The Sweetness of Forgetting (18)

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.