Sweet Forgiveness (9 page)

I
t's ten o'clock when I arrive at O'Hare. Instead of switching to an earlier flight back home, I purchase a new ticket, this one to Grand Rapids, Michigan.

“There's a flight leaving at eleven oh-four,” the woman at the Delta counter tells me. “With the time difference, you'll arrive at twelve fifty-seven. I've got you returning to New Orleans tomorrow evening, ten fifty-one.”

I hand her my credit card.

I arrive at the gate with ten minutes to spare before boarding. I sink into a pleather sling-back chair and dig into my tote for my cell phone. Instead, my fingers land on my velvet pouch.

I pull a stone from the pouch and settle it onto my palm. I study the speckles of beige on its smooth ivory skin and think of Fiona Knowles. Two years ago she selected this very stone for me. She set this plan in motion. Without the Forgiveness Stones, I wouldn't have considered making this trip. All the memories of my mother would still be stuffed away, safely.

I grip the stone tightly, hoping I'm doing the right thing.
Please let this stone build a bridge, not a wall.

Across from me, I watch a young mother braid her daughter's hair. She smiles as the daughter rattles on about something. I tamp down any foolish expectations for this trip. This isn't likely to be a happy reunion.

I tuck the stone back into my purse and this time remove my cell phone. My pulse quickens. How will Michael respond when I tell him I'm going to Michigan? Does he remember what I told him about my mother and her boyfriend?

I tap the call button, happy for once that he's a busy man. It'll be much easier to leave a message.

“Hannah,” he says. “Good morning, hon.”

Shit. Of all days . . .

“Good morning,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. “I can't believe I caught you.”

“Just about to step into a meeting. What's up?”

“Hey, you'll never guess what I'm about to do. I'm going to Michigan for an overnight. I figured since I was here, I may as well pay my mother a visit.”

I blurt it all out in one swift breath. And I wait . . .

Finally he speaks. “You think that's necessary?”

“I do. I'm going to try to forgive her. I think I need to make peace with my past before I can move on to the future.”

The words—Dorothy's words—make me feel wise.

“If you say so,” Michael says. “Just one piece of advice. Keep this stuff to yourself. Nobody needs to know your business.”

“Of course,” I say. Suddenly it seems clear. Michael doesn't want my reputation to tarnish his.

It's one thirty by the time the plane lands and I sign the agreement for the rental car.

“Just until tomorrow, then?” the young man at the rental agency asks.

“Yes. I'll have it back by six.”

“Give yourself plenty of time. There's a storm coming in this afternoon.”

When I hear the word
storm
, I think hurricane. But when he hands me a plastic scraper, I realize he's talking about snow and ice, not rain.

“Thanks,” I say, and climb into the Ford Taurus, still wearing my suit and heels. I toss the windshield scraper into the back.

I drive north on I-31, singing along with Adele, reeling with thoughts of my mother. An hour passes and I notice the landscape change. It's hilly now, with giant spruce and birch trees lining the interstate.
DEER X-ING
signs crop up every few miles.

I pass a marker telling me I'm at the Forty-fifth Parallel, and I can hear Bob's voice as if I'm still in the backseat of his Oldsmobile Cutlass.

See that, Sister? You're exactly halfway between the North Pole and the equator.

Like I'm supposed to be excited about that? He's got that big dolphin grin on his face, and he's trying to catch my eye in the rearview mirror. But I won't look.

I push aside the image and try to concentrate on the scenery, so different from the south. It's prettier up here than I remember. It always made me feel claustrophobic, this northern isolation, but today, with the white snow and green spruce trees, it feels more serene than secluded. I crack my window, replacing the stale heat with a blast of fresh, crisp wind.

My GPS tells me I'm thirty miles from Harbour Cove. My stomach pitches. Am I ready for this? No, I'm not sure I am, or ever will be.

I rehearse my plan for the umpteenth time. I'll find a motel for the night, and wake early. I'll get to the house before nine. Bob should be at work, and my mother should already be up and showered. I'm trusting that she is, above all her other flaws and foibles, kind. I want to believe that once she sees me, she'll welcome me. I'll tell her she's forgiven, and we'll both be free of our past. At least as much as we can be free of it.

