The Sweetness of Forgetting (34 page)

Fifty years,
she thought, looking at her reflection. It was her birthday that day, but no one knew that. The visa she’d come to America with, the identity that didn’t belong to her, said that she’d been born two months later, in July. July 16, in fact, an irony she would never forget, for that was the day her family had been taken away. She knew that on July 16, Ted and Josephine would have a cake for her, and a nice dinner, and they would sing “Happy Birthday,” and she would smile and play her part well. But today, today was just for her. It was the day Rose Picard had been born. But Rose Picard had died in 1942.

Rose did not like birthdays. How could she? Each one took her farther from the past, farther from the life she led before the world ended. And for the last few years, she had been consumed with sadness at the realization that she was growing older than any of her family ever had. Papa had been forty-five when he was taken away. Even if he’d lived another two years at Auschwitz, which she knew was unlikely, he hadn’t made it past forty-seven. Maman had been just forty-one in 1942, the last time Rose had seen her. Rose’s mother had seemed so old to her then, but now, forty-one seemed youthful. She’d never thought of her mother being ripped away in the prime of her youth, but she had been. Rose knew that now.

And now Rose herself was fifty. She’d lived longer than her parents and spent almost twice as long in the United States as she had in France. Seventeen years in her native land. Thirty-three in her adopted home. But she had stopped living long ago. The rest had been like a dream, and she had walked through it in a trance, simply going through the motions.

She dressed that morning and walked to the bakery, noting that spring had arrived early. The trees were green, and the flowers around the Cape were just beginning to bloom. The sky was a clear, pale blue, the kind of sky that led to beautiful days, and Rose knew that soon, the tourists would be descending, and the bakery would be doing a strong business. These were things that were supposed to make her happy.

She stopped outside the bakery for a moment and looked through the pane at her daughter, who was busy sliding a tray of miniature Star Pies into the display case. Her daughter’s hair was thick and dark, like her father’s, and her belly was round and full, as Rose’s had once been so long ago. In a month, Josephine would be a mother too. She would come to understand that one’s child was the most important thing in the world, that one must protect that child at all costs.

Rose had never been able to bring herself to tell her daughter what had happened. Josephine knew only that her mother had left Paris after her parents died, married Ted, and eventually settled here in Cape Cod. A thousand times, Rose had wanted to tell her the truth, but then she’d pause and look around at the life she had here—her bakery, her beautiful home, and most of all, her devoted husband, who’d been a wonderful father to Josephine. And every time, she’d stop before she ruined everything. She felt as if she were living in a beautiful painting, and that she was the only one who knew it was merely a paper-thin world of brushstrokes and dreams.

And so she’d told Josephine fairy tales throughout her childhood, tales of kingdoms and princes and queens that were meant to keep the past alive, even if Rose was the only one who knew it.
She imagined she’d tell Josephine’s child the stories too, and this would bring Rose comfort, for it was her way of living in her past without destroying the present. Let them believe that the fairy tales were the fiction, and that everything else was real. It was better that way.

Rose was just about to enter the bakery when suddenly, she saw her daughter double over, clutching her midsection, her beautiful face, so like her father’s, suddenly twisted in pain. Rose immediately burst through the front door.

“Darling, what is it?” she asked, flying across the room, crossing behind the counter and putting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders.

Josephine moaned. “Mom, it’s the baby. The baby’s coming.”

Rose’s eyes widened in panic. “But it is too soon.” Josephine’s due date wasn’t for another month and three days.

Josephine doubled over in pain again. “I don’t think the baby knows that. It’s coming now, Mom.”

Rose felt a familiar sick panic rising inside her. What if something happened to the baby? “I will call your father,” Rose said. “He will come.” Rose knew she needed to get her daughter to the hospital, but she had never learned to drive; there was no need. She lived just a few blocks from the bakery, and she rarely needed to go anywhere else.

“Tell him to hurry,” Josephine said.

Rose nodded, picked up the phone, and dialed Ted. She told him quickly, carefully, what was happening, and he promised he’d leave the school and be there within ten minutes. “Tell her I love her and can’t wait to meet my grandchild,” Ted said before hanging up. Rose did not convey the message, although she wasn’t sure why.

While they waited, Rose pulled one of the bakery chairs over for Josephine to sit in, and she flipped the Closed sign around on the front door. She saw Kay Sullivan and Barbara Koontz pause outside and give her a strange look, but she merely gestured to Josephine, who was breathing hard, her face pink and gleaming, and
they understood. They did not offer to help, though; they merely averted their eyes and hurried away.

“
Chérie,
it is going to be all right,” Rose said, pulling a chair up beside her daughter and putting a hand on her knee. “Your father will be here soon.” She wished she could do more, bring her daughter more comfort. But there had been a gulf between them for years, entirely of Rose’s own making. She hadn’t known how to reach across the coldness of her own heart to reach her daughter.

Josephine nodded, breathing hard. “I’m scared, Mom,” she said.

Rose was scared too. But she could not admit this. “It will all be fine, my dear,” she said. “You are going to have a happy, healthy baby. Everything will be fine.”

And then, Rose said something she knew she would regret, but it had to be said. “My dear Josephine,” she said, “you must tell the baby’s father.”

Josephine’s head shot up, and she looked at her mother with blazing eyes. “It’s none of your business, Mom.”

Rose took a deep breath, imagined the life this baby would have without a father, and couldn’t bear it. “My dear, your child must have a father. Like you did. Think how important your father has been to you.”

Her daughter glared at her. “Absolutely not, Mom. He’s not like Dad. He doesn’t want to be part of this baby’s life.”

Rose’s heart hurt. She put her hand on her daughter’s belly. “You never told him you were pregnant,” she said softly. “Perhaps he would feel differently if he knew.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Josephine said. She paused and doubled over, another contraction racking her slender frame. She straightened up, her face red and pinched. “You don’t even know who he is. He walked away from me.”

Rose’s eyes filled with unexpected tears, and she had to look away. This was her fault, she knew. Despite all the things she had tried so hard to impart to her daughter, the lessons she had tried to remember from her own mother, she had really only succeeded
in imparting coldness, hadn’t she? Her heart had simply ceased to exist on that dark, empty day in 1949 when Ted returned to tell her that Jacob had died. Josephine had been just a little girl then, too young to know she had lost her mother that day.

And now, Rose realized, she had failed in the most important thing of all. She had raised a daughter who was as closed and cold as she was.

“You need someone to watch out for you, to love you, to love the baby,” Rose whispered. “Like your father loved me and you.”

Josephine looked at her mother sharply. “Mom, it’s not the 1940s anymore. I’m perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need anyone.”

There was another contraction then, and suddenly, Ted was rapping on the front door, his shirt rumpled and his tie twisted to the side. Rose stood and crossed the room to let him in. He gave his wife a quick peck and grinned at her. “We’re going to be grandparents!” he said. Then he crossed the room to Josephine, knelt beside her, and whispered, “I’m so proud of you, honey. Let’s get you to the hospital. Just hang on a little longer.”

Josephine’s labor was quick, and although the baby was born a month early, the doctor came out to report that she was healthy, although a bit underweight, and that she’d be ready to meet her grandparents shortly. Rose and Ted watched the minutes tick by in the waiting room, and as Ted paced, Rose closed her eyes and prayed. She prayed that this child born today, on this, her own fiftieth birthday, wouldn’t be as cold as she herself was, or as cold as she had made her own daughter. She prayed that the mistakes she’d made with Josephine would not be passed on to the new baby, who had a blank slate, a new chance at life. She prayed that she’d be able to show the baby she loved her, something she’d never been able to do with her own daughter.

It was another hour before a nurse came to lead them in. Josephine lay in bed, exhausted but smiling, holding her newborn daughter in her arms. Rose’s heart melted as she looked at the tiny
girl, who was sleeping peacefully, one of her tiny hands clenched in a fist beside her cheek.

“Do you want to hold her, Mom?” Josephine asked. Tears in her eyes, Rose nodded. She came to stand beside her daughter, who handed the tiny, sleeping infant over. Rose took the baby in her arms, remembering at once how natural it felt to hold someone so little who was a piece of you, a piece of everything you loved. She felt the impulse to protect this baby surge through her, just as strongly as it had surged through her the first time she held her own baby.

Rose looked down at her granddaughter, seeing both the past and the future. When the child opened her eyes, Rose gasped. For a moment, she could have sworn she saw something wise and ancient in the newborn’s eyes. And then it was gone, and Rose knew she had only imagined it. She rocked the baby gently and knew she was already in love with her. She prayed she was strong enough to do things right this time. “I hope . . .” Rose murmured, her voice trailing off as she stared at the little girl. She didn’t know how to complete the sentence, because she didn’t know what to hope for. There were a million things she wanted for this child, a million things she’d never had herself. She hoped everything for her.

“Honey, have you decided on a name yet?” Ted asked. Rose looked up to see her daughter staring at her strangely. A slow smile spread across Josephine’s face.

“Yes,” Josephine said. “I’m going to call her Hope.”

Chapter
Twenty

B
y Wednesday evening, Annie has called more than a hundred numbers from her list of Levys, and she still hasn’t come up with even a trace of Mamie’s Jacob Levy. I’m feeling more and more like we may be chasing a ghost. I take a dozen of the West Coast names from Annie’s list and call them after she’s gone to bed, but I don’t have any more luck than she’s had. Everyone I reach says they’ve never heard of a Jacob Levy who left France in the 1940s or 1950s. Even an online search of Ellis Island’s passenger records turns up nothing.

Annie comes into the bakery a few minutes before six the next morning, looking solemn, as I’m folding dried cranberries, chunks of white chocolate, and slivers of macadamia nuts into a batch of sugary cookie dough.

“We have to do more,” she announces, flinging her backpack onto the floor, where it lands with a thud that makes me wonder fleetingly about the damage she must be doing to her back by carrying around several heavy textbooks each day.

“About Jacob Levy?” I guess. Before she can respond, I add, “Can you start putting the defrosted pastries out, please? I’m running a little behind.”

She nods and goes to the sink to wash her hands. “Yeah, about Jacob,” she says. She shakes her hands off, dries them on the blue cupcake towel beside the sink, and turns around. “We gotta try to figure out how to find him better.”

I sigh. “Annie, you know there’s a good chance that’s going to be impossible.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re always so negative.”