Forgive Me

“Good-bye, Prince Charming,” said Thola. She slipped into the warm evening, shutting the door behind her.

In Woods Hole, Massachusetts, Nadine closed her eyes and saw her friend Thola. Perhaps she was alive and well, married to George at last. It was possible.

Seven

Another gloomy day dwindled into brittle night. Nadine watched scientists exit the Marine Biological Laboratory from her hotel window, willing herself to get out of her pajamas, wrap herself into a parka, and walk down Water Street to get the paper. Her father and Gwen had decided it would be best for her mental health to avoid the news. Gwen had taken away her television while she slept, replacing it with a ceramic whale.

“Sweetheart?” said Gwen, rapping on the door.

“I’m asleep,” said Nadine.

The door nudged open anyway. “Nadine,” said Gwen, “I wanted to see if you’d join us tonight for the Christmas tree lighting at the library.”

Nadine sat up.

“You’re not asleep,” said Gwen accusingly.

“I’m in my nightgown,” said Nadine, pointing to Garfield’s smiling mouth.

“And it suits you,” said Gwen. She nodded, and the holiday bells on her headband jingled.

“Thanks for inviting me,” said Nadine. “I appreciate it. But I’m a little tired.” She did not add, I’m a little tired of you trying to make a daughter out of me.

Gwen pursed her lips and blew air from her nose.

“Gwen, I’m sorry,” said Nadine. “I guess I’m just not a holiday person. I’d like to be alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Its not fair,” said Gwen. “She took Christmas right away from you both.”

“What?” said Nadine sharply.

“Of course she couldn’t help it,” said Gwen. “But dying the week before Christmas… I cried when Jim told me about your mother.”

Nadine bit her tongue.

“And I’ve been wanting to be a mother to you ever since,” continued Gwen. “I never had a baby of my own, but God sent me you, Nadine.”

“Please stop,” said Nadine.

“She was beautiful,” said Gwen. “I’ve seen the pictures of your mom. That long dark hair, just like yours. And she was smart, all those books.”

“I said please stop,” said Nadine, raising her voice. She avoided meeting Gwen’s eyes, staring out the window instead. It was snowing, fat wet drops. Nadine had not seen snowflakes in a long time.

“This isn’t the way I had planned–”

“I’m sorry you had a whole scene laid out for yourself,” said Nadine, turning back to Gwen. She tried, and failed, to keep the bitterness from her voice. “A big hug and a brand-new daughter to love. I suppose you wanted me to be in the wedding, right? Maybe wanted to get married on Christmas, make up for my mother’s death?”

“Nadine.”

“I’m sorry,” said Nadine, stopping her tirade with effort. “I just… I don’t think you have any right–”

“I thought we could go to the tree lighting,” said Gwen. “I thought, maybe, eggnog…” Her voice trailed off.

“Everyone has a fantasy,” said Nadine. “Sorry, Gwen. No offense. Mine doesn’t include a new mother. Or eggnog, for that matter.”

“We could sit by the fire–”

“Gwen–”

“Nadine,” said Gwen. “I’m reaching out. Honey, I’m here.”

Nadine was overwhelmed with fury and unhappiness. “You know what,” she said, “I’ve got to go.” She pulled her father’s overcoat off the floor, awkwardly draped it over her nightgown. She tugged on jeans and took her prescription bottles from the bedside table. With her good hand, she stuffed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder. Gwen watched silently. Then, with little aplomb, Nadine walked out the door.

“Oh, honey,” said Gwen, but Nadine was down the stairs already, feeling stronger with each step.

Under a full-moon sky, Nadine walked toward Surf Drive. The wind was painful on her face and her wrist ached. Cold burrowed inside her coat, chilling Nadine to the bone. After about fifteen minutes, she saw the familiar outline of her childhood home.

The house had been built for a whaling captain, and had a turret with dizzying views of the sea. Jim and Ann had bought it in complete disrepair as newlyweds, spent every weekend working on the foundation, the floors, the nursery.

