The Sweetness of Forgetting (10)

“Josephine, dear, look for the star on the horizon,” she said. She pointed to the empty space where she knew the evening star would make its appearance, any second now. She hoped she had guessed right. She hadn’t seen Josephine in a long time. Or maybe she had. It was impossible to know.

The girl with the sad eyes cleared her throat. “No, Mamie, I’m Hope,” she said. “Josephine isn’t here.”

“Yes, of course, I know that,” Rose said quickly. “I must have misspoken.” She couldn’t let them know, any of them, that she was losing her memory. It was shameful, wasn’t it? It was as if she didn’t care enough to hold on, and that embarrassed her, because nothing could be further from the truth. Perhaps if she pretended a little longer, the clouds would go away, and her memories would return from wherever they’d been hiding.

“It’s okay, Mamie,” said the girl, who looked far too old to be Hope, her only granddaughter, who couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen. Yet Rose could see the lines of worry etched around this girl’s eyes, far too many lines for a girl that age. She wondered what was weighing on her. Maybe Hope’s mother would know what was wrong. Maybe then, Rose would be able to help her. She wanted to help Hope. She just didn’t know how.

“Where is your mother?” Rose asked Hope politely. “Is she coming, dear?”

Rose had so many things she wanted to say to Josephine, so many apologies to make. And she feared time was running out. Where would she begin? Would she apologize first for her many failures? For her coldness? For teaching her all the wrong lessons without meaning to? Rose knew she’d had many opportunities to say she was sorry in the past, but the words always caught in her throat. Perhaps it was time to force herself to say them, to make Josephine hear her before it was too late.

“Mamie?” Hope said tentatively. Rose smiled at her gently. She knew Hope would grow up one day to be a strong, kind person. Josephine was that type of woman too, but her character was cloaked in so many layers of defenses, spawned by Rose’s mistakes, that it was hard to tell.

“Yes, dear?” Rose asked, for Hope had stopped speaking. Rose suddenly had an inkling of a feeling that she knew exactly what Hope was about to say. She wished she could stop her before the words did their damage. But it was too late. It was always too late.

“My mom—Josephine—died,” Hope said gently. “Two years ago, Mamie. Don’t you remember?”

“My daughter?” Rose asked, sadness crashing over her like a wave. “My Josephine?” The truth came rolling in with the tide, and for a moment, Rose couldn’t catch her breath. She wondered at the tricks of the mind that washed away the unhappy memories, carrying them out to sea.

But some memories, Rose knew, couldn’t be erased, even when one has spent a lifetime trying to pretend they are not there.

“I’m sorry, Mamie,” Hope said. “Did you forget?”

“No, no,” Rose said quickly. “Of course not.” Hope looked away and Rose stared at her. The girl reminded her for an instant of something, or someone, but before she could grasp the thought, it fluttered away, just out of reach, like a butterfly. “How could I forget such a thing?” Rose added softly.

They sat in silence for a while, staring out the window. The evening star was out now, and soon after, Rose could see the stars of the Big Dipper, which her father had once told her was the saucepan of God. As her father had once taught her to do, Rose followed the line of the star called Merak to the star called Dubhe and found Polaris, the North Star, who was just beginning to open his sleepy eye for her in the endless sky. She knew the names of so many stars, and the ones she didn’t she had named herself, after people she had lost long ago.

How strange, she thought, that she couldn’t hold on to the simplest of facts, but the celestial names were written on her memory forever. She’d studied them secretly over so many years, hoping that one day they might provide a pathway home. But she was still here on earth, wasn’t she? And the stars were just as far away as ever.

“Mamie?” Hope asked after a while, breaking the silence.

Rose turned to her and smiled at the word. She remembered her own mamie fondly, a woman who had always seemed so glamorous to her, a woman whose trademarks were red lipstick, high cheekbones, and a smart, dark bob that had gone out of style in the 1920s. But then she remembered what had happened to her own mamie, and the smile faded. She blinked a few times and returned to the present. “Yes, dear?” Rose asked.

“Who is Leona?”

The words stole Rose’s breath for a moment, for it was a name she hadn’t spoken in nearly seventy years. Why would she? She did not believe in resurrecting ghosts.

“No one,” Rose finally replied. But that was, of course, a lie. Leona was someone. They all were. By denying them once again, she knew she was weaving the tapestry of deceit a little tighter. She wondered whether one day it would be tight enough to suffocate her.

“But Annie says you’ve been calling her Leona,” Hope persisted.

“No, she is wrong,” Rose told her instantly. “There is no Leona.”

“But—”

“How is Annie?” Rose asked, changing the subject. Annie, she could remember clearly. Annie was the third generation of American in her family. First Josephine. Then Hope. Now the little one, Annie, the dawn to Rose’s twilight. Rose was proud of very few things in her life. But this, this she was proud of.