I was fifteen the last time we spent a weekend together. Coincidentally, we'd met in Chicago, the very city I just came from. I'd flown in from Atlanta; she'd taken a train from Michigan. We stayed at a shabby airport motel rather than downtown. We ate our meals at a nearby Denny's and only went into the city for an afternoon. I saw a shirt I wanted at Abercrombie, and my mother insisted on buying it for me. When she opened her purse, I saw that the lining was torn. She searched her weathered billfold and counted her money, then recounted. Finally she wedged a folded twenty-dollar bill from a slot intended for photos.

“My hidden twenty,” she told me. “You should always keep a hidden twenty in your wallet, in case of emergencies.”

The advice wasn't what struck me. It was the realization that my mother was poor. I'd never thought about it. When I shopped with my father, he'd hand the clerk his plastic and we'd be off. Did my mother even have a credit card? Surely she got half my father's assets in the divorce. What did she do with all the money? Spend it on Bob, probably.

I should have been grateful that she'd splurged on the ratty motel room, that she'd spent her hidden twenty on me. I should have been furious with my father, for not giving her a better settlement. But instead, I felt a growing disconnect bordering on disgust.

When I got home, I asked my father why Mom had no money. “Bad choices,” he said, shaking his head. “That shouldn't surprise you.”

The insinuation was another dose of poison on an already ailing relationship.
Another bad decision, just like when she chose her boyfriend over you.

All of the shame and gratitude and pity I should have felt for my mother then come crashing down on me now. With every passing mile, I'm more and more certain that I'm making the right decision. I need to see my mother. She needs to hear I've forgiven her. As nervous as I am, I can hardly wait for morning to come.

Who in the world would drink wine made in Northern Michigan? But every few miles I see a sign for another vineyard. I'd read somewhere about how the climate on Old Mission peninsula made for perfect grape-growing conditions. But I had no idea the notion had caught fire. But then again, what else do these people have to do?

When I reach the top of a hill, I see it. Lake Michigan. It's so vast you'd swear it's the ocean. I slow the car, taking in the brilliant blue water. But the sandy beaches I remember are snow-covered today, and huge boulders of ice barricade the shoreline. Memories flood my mind, my mother and Bob in the front seat of his Cutlass, cheering when first they spotted the lake. Me, alone in the backseat, refusing to look. “There it is, Sister,” Bob would say, using the nickname I'd grown to hate and pointing ahead. “Isn't she magnificent?”

Even though I longed to take a peek, I refused. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. I needed to hate this place. If I liked it, my resolve might weaken. I might like Bob, too, and my dad would never forgive me.

“Will you come fishing with me in the morning, Sister? I'll bet you catch a bass or two. Or maybe the whitefish will be biting. You'll fry it up for us tomorrow night, won't you, Suzanne? Nothing better than Lake Michigan whitefish.”

I ignored him, my usual MO. Did he seriously think I'd wake at 5:00 a.m. so I could fish with him? Get real, asshole.

I wonder now, what might have happened way out on those waters, with nobody in sight? The thought makes me shudder.

Just when it was, or what provoked it, I'm no longer sure. All I know is that at some point before my thirteenth birthday, Bob became creepy. The summer we first met, I actually liked him. I stood watching as he stripped the cupboards from our kitchen with a crowbar. His arms were tan and knotted with muscles. One morning he tossed me a pair of safety glasses and a hard hat, and dubbed me his assistant. I'd clean up the worksite and fetch him glasses of iced tea, and at the end of each day he'd give me a crisp five-dollar bill. He called me Hannah then. It wasn't until he started dating my mother that he took to calling me “Sister.” And by then, no nickname, no amount of cajoling, could have softened my resolve. I had made a decision. He was the enemy. Every nice gesture, every compliment, were suspect.

I'm stunned when I enter the shopping district of Harbour Cove. The once-sleepy fishing village is now a bustling little town. Well-dressed women in trendy black parkas stroll the sidewalks, carrying designer purses and shopping bags. I pass quaint storefronts with awnings, an Apple store, art galleries, restaurants with chalkboards out front telling of their daily specials.