Ann died when Nadine was six, but Jim and Nadine stayed put. The house was miserably quiet without Ann’s noisy cooking, the records of Broadway shows she’d played day and night. Ann had filled the freezer with home-cooked dinners when she still felt well, but they eventually ran out. On the night they ate the last dinner, a turkey potpie, Jim finished his meal and then stood. “Going to have to work late from now on,” he said, his eyes red and his voice unsteady.

“Can we play Chutes and Ladders?” Nadine asked.

“Hannahs going to stay and have dinner with you,” said Jim. “She’ll put you to bed, et cetera.” Hannah was the first nanny, a young Irish woman who gazed at Nadine and said “You poor wee one” all the time.

“Daddy,” said Nadine, “can we play Chutes and Ladders?” “One round,” said Jim, “then it’s the bathtub for you.” Jim and Nadine rarely ate together on weeknights after that potpie. Hannah was followed by Hillary, Clare, and then Laura. Sometimes Nadine heard her father come home after she had gone to bed. He would open a can of beer–Nadine could hear the pop of the tab–and sit in front of the television. Many mornings, Nadine found him asleep in his easy chair, still dressed. She would climb into his lap, and he would let himself hold her. She rested her head on his shoulder and made her hair spread across his face. He breathed deeply, and Nadine knew that he still loved her, though when he woke, he pushed her away, saying, “Off me now, monkey.”

Nadine loved Sunday, when Jim brought her to dinner at The Captain Kidd. They walked into town and ate scallops by the fireplace or at a table overlooking Eel Pond. The walks from their house to town were Nadine’s favorite times. Jim would ask her about her homework, offer suggestions. All week, she thought of funny stories to tell him. And when the sidewalk narrowed, he took her hand.

Nadine stood in front of the house for a moment, then drew a breath and walked across the lawn, her boots making footprints in the snow. She treaded gingerly up the front steps, felt the icy doorknob. She tried the handle: the house was locked. Now that Jim had found Gwen, 310 Surf Drive was empty. Gwen had tried to convince Jim to sell it, she told Nadine, but he had resisted, saying he wanted to wait for the market to pick up.

Snow crunched as Nadine made her way to the back sliding glass door. As always, it was unlocked. Nadine flipped the light and looked around the kitchen. The fireplace was clean, the cabinets empty. She moved through the high-ceilinged dining room to the staircase. The house smelled familiar, a faded fragrance of talcum powder and wood smoke.

In the second-floor foyer, Nadine fumbled in the dark for the cord that would bring down the steps. She found it and yanked. The ceiling door protested with a rusty groan. Nadine climbed the steps to the turret.

The circular room was lit with a soft glow. This had once been the place where a woman would sit and watch the horizon for her husband’s–or son’s–ship to sail home after years at sea. As a child, Nadine dreamed of being the one on a boat, heading toward adventure and away from her lonely house.

She sat in the rocking chair by the bookcase, where Ann had loved to spend evenings reading. Outside the window, waves crashed to shore. Nadine knelt on the floor and ran her fingers over her mother’s books until she came to The Lying Days by Nadine Gordimer. On the back of the book was a picture of an elegant woman with gold hoop earrings and twinkling eyes. Ann had named Nadine for the author of her favorite book, a story of a South African girl trying to find her place in the world.

The book was scribbled in, a few pages folded down. Nadine opened it. On page 366, her mother had underlined, “I’m so happy where I am.” Nadine was surprised to find, when she read the book herself, that the narrator speaks this line on the eve of her departure to Europe. The narrator accepts “disillusion as a beginning rather than an end: the last and most enduring illusion.” But Ann had not underlined that realization.

“I guess I won’t get to see the whole world,” Ann had said in the hospital, her violet eyes luminous in her sunken face. “But you’ll see it for me, won’t you? Send postcards to me in heaven.” Nadine accompanied her mother to all the chemotherapy treatments, and grew to hate the chicken soup stench of the hospital, the sickly people, the useless fight against death.

“Is Mommy going to be okay?” Nadine asked her father the last, long night.

“Don’t ask questions,” said Jim hoarsely, “and I won’t have to lie to you.”

Nadine rubbed her tender wrist. She heard footsteps coming up the turret stairs, and dropped the book. A voice rose: “Nadine?” It was Lily, walking up with effort. When she appeared, she smiled. “I knew it,” she said.