The Sweetness of Forgetting (9 page)

I
need to talk to you.”

It’s a week and a half later, and I’m standing on Rob’s doorstep—my old doorstep—my arms crossed over my chest. I look at my ex-husband now, and all I see is hurt and betrayal; it’s as if the person I fell in love with has disappeared entirely.

“You could have called, Hope,” he says. He doesn’t invite me in; he stands in the doorway, a guard at the door to a life left behind.

“I
did
call,” I say firmly. “Twice to the house, and twice to your office. You haven’t called me back.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been busy. I would have gotten back to you eventually.” He shifts his weight to his left side, and for a moment, I have the distinct feeling he looks sad. Then, all the emotion is gone from his face and he says, “What is it you need?”

I take a deep breath. I hate arguing with Rob; I always have. He once told me that it was a good thing he was the one who became a lawyer, while I dropped out to raise the baby.
You don’t know how to fight,
he’d said.
You have to have that killer instinct if you’re going to make it in the courtroom.
“We need to talk about Annie,” I say.

“What about her?” he asks.

“Well, for one thing, we need to be in agreement about the ground rules. She’s twelve. She shouldn’t be wearing makeup to school. She’s a kid.”

“Christ, Hope, is that what this is about?” He laughs, and I’d be insulted if I didn’t know this is just part of the strategy he employs regularly against opposing attorneys and witnesses for the other side. “She’s almost a teenager, for God’s sake. You can’t keep her a little girl forever.”

“I’m not trying to,” I tell him. I take a deep breath and struggle to stay collected. “But I’m trying to set some boundaries. And when I set them, and you undermine them, she doesn’t learn a thing. And she winds up hating me.”

Rob smiles, and perhaps I’d feel patronized if I hadn’t spent endless nights during our marriage watching him practice his strategic smirk in the mirror. “So
that’s
what this is about,” he says. Ah yes, Rob Smith Argument Tactic Number Two: Pretend that you know exactly what the other person is thinking—and that you’re already way ahead of her.

“No, Rob.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes for a second.
Relax, Hope. Don’t get sucked into this.
“This is about our daughter growing up to be a decent young woman.”

“A decent young woman who doesn’t hate you,” he amends. “Maybe you should just give her some space to be herself, Hope. That’s what I’m doing.”

I glare at him. “No, it’s not,” I say. “You’re trying to be the cool parent so I’m stuck being the disciplinarian. That’s not fair.”

He shrugs. “So you say.”

“Furthermore,” I continue as if I haven’t heard him, “it’s totally inappropriate for you to be saying bad things about me to Annie.”

“What have I said?” he asks, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

“Well, for one thing, you’ve apparently told her that I was
never capable of telling you I loved you.” I feel my throat close up a little, and I take a deep breath.

Rob just looks at me. “You can’t be serious.”

“That’s a stupid thing to say to her. I told you I loved you.”

“Yeah, Hope, what, once a year?”

I look away, not wanting to have this conversation again. “What are you, an insecure teenage girl?” I mumble. “Did you want me to get you a BFF necklace too?”

He doesn’t look amused. “I just don’t want our daughter blaming
me
for our divorce.”

“So the divorce had
nothing
to do with the affair you had with the girl from the Macy’s in Hyannis?”

Rob shrugs. “If I’d felt emotionally fulfilled at home . . .”

“Ah, so you were seeking
emotional
fulfillment when you began sleeping with a twenty-two-year-old,” I say. I take a deep breath. “You know, I’ve never felt that it’s appropriate to tell Annie about your affair. That’s between you and me. She doesn’t know that you cheated, because I don’t think she should have to see her father in that light.”

“What makes you think she doesn’t know?” he asks, and for a moment, I’m stunned into silence.

“You’re saying she knows?”

“I’m saying that I try to be honest with her. I’m her dad, Hope. That’s my job.”

I stop for a minute and process what he’s saying to me. I’d thought I was protecting her—and her relationship with her father—by not dragging her into it.

“What did you say to her?” I ask.

He shrugs. “She’s asked about the divorce. I’ve answered her questions.”

“By blaming it on me.”

“By explaining that not everything is as simple as it appears on the surface.”

“Meaning what? That I drove you to cheat?”

He shrugs again. “Your words, not mine.”

I clench my fists. “This is between you and me, Rob,” I say, my voice shaking. “Don’t drag Annie into it.”

“Hope,” he says, “I’m just trying to do what’s best for Annie. I have some real concerns that she’s going to turn out like you and your mother.”

The words physically hurt. “Rob . . .” I begin. But no other words come.

He shrugs after a moment. “We’ve had this conversation a thousand times. You know how I feel. I know how you feel. That’s why we’re divorced, remember?”

I don’t acknowledge his words. What I want to say is that the reason we’re divorced is he got bored. He got insecure. He got emotionally needy. He got flirted with by a stupid twenty-two-year-old with legs up to her neck.

But I know there’s a grain of truth to what he’s saying. The more I felt him slipping away, the more I retreated into myself instead of hanging on. I swallow back the guilt.

“No makeup,” I say firmly. “Not at school. It’s inappropriate. And so is sharing the details of our divorce with her. That’s too much for a twelve-year-old.”

Rob opens his mouth to reply, but I hold up my hand. “I’m done here, Rob,” I say, and this time, I really am. We look at each other in silence for a minute, and I wonder whether he’s thinking, as I am, about how we don’t even know each other anymore. It seems a lifetime ago that I promised him forever. “This isn’t about me and you,” I say. “It’s about Annie.”

