The Sweetness of Forgetting (33)

“What’s weird?”

“That you don’t have a boyfriend or anything.”

“I don’t think it’s weird, Annie,” I say. “Not everyone has to be in a couple.” I don’t want Annie growing up to be one of those girls who feels incomplete without a relationship. It hasn’t occurred to me before this moment that those kinds of thoughts might be swirling in her head.

“Dad’s in a couple,” she mumbles. Again, she’s staring straight into the sink, and I’m not sure what hurts me more initially—the sudden realization that Rob has moved on from me so quickly, or the fact that it’s clearly bothering Annie. Either way, I feel like someone has punched me in the gut.

“Is he?” I ask as evenly as possible. “And what do you think about that?”

“It’s fine.”

I don’t say anything, waiting for her to go on.

She breaks the silence again. “She’s around all the time, you know. His girlfriend. Or whatever.”

“You haven’t mentioned her before.”

Annie shrugs and mumbles, “I thought it would make you feel bad.”

I blink a few times. “You don’t have to worry about that, Annie. You can tell me anything.”

She nods, and I can see her looking at me sideways. I pretend to be absorbed in the dishwashing. “So what’s her name?” I ask casually.

“Sunshine,” she mumbles.

“Sunshine?” I stop what I’m doing and stare at her. “Your dad’s dating a woman named Sunshine?”

Annie cracks a smile for the first time. “It’s a pretty dumb name,” she agrees.

I snort and go back to washing off a baking tray. “So, do you like her?” I ask carefully after a pause.

Annie shrugs. She turns off her faucet, grabs a towel, and begins drying a stainless steel mixing bowl. “I guess,” she says.

“Is she nice to you?” I try again, because I feel like I’m missing something here.

“I guess,” she repeats. “Anyways. I’m glad you’re not dating anyone, Mom.”

I nod and make an attempt at humor. “Yeah, well, available men aren’t exactly beating down the door.”

Annie looks confused, like she hasn’t gotten the self-deprecating jab. “Anyways,” she says. “It’s better when we’re a family. Without strangers.”

I resist the urge to agree, which would be the selfish thing to do. But I’m supposed to do the right thing, aren’t I? And the right thing here is to help her to understand that eventually, her father and I have to move on. “We can still be a family, Annie,” I say. “Your dad having a girlfriend doesn’t change how he feels about you.”

Annie narrows her eyes at me. “Whatever.”

“Sweetheart, your father and I both love you very much,” I say. “That’ll never change.”

“Whatever,” she repeats. She places the mixing bowl in the drying rack. “Can I go now? I have a lot of homework.”

I nod slowly and watch as she takes off her apron and hangs it carefully on the hook near the larger refrigerator. “Sweetie?” I venture. “Are you okay?”

She nods. She grabs her backpack and crosses the room to give me a quick, unexpected peck on the cheek. “Love you, Mom,” she says.

“I love you too, honey. You’re sure you’re fine?”

“Yes, Mom.” Her annoyed tone has returned, and she rolls her eyes.

She’s gone before I can say anything more.



I go to see Mamie that night, after I’ve closed the bakery. On the drive over, my insides are swimming with a mixture of trepidation, sadness, and dread that I can’t quite understand. In the space of a year, I’ve become the divorced owner of a failing bakery, whose daughter hates her. Now I might be Jewish too. It’s like I don’t know who I am anymore.

My grandmother is sitting at her window, gazing out to the east, when I let myself in.

“Oh dear!” she says, turning around. “I did not hear you knock!”

“Hi, Mamie,” I say. I cross the room, kiss her on the cheek, and sit down beside her. “Do you know who I am?” I ask hesitantly, because this conversation will ride on how lucid she is.

She blinks. “Of course, dear,” she says. “You are my granddaughter. Hope.”

I sigh in relief. “That’s right.”

“That is a silly question,” she says.

I sigh. “You’re right. Silly question.”

“So how are you, my dear?” she asks.

“I’m okay, thanks,” I say. I pause, struggling with how to bring up the things I need to know. “I was just thinking about what you told me the other night, and I had some questions.”

“The other night?” Mamie asks. She tilts her head to the side and stares at me.

“About your family,” I say gently.

Something flickers in her eyes, and her gnarled fingers are suddenly in motion, kneading the tasseled ends of her scarf.

“At the beach the other night,” I continue.

She stares at me. “We did not go to the beach. It is autumn.”

I take a deep breath. “You asked Annie and me to take you. You told us some things.”