“But you've said it yourself, you were the one who severed contact.”

A snapshot of my sixteenth birthday comes into view. My father sat across from me at Mary Mac's Restaurant. I can see his grin, wide and guileless, and picture his elbows on the white tablecloth when he leaned in to watch me unwrap my gift—a diamond-and-sapphire pendant much too extravagant for a teen. “Those stones are from Suzanne's ring,” he said. “I had it reset for you.”

I stared at the gigantic gems, remembering his big paws rifling through my mom's jewelry box the day he left, his claim that the ring was rightfully his—and mine.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

“And there's one more present.” He grabbed my hand and winked at me. “You don't have to see her anymore, sweetie.”

It took a moment before I realized
her
meant my mother.

“You're old enough now to decide for yourself. The judge made that clear in the custody agreement.” His face was utterly gleeful, as if this second “present” were the real prize. I stared at him, my mouth agape.

“Like, no more contact? Ever?”

“It's your call. Your mother agreed to it. Hell, she's probably just as happy as you are to be rid of the obligation.”

I pasted a shaky smile on my face. “Um, okay. I guess so. If that's what you . . . she wants.”

I turn away from Dorothy, feeling my lips tugging downward. “I was only sixteen. She should have insisted I see her. She should have fought for me! She was my mother.” My voice breaks, and I have to wait a moment before I'm able to continue. “My dad called to tell her. It was as if she'd been waiting for me to suggest it. When he stepped out of his office, he simply said, ‘It's over, sweetie. You're off the hook.'”

I cover my mouth and try to swallow, glad for once that Dorothy can't see me. “Two years later, she came for my high school graduation, claiming to be so proud of me. I was eighteen then, and so hurt I could barely speak to her. What did she expect after two years of silence? I haven't seen her since.”

“Hannah, I know your father meant the world to you, but . . .” She pauses, as if searching for the right words. “Is it possible he kept you from your mother?”

“Of course he did. He wanted to protect me. She hurt me over and over again.”

“That's your story—
your
truth. You believe it; I understand that. But that doesn't mean it's
the
truth.”

Even though she's blind, I swear Mrs. Rousseau can see right into my soul. I swipe my eyes. “I don't want to talk about this.” The ottoman scrapes on the concrete as I stand to leave.

“Sit down,” she tells me. Her voice is stern, and I obey her.

“Agatha Christie once said that inside each of us is a trapdoor.” She finds my arm and squeezes it, her brittle nails biting my skin. “Beneath that door lie our darkest secrets. We keep that trapdoor firmly latched, desperately trying to fool ourselves, making believe those secrets don't exist. The lucky ones might even come to believe it. But I fear you, my dear, are not one of the lucky ones.”

She feels for my hands and takes the stone from me. She places it into the velvet pouch along with the other stone, and pulls tight the drawstring. With her outstretched hands, she searches the air until she finds my tote. Finally settling on it, she tucks the pouch inside.

“You'll never find your future until you reconcile your past. Go. Make your peace with your mama.”

I stand barefoot in my kitchen, where copper pots hang from hooks above my granite island. It is nearly three o'clock Saturday, and Michael will be here at six. I like to time my baking so that when Michael arrives, my condo is filled with the homey scent of fresh-baked bread. My blatant attempt at domestic seduction. And tonight I need all the reinforcement I can gather. I've decided to take Dorothy's advice and tell Michael straight up that I don't want to leave New Orleans—i.e., him. My heart speeds at the very thought of it.

With greased hands, I lift the sticky ball from the mixing bowl and turn it onto a floured breadboard. I work the dough with the heels of my palms, pushing it away, watching it fold over itself. In the cupboard beneath the island, less than a foot from where I stand, sits a shiny Bosch bread mixer. It was a Christmas gift from my father three years ago. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I am a sensualist, that I prefer to knead my dough by hand, a ritual that dates back over four thousand years, when the ancient Egyptians first discovered yeast. I wonder whether it was just another tedious task for the Egyptian ladies, or if they found it relaxing, as I do. For me, it is soothing, the monotonous push and pull of the dough, the chemical transformation, barely visible, as the flour, water, and leavening become silky and glutinous.

It was my mother who taught me that the word
lady
evolved from the medieval English phrase
dough kneader
. Like me, my mother had a passion for baking. But where did she learn this piece of trivia? I never saw her read, and her mother didn't even have a high school education.

I push a strand of hair from my forehead with the back of my hand. Ever since Dorothy ordered me to make peace with my mother three days ago, I can't stop thinking of her. Is it possible she really did try to contact me?

There's only one person who might know. Without waiting another minute, I rinse my hands and pick up my phone.

It's one o'clock Pacific Time. I listen as the phone rings, picturing Julia out on her lanai, reading a romance novel, or maybe doing her nails.

“Hannah Banana! How are you?”

The joy in her voice makes me feel guilty. For the first month after my dad died, I called Julia daily. But quickly the calls dwindled to once a week, then once a month. It's been since Christmas that I last spoke to her.

I gloss over details about Michael and my job. “Everything's great,” I say. “How about you?”

“The salon is sending me to a class in Vegas. It's all about hairpieces and extensions these days. You might want to try one. They're really convenient.”

“I just might,” I say, before getting to the point. “Julia, there's something I need to ask you.”

“The condo. I know. I need to get it on the market.”

“No. I want you to have it, I told you that. I'll call Ms. Seibold this week and see what's taking so long with the title transfer.”

I hear her sigh. “You're a doll, Hannah.”

My dad began dating Julia the year I left for college. He retired early and decided, since I was going to USC, he may as well move to L.A., too. He met Julia at the gym. She was in her mid-thirties then, a decade younger than my father. I liked her instantly, a kindhearted beauty with a penchant for red lipstick and Elvis memorabilia. She once confided that she'd wanted children, but she chose my father instead, who was, in her words, a big kid himself. It makes me sad that, seventeen years later, her dream of children has vanished, along with her “big kid.” Giving her my dad's condo seems a sorry substitute for all she sacrificed.

“Julia, my friend told me something I can't seem to shake.”

“What is it?”

“She . . .” I tug on a lock of my hair. “She thinks my mom tried to contact me, that she sent me a letter—or letters. I'm not sure when.” I pause, worried that what I say might sound like an accusation. “She thinks my dad knew about it.”

“I don't know. I've already taken a dozen garbage bags to Goodwill. The man saved everything.” She laughs softly, and my heart breaks for her. I should have been the one cleaning out his closets. Instead, just like my dad, I let her do the tough stuff.

“You never found a letter, or letters, or anything at all from my mother?”

“I know she had our address here in L.A. From time to time she'd send him tax documents or whatnot. But I'm sorry, Hannah. Nothing for you.”

I nod, unable to speak. I didn't realize until now how badly I was hoping for a different answer.

“Your dad loved you, Hannah. For all of his flaws, he truly loved you.”

I know my father loved me. So why isn't that enough?