The Sweetness of Forgetting (11)

“She’s fine,” Hope replied, but Rose noticed that the line of Hope’s mouth was set a bit unnaturally. “She’s been spending a lot of time with her dad lately. They spent the whole summer going to Cape League games.”

Rose searched her memory. “What sort of league?”

“Baseball. Summer league. Like the games Grandpa used to take me to when I was a kid.”

“Well, that sounds nice, dear,” Rose said. “Do you go with them?”

“No, Mamie,” Hope said gently. “Annie’s father and I are divorced.”

“Of course,” Rose murmured. She studied Hope’s face when the girl looked down, and she could see in her features the same kind of sadness she saw every time she looked at herself in the mirror. What was she so sad about? “Do you still love him?” she ventured.

Hope looked up sharply, and Rose felt terrible when she realized that it probably was the wrong thing to have asked. She forgot, sometimes, what was polite and what was not.

“No,” Hope murmured finally. She didn’t meet Rose’s eye as she added, “I don’t think I ever did. That’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it? I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Rose felt a lump in her throat. So then, the burden had been passed to Hope too. She knew that now. Her own closed heart had repercussions that she had never imagined. She was responsible for all of it. But how could she tell Hope that love did exist, that it had the power to change everything? She couldn’t. So instead, she cleared her throat and tried to focus on the present.

“There is nothing wrong with you, dear,” she told her granddaughter.

Hope glanced at her grandmother and looked away. “But what if there is?” she asked softly.

“You must not blame yourself,” Rose said. “Some things are simply not meant to be.” Something lurked at the edges of her memory again. She couldn’t remember the name of Hope’s husband, but she knew she had never liked him much. Had he been unkind to Hope? Or was it just because he always seemed a little too cold, a little too together? “He has been a good father to Annie, has he not?” she added, because she felt she needed to say something good.

“Sure,” Hope said tightly. “He’s a great father. Buys her anything she wants.”

“But that is not love,” Rose said tentatively. “Those are just things.”

“Right, well,” Hope said. She looked suddenly exhausted. Her hair tumbled in front of her face like a sheet, obscuring her expression. In that moment, Rose was sure she saw tears in her granddaughter’s eyes, but when Hope looked up again, her achingly familiar eyes were clear.

“Have you gone out with other men, then?” Rose asked after a moment. “After the divorce?” She thought of her own situation, and the way that sometimes you had to move on, even if you’d already given your heart away.

“Of course not.” Hope hung her head and avoided Rose’s gaze. “I don’t want to be like my mother,” she mumbled. “Annie comes first. Not random guys.”

And then, Rose understood. In a flash, she remembered bits and pieces of her granddaughter’s childhood. She remembered how Josephine had searched endlessly for love in all the wrong places, with all the wrong men, when love was right there, in Hope’s eyes, all along. She remembered countless nights when Josephine left her daughter with Rose so that she could go out. Hope, who was just a little girl then, would cry herself to sleep while Rose held her tight. Rose remembered the tearstains in her blouses, and the way they always made her feel empty and alone long after Hope had fallen asleep. “You are not your mother, my dear,” Rose said gently. Her heart ached, for this—all of this—was her own fault. Who could have known that her decisions would reverberate for generations?

Hope cleared her throat, looked away, and changed the subject. “So you’re sure you don’t know a Leona?” she asked.

Rose blinked a few times as the name pierced another hole in her heart. She pressed her lips together and shook her head. Maybe the lie wasn’t as wrong if it wasn’t uttered aloud.

“Weird,” Hope murmured. “Annie was so sure you’d called her that.”

“How unusual.” Rose wished she could give the girl the answers she sought, but she wasn’t ready, for to speak the truth would be to open a floodgate. She could feel the water surging up behind the dam, and she knew it would spill over soon. For now, the rivers, the tides, the floodwaters were still hers, and she sailed them alone.

Hope looked for a moment like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she stood and hugged Rose tightly, promising to return soon. She left without looking back. Rose watched her go, noting that darkness hadn’t entirely fallen yet; Hope hadn’t even stayed for the entire heure bleue. This made Rose sad, although she did not blame the girl. Rose knew that this, like so many other things, was her own fault.

Some time later, after all the stars were out, Rose’s favorite nurse, a woman whose skin shone like the pain au chocolat Rose used to bring home for her brother David and her sister Danielle so long ago, came to make sure she’d taken her evening doses of medicine.

“Hi, Rose,” she said, smiling into her eyes as she poured a small glass of water and opened Rose’s pillbox. “Did you have a visitor tonight?”