The Sweetness of Forgetting

by Kristin Harmel

  I sigh. “Annie, honey . . .” I begin.

  “Stop, Mom!” she snaps. “Don’t be negative. You’re always negative! I’m going to find him. And you can’t stop me.”

  I open and close my mouth helplessly. I hope she’s right, but it looks like she has hundreds of numbers in front of her. It’s no wonder; I’m sure Jacob Levy is a very common name.

  “So? Can I use the phone in the back?”

  I pause and nod. “Yeah. As long as they’re all U.S. numbers.”

  Annie grins and skips into the kitchen.

  Alain smiles at me and rises to follow her. “I miss being young and hopeful,” he says. “Don’t you?”

  He disappears into the kitchen behind my daughter, and I’m left standing there, feeling like Ebenezer Scrooge. When had I stopped being young and hopeful? I hadn’t been trying to rain on Annie’s parade; I simply want to help her manage her expectations. Expecting good things leads to getting hurt, I’ve found.

  I sigh and go back to packaging the bakery items in airtight cases for freezing overnight. The baklava I’d made late this morning will last another couple of days, the muffins and cookies will freeze, and I should be able to recycle at least one of the strudels tomorrow morning. Our homemade doughnuts stay fresh for only a day, which is why I usually make only one variety each morning; today’s sugar-cinnamon doughnuts are nearly gone, and the remaining three will likely wind up in my daily pickup basket for the women’s shelter if I don’t have another customer in the next few minutes.

  I can hear Annie in the next room chattering away into the phone, probably asking person after person whether they know a Jacob Levy who came from France after World War II. In between calls, I can hear Alain murmuring to her, and I wonder what he’s saying. Is he telling her stories of Jacob to keep her inspired? Or is he being responsible and reminding her that this might be an impossible task and that she shouldn’t get her hopes up?

  I finish emptying the bakery cases and begin carrying pastries back to the industrial freezer. I set to work washing baking sheets, muffin tins, and miniature pie molds in the back, as Annie talks more loudly to be heard over the running water.

  “Hi, my name is Annie Smith,” I hear her chirp into the phone. “I’m looking for a Jacob Levy who’d be, like, eighty-seven now. He’s French. Is there a Jacob Levy there like that? . . . Oh, okay. Thanks anyhow. Yeah, bye.”

  She hangs up, and Alain murmurs something to her. She giggles, picks up the phone, and repeats the exact same words on the next call.

  By the time I’m ready to leave the bakery and head to the hospital—after serving one last-minute customer, Christina Sivrich from the local theater group, who begged for two and a half dozen cookies she could bring in for a class party for her six-year-old, Ben, tomorrow—Annie has made three dozen calls.

  “You ready?” I ask, drying my hands off on a towel and grabbing my keys off the hook by the kitchen door.

  “Can I make one more call, Mom?” Annie asks.

  I look at my watch and nod. “One more. But then we have to get to the hospital while visiting hours are still going on. Okay?”

  I lean against the counter and listen as Annie repeats her spiel once more. Her face looks pained as she hangs up. “Another dead end,” she murmurs.

  “Annie, you’re only on the third page,” Alain reminds her. “We have many more Jacob Levys to try tomorrow. And then look at all the J. Levys on your list.”

  “I guess,” Annie says. She sighs and hops off the counter, leaving the list sitting beside the phone.

  “Annie, don’t worry,” I say, trying to share in her optimism. “Maybe you’ll find him.”

  From the withering look she gives me, I realize she’s beginning to lose hope. “Whatever,” she says. “Let’s go see Mamie.”

  Alain and I exchange concerned looks and follow her out the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  For the next several days, nothing changes. Mamie doesn’t stir. Gavin comes in every morning for a cup of coffee and a pastry and asks about my grandmother’s condition. Alain tags along with Annie in the morning, helps me out during the day, and huddles with her in the afternoon while she embarks on a series of fruitless phone calls. After we close for the day, the three of us trek the thirty minutes to the hospital in Hyannis to spend ninety minutes at Mamie’s bedside. The one saving grace of the whole routine is that, thankfully, the tourist season is over, so there’s relatively little traffic on Route 6 as we cross to the southwest side of the Cape and back.