I walk away before he can reply.

I’m driving home when my cell phone rings. I look at the caller ID and see Annie’s cell number, the one she’s supposed to use only in emergencies, even though I’m fairly sure Rob lets her text and call her friends with abandon. That is, after all, what cool parents do. Something in my stomach tightens.

“Why aren’t you at work?” Annie asks when I pick up. “I called you there first.”

“I had to go”—I search for an explanation that doesn’t involve her father—“run some errands.”

“At four on a Thursday?” she asks. The truth is, the bakery had been slow all day, and I hadn’t had a customer since one o’clock, which left me plenty of time to think about Rob, Annie, and all the damage that was being done while I stood idly by, baking my way into oblivion. I knew Annie was planning to see Mamie after school, which meant I’d get Rob alone.

“Business was slow,” is all I tell her.

“Well, anyways,” she says, and I realize she’s calling because she wants something. I steel myself for an absurd request—money, concert tickets, maybe the new four-inch heels I saw her gazing at in my copy of
InStyle
last night—but instead, she sounds almost shy as she asks, “Can you, like, come over to Mamie’s?”

“Is everything okay?” I ask instantly.

“Yeah,” she says. She lowers her voice. “Actually, it’s really weird, but Mamie is acting normal today.”

“Normal?”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Like she did before Grandma died. She’s acting like she didn’t lose her memory.”

My heart lurches a little, as I remember what the nurse told me when I was last there, on my way out.
There will be times she’s as clear as day. She’ll remember everything, and she’s just as lucid as you or me. Those are the days you’ll have to seize, because there’s no guarantee there will be more of them.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Totally,” Annie says, and I don’t hear any of the sarcasm or anger I’ve been hearing in her voice lately. I wonder suddenly whether part of her attitude problem is that she’s hurt that her great-grandmother is forgetting her. I make a mental note to have a real talk with her about Alzheimer’s. Then again, that means I’ll have to face it myself.

“She’s been, like, asking me about school and stuff,” Annie continues. “It’s weird, but she knows exactly who I am and how old I am and everything.”

“Okay,” I say, already checking my rearview mirror to make sure it’s safe to do a U-turn. “I’m on my way.”

“She says she wants you to bring one of the miniature Star Pies from the bakery,” Annie adds.

Those have always been Mamie’s favorites; filled with a blend of poppy seeds, almonds, grapes, figs, prunes, and cinnamon sugar and topped with a buttery star-shaped lattice crust, they’re our signature item. “Okay,” I tell her, “I’ll be there as fast as I can.” And for the first time in a while, I feel a sliver of hope. I didn’t realize, until that moment, how very much I missed my grandmother.

“I would like to go to the beach,” is the first thing Mamie says to me when she answers her door fifteen minutes later.

For a moment, my heart sinks. It’s late September, and there’s a chill in the air. The memory cloud must be back, for it makes no sense for my eighty-six-year-old grandmother to suddenly want to go out and sunbathe. But then she smiles at me and pulls me into a hug. “I am sorry,” she says. “Where are my manners? It is nice to see you, Hope, dear.”

“You know who I am?” I ask hesitantly.

“Well, of course I do,” she says, looking insulted. “Do not tell me you think I am old and senile?”

“Er . . .” I stall for time. “Of course not, Mamie.”

She smiles. “Do not worry. I am not a fool. I know I am forgetful at times.” She pauses. “You brought me the Star Pie?” she asks, glancing at the white bakery bag in my hand. I nod and hand it to her. “Thank you, dear,” she says.

“Sure,” I say slowly.

She tilts her head to the side. “Today, Hope, everything feels clear. Annie and I have just been having a lovely talk.”

I glance at Annie, who’s perched on the edge of Mamie’s sofa, looking nervous. She nods in agreement.

“But now you want to go to the beach?” I ask Mamie hesitantly. “It’s, um, a little chilly for a swim.”

“I am not planning on a swim, of course,” she says. “I want to see the sunset.”

I look at my watch. “The sun doesn’t go down for almost two hours.”

“Then we will have plenty of time to get there,” she says.

Thirty minutes later, after Annie and I help Mamie to bundle up in a jacket, the three of us are headed for the beach at Paines Creek, which was my favorite place to watch the sun sink into the horizon when I was in high school. It’s a quiet beach on the western edge of Brewster, and if you walk carefully out on the rocks jutting out where the creek empties into Cape Cod Bay, you have a great view of the western sky.

We stop on the way, at Annie’s suggestion, to get lobster rolls and french fries at Joe’s Dockside, a tiny restaurant that’s been on the Cape even longer than our family bakery. People drive from miles away and wait in forty-five-minute lines during the summer for takeout lobster rolls, but fortunately, at five o’clock on a Thursday during the off-season, we’re the only ones here. Annie and I listen in disbelief as Mamie, who orders a grilled cheese—she has never liked lobster—tells us a completely lucid story about the first time she and my grandfather took my mother here, when my mother was a little girl, and Josephine asked why lobsters would be silly enough to swim up to Joe’s if they knew they might be made into sandwiches.

We get to the beach just as the edges of the sky are beginning to burn. The sun hangs low on the western horizon above the bay, and the wispy clouds in the sky promise a beautiful sunset. Arms linked, the three of us make our way slowly down the beach, Annie on Mamie’s left side, and me on her right with a folding chair tucked under my arm.

“You okay, Mamie?” Annie asks gently, once we’re about halfway down the beach. “We can stop and rest for a bit, if you want.”