The Sweetness of Forgetting Read online

  I glance at Gavin, and he winks at me, which makes me blush a little. “Yes, Annie, I’m Jewish. How come?”

  “I don’t really have any Jewish friends,” she says. “And now that I know I’m, like, Jewish, I was just curious about, you know, Jewishness.”

  “It’s called Judaism, not Jewishness,” I tell her. “Besides, you’re not Jewish, Annie. You’re Catholic.”

  “I know,” she says. “But I can be both. Mamie’s both.” She turns to Gavin again. “So, like, do you go to Jewish church every week?”

  Gavin smiles. “It’s called temple. And I don’t go every week, even though I probably should. Some Fridays, I’m working. And some Fridays, I’m just too busy. That’s not very good, is it?”

  Annie shrugs. “I don’t know. We, like, never go to church or anything either.”

  “Well, I was planning to go to temple tomorrow,” he continues. “You’re welcome to come with me, Annie, if you’re curious. If it’s okay with your mom.”

  Annie looks at me excitedly. “Can I go, Mom?”

  I hesitate and glance at Gavin. “Are you sure?” I ask him.

  “Absolutely,” he says. “I always go by myself. It’d be nice to have the company. I actually go to a synagogue in Hyannis. If you’re going to visit your grandmother tomorrow, I can swing by and pick Annie up at the hospital at the end of visiting hours.”

  Annie is grinning at me, and I shrug. “It’s fine by me,” I say. “As long as you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” Gavin says. “I’ll come by tomorrow evening. Okay?”

  “Cool,” Annie says. “Thanks. It’ll be cool to be, like, two religions at the same time.”

  I stare at her for a minute. “What did you say?”

  She looks embarrassed. “I just mean it’s, like, another side of me, you know?” She pauses and rolls her eyes when I don’t say anything. “God, Mom, I know I’m Catholic. Don’t freak out.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not what I meant. I mean you just gave me another idea for how we might find Jacob.”

  “How?” Annie asks. She and Gavin are looking at me curiously.

  “Interfaith organizations,” I say slowly. “If Jacob trusted a Christian friend to bring the love of his life to a Muslim mosque during the war, he’s obviously someone who respects other religions, right?”

  Gavin is nodding, but Annie looks confused. “So what?” she asks.

  “So what if he came to the States and carried on that tradition?” I say. “What if he’s part of an interfaith organization somewhere?”

  “What do you mean?” Annie asks.

  Gavin answers for me. “I think your mother is saying that maybe Jacob joined one of those organizations where people work together for understanding between the religions,” he says. “Kind of like the way people from different religions worked together in Paris to help save your great-grandma.”

  Annie looks unconvinced. “I don’t know,” she says. “Sounds kinda dumb. But I guess it’s worth a try.”

  “I’ll call some interfaith organizations today,” I tell Annie.

  “And I’ll try calling some synagogues,” Gavin says. “You guys try to find out Jacob’s birth date, okay?”

  Annie and I nod. Gavin thanks Annie politely for the pastries, smiles at me, and then turns to