  In the hospital room, Alain holds Mamie’s hand and murmurs to her in French, while Annie and I sit in chairs facing her bed. Annie gets up sometimes and scoots in beside Alain, stroking Mamie’s hair while he speaks quietly. I can’t bring myself to participate; I feel strangely empty. The last person I can rely on is slipping away, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  On Sunday, I close early at noon, and Alain requests a ride to the hospital.

  “Do you want to go too?” I ask Annie.

  She shrugs. “Maybe later. But I want to call more Levys from my list today. Can I stay home while you take Uncle Alain?”

  I hesitate. “All right. But don’t answer the door for anyone.”

  “God, Mom, I’m not a kid anymore,” Annie says, reaching for the phone.

  In the car on the way down to Hyannis, Alain tells me about a restaurant he and Mamie used to like in Paris, before the war. He was just a little boy then, and Mamie wasn’t even a teenager yet. The owner would always come over to the table after the meal and make special crepes for the kids, with chocolate and brown sugar and bananas. Mamie and Alain would giggle and point as the owner set the crepes flaming in front of them and then pretended he couldn’t put them out.

  “Those were beautiful days,” Alain says. “It was before one’s religious preferences mattered. Before everything changed.” He pauses and adds, “The night they took my family away, I ran by that restaurant. And the owner, he was outside, watching all the people being marched down the street toward their death. And you know what? He was smiling. Sometimes, that smile still haunts my nightmares.”

  He stares out the window for the rest of the ride.

  At the hospital, I sit with Alain for a little while at Mamie’s bedside as he whispers to her.

  “Do you think she can hear you?” I ask before we leave.

  He smiles. “I do not know,” he says. “But doing something feels better than doing nothing. And I am telling her stories of our family, stories I have not let myself think of in seventy years. If anything will bring her back, I believe this will. I want her to know that the past is not lost, not forgotten, even if she came here and tried to erase it.”

  When I get home an hour later, after dropping Alain at the library at his request, Annie is sitting in the middle of the living room floor with her legs crossed, holding the portable phone to her ear and saying, “Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . Fine.” For a moment, my eyes light up; has she found Jacob Levy? After all, the words on her end aren’t following the typical sorry-I’ve-called-the-wrong-Levys script. But then she turns and I see the look on her face.

  “Yeah, fine,” I hear her say. “Whatever.” She presses the End button on the phone and slams it down on the ground.

  “Honey?” I ask tentatively. I’ve stopped in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and am staring at her in concern. “Was that one of the Levys?”

  “No,” she says.

  “Was it one of your friends?”

  “No,” she says, and this time, her voice is tighter. “It was Dad.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

  She’s silent for a long time as she looks down at the carpet, which I realize I haven’t vacuumed in eons. Housekeeping is not one of my fortes. But when she looks up at me, she looks so angry that I take a step back without meaning to.

  “Why did you get us into this, anyways?” Annie demands. She scrambles to
her feet, her fists clenched beside her long, skinny legs that have yet to develop from those of a child into those of a young woman.

  I blink at her in surprise. “Get us into what?” I ask before it occurs to me that as her mom, I should be telling her that it’s unacceptable to talk to me this way. But she’s already on a roll.

  “Everything!” she screams.

  “Honey, what are you talking about?” I ask carefully.

  “We’re never going to find him! Jacob Levy! It’s impossible! And you don’t even care!”

  My heart sinks a little. I’ve failed her once again by not preparing her better for the likelihood that this is a wild goose chase, that Jacob has already died, or that he’s disappeared because he doesn’t want to be found. I know Annie wants to believe in true love that lasts forever—probably as an antidote to the front-row seat she had to the crumbling of my marriage—but I’d hoped that I wouldn’t have to burst her bubble yet and tell her the truth. When I was twelve, I’d believed in true love too. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized it was all a sham.

