The Sweetness of Forgetting (53)

I blink and nod; 1:25 p.m. tomorrow feels like an eternity from now. “Thank you,” I say. “How much do I owe you?” I know I shouldn’t be thinking about money now, but I’m aware that the cost will be much more than the thousand-dollar check Mamie gave me. I have no idea how I’ll pay for this.

Alain looks confused. “Do not be crazy,” he says. “This is not a time to talk about such things. We must get to Boston quickly to see Rose.”

I nod. I’ll insist later. I don’t have the energy right now. “Thank you,” I say softly.

I ask Alain whether I can use his phone once more, and he watches me carefully as I speak first to Rob’s assistant and then, after I persuade her to put me through, to Rob, my voice taut with tension.

“Jesus, Hope, I’ll get there as soon as I can,” Rob says. “I’m in the middle of an important hearing. It’s not like Annie’s life is in danger or something.”

“Your daughter is at the hospital, alone and scared,” I say through gritted teeth. “That doesn’t matter to you?”

“I said I’ll get there as soon as I can,” he repeats.

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” I retort. “And it sounded just as selfish then.”

As I place the receiver down, I realize I’m shaking. Alain crosses the room and hugs me. I hesitate for a moment, then hug back.

“You are not married to the father of Annie?” Alain asks after a moment, and I realize that for all the talking we’ve done about Mamie, I’ve barely told him anything about myself.

“No,” I say. “Not anymore.”

“I am sorry,” Alain says.

I shrug. “Don’t be,” I say. “It’s for the best.” I’m trying to sound more lighthearted and casual about it than I feel. But I can tell, from the look on Alain’s face, that he sees right through my nonchalance. I’m grateful that he doesn’t ask anything else.

“You are welcome to stay here tonight if you wish,” Alain says. “But I think you have things at your hotel that you need to retrieve.”

“Yeah, I have to pack,” I say numbly. “And check out.”

“I will not sleep tonight,” Alain says. “There are too many things in my mind. So please return when you would like in the morning. There is no time too early. We will have breakfast together before we leave for the airport.”

I nod. “Thank you,” I murmur.

“Thank you,” Alain says. He squeezes my hands and kisses me on both cheeks. “You have given me my family back.”



I can’t sleep that night either, although I try. I feel ashamed to be crawling under the covers while my daughter is alone and scared thousands of miles away. I try Annie twice more, but she doesn’t answer; her phone goes straight to voice mail, and I wonder whether the battery has run out. Around four in the morning Paris time, I reach Gavin on his cell, and he tells me that he left when Rob got to the hospital around seven in the evening. As far as he knows, there’s been no change in Mamie’s condition since then.

“Try to get some rest, Hope,” Gavin says softly. “You’re coming home as soon as you can. And you’re not helping anyone by lying there awake right now.”

I mumble a thank-you and hang up. The next thing I know, I’m staring at a clock that tells me it’s five forty-five in the morning. I don’t remember falling asleep.

I’m at Alain’s by seven, after showering, shoving the remainder of my things into my duffel bag, checking out, and hailing a cab outside the hotel.

Alain is already dressed for our trip, in slacks and a button-down shirt with a navy tie, when he greets me at his door. He kisses me on both cheeks and embraces me. “You did not sleep much either, I see,” he says.

“Barely.”

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside. “My friend Simon is here. He knew our family before the war. And my friend Henri. He is a survivor too. They want to meet you.”

My heart is in my throat as I follow Alain into his apartment. In the sitting room, two men are sipping tiny cups of espresso by the window, while sunlight streams in, lighting their matching snow-white heads of hair. Both stand and smile at me as I enter, and I note that they look even older than Alain and are both significantly stooped.

The one closest to me speaks first. His green eyes are watery. “Alain is right. You look just like Rose,” he whispers.

“Simon,” Alain says, stepping into the room behind me. “This is my niece. Hope McKenna-Smith. Hope, this is my friend Simon Ramo. He knew your grandmother.”

“You look just like her,” he says. He takes a few steps forward to meet me in the middle of the room. As he leans forward to kiss me on both cheeks, I notice two things: that he is trembling, and that he has a number tattooed on the inside of his left forearm.

He sees me staring at it. “Auschwitz,” he says simply. I nod and look quickly away, embarrassed.

“For me, the same,” says the other man. He holds up his left arm, and I see a similar tattoo, the letter B followed by five digits. He steps forward to kiss me on both cheeks too and backs away smiling. “I never knew your grandmother,” he says. “But she must have been very beautiful, for you are very beautiful, young lady.”