  I swallow hard. “Of course I care, Annie,” I begin. “But it’s possible that Jacob isn’t—”

  She cuts me off before I can get the words out of my mouth. “It’s not just that!” she exclaims. She waves her long, skinny arms around some more and hardly seems to notice when her pink watchband snags her hair and gets stuck for a minute. She simply rips it free and winces momentarily before going on. “It’s everything! You ruin everything!”

  I take a deep breath. “Annie, if this is about me going to Paris for a few days, I’ve already told you how much I appreciate you being responsible when I was gone.”

  She rolls her eyes and stomps her left foot on the ground. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about!” she says, shooting me a withering look.

  “Fine, I guess I’m an idiot!” I say. I can finally feel my temper rising. There’s a fine line between feeling sorry for my daughter and feeling annoyed by her behavior, and I can feel myself floating over that line right now. “What is it that I’ve done wrong this time?”

  “It’s everything!” she screams. Her face is turning red, and for a split second, I have a weird, fleeting flashback to holding her in my arms when she was a colicky infant, trying to calm her in the middle of the night so that Rob, who always had an important case that he had to rest up for, could sleep. Why did I let him do that to me? I don’t think I slept more than two hours at a stretch for the first three months, while he always seemed to get at least six hours of sleep. I shake my head and zero back in on my daughter.

  “Everything?” I ask carefully.

  “Everything!” she repeats immediately. “You didn’t care enough about Daddy to make your marriage work! You didn’t love him like Mamie and Jacob loved each other! And now my life is ruined! Because of you!”

  I feel like she’s punched me in the stomach, and for a moment, I can’t catch my breath. I stare at her. “What are you talking about?” I ask once I can find my voice. “Now you’re blaming the divorce on me?”

  “Of course I am!” she shrieks. She puts her hands on her hips and stomps her foot again. “Everyone knows it’s your fault!”

  I’m unprepared once again for how hard her words hit me. “What?”

  “If you had just loved Daddy, he wouldn’t be living on the other side of town now, and he wouldn’t have a dumb girlfriend who hates me!” Annie says. And suddenly, I understand. This isn’t about me and Rob. This is about the way Rob’s new girlfriend is making Annie feel. And despite the fact that Annie is wounding me to the core right now, I’m more hurt for her than I am for myself.

  “What do you mean his girlfriend hates you?” I ask quietly.

  “What do you care?” Annie mumbles, suddenly deflating. Her back arches inward, and she crosses her arms over her chest as she slumps her shoulders. She looks at the ground.

  “I care because I love you,” I say after a moment. “And your father loves you. And whoever this woman is, if she’s acting like she doesn’t like you, she’s obviously completely nuts.”

  “Whatever,” Annie mutters. “Dad doesn’t think she’s nuts. Dad thinks Sunshine’s perfect.”

  I take a deep breath. That sounds just like Rob. He’s like a little kid; he gets entranced for a while by shiny, new things. Cars. Houses. Clothes. Boats. And, once upon a time, me. But I know the truth. I know that his infatuations are always temporary. But Annie is the one thing in his life that’s supposed to be permanent. “I’m sure your dad doesn’t think this woman is perfect,” I say. “He loves you, Annie. If she’s doing something that bothers you, tell your dad about it. He’ll make it right.” I don’t expect much of Rob these days, but at least I expect that.

  But Annie just stares at the ground. “I did tell him,” she says softly. The anger has gone out of her voice now, and her limbs look limp and lifeless. She hangs her head and doesn’t meet my eye.

  “What did he say?” I ask.

  “He said I need to learn to respect my elders better,” Annie says. She takes a deep breath. “And that I need to learn to get along better with Sunshine.”

  My blood boils and I clench my fists. Annie’s not perfect, and I wouldn’t put it past her to be giving her father’s new girlfriend a hard time. But there’s no excuse for Rob taking his girlfriend’s side over his daughter’s, especially when Annie is probably confused by him moving on so quickly.

  “What exactly does Sunshine do to make you think she doesn’t like you?” I ask carefully.

  Annie guffaws, making her sound much older and tougher than she is. “What doesn’t she do?” she asks. She sniffs and looks away. When she speaks again, she just sounds sad. “She doesn’t ever talk to me. She talks to Dad like I’m invisible or something. Sometimes, she laughs at me. She told me my outfit the other day was stupid.”

  “She told you your outfit was stupid?” I repeat, incredulous. “She actually said it was stupid?”

  Annie nods. “Yeah. And when she was gone the other day, and I tried to talk to Dad about it, I thought he understood. I thought he, like, got it. But that night, when I got home after the bakery, I went into the bathroom, and right there on the counter—in my bathroom—was a silver necklace he’d bought for Sunshine and a note he’d written her that said, ‘I’m sorry Annie made you feel bad with the things she said. I’ll take care of it. I don’t want you hurting.’”

  I stare at her. “He told her about the conversation you had with him?” I ask.

  Annie nods. “And then bought her a present,” she says, spitting the last word out like it tastes bad. “A present. To make her feel better. And then what does she go and do? She leaves the present in my bathroom, like it’s some kind of a mistake. But I know what she was doing. She was, like, trying to show me that Dad would always choose her over me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” I murmur. But of course it is. Sunshine sounds like a manipulative shrew. And that’s fine if she wants to manipulate my ex-husband. I’m done looking out for him, and to be honest, he deserves to be the one manipulated and used for once. But I draw the line at a woman who goes out of her way to hurt a twelve-year-old girl. And when that twelve-year-old girl is mine, I see red. “What did your dad say?” I ask Annie. “Did you tell him about finding the necklace?”

  She nods slowly. She looks down. “He said I shouldn’t be looking through Sunshine’s things,” she says. “I tried to tell him she left it sitting out in my bathroom, but he didn’t believe me. He thought I was, like, going through her purse or something.”

  “I see,” I say tightly. I take a deep breath. “Okay. Well, first of all, honey, your father has obviously lost his mind. There’s no reason in the world to put anyone ahead of your child. And particularly not a bitch named Sunshine.”

  Annie looks shocked. “You just called her a bitch?”

  “I just called her a bitch,” I confirm. “Because she obviously is one. And I will have a talk with your father ab
out this. I know this is hard for you to understand, but this isn’t about you. This is about your father being insecure and foolish. Six months from now, I guarantee you, Sunshine isn’t going to be in the picture anymore. Your dad’s interests are fleeting, trust me. But in the meantime, there’s no excuse for him treating you this way, or letting some bimbo treat you this way. And I’m going to take care of it. Okay?”

  Annie stares at me, as if she’s not sure whether to believe me or not. “Okay,” she says finally. “You’re really going to talk to him?”

  “Yes,” I say. “But what’s with blaming everything on me, Annie? That’s got to stop. I know you’re upset. But I’m not your punching bag.”

  “I know,” she mutters.

  “And the divorce wasn’t my fault,” I say. “Your dad and I just fell out of love. It was pretty equal. Okay?” Actually, it didn’t feel equal at all. It felt like I’d been used as a doormat for a decade, and I’d finally realized it and decided to stand up for myself. And it turned out that the person walking all over me hadn’t particularly liked it when his doormat developed some self-respect. But Annie doesn’t need to know all that. I want her to keep loving her father, even if I don’t anymore.

  “That’s not what Dad says,” Annie mutters, looking down. “Dad and Sunshine.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “And what is it that Dad and Sunshine say?”

  “Just that you changed,” she says. “And that you weren’t the same person anymore. And that when you changed, you stopped loving Dad.”

  Of course her father’s right in a way; I did change. But that still doesn’t mean the divorce is my fault. But I don’t say any of this to Annie. Instead, I just say, “Yeah, well, believing a couple of idiots is pretty idiotic, don’t you think?”

  She laughs. “Yeah.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll talk to your dad. I’m sorry that he and his girlfriend are hurting you. And I’m sorry you’re upset about Mamie right now. But Annie, none of those things give you the right to say hateful things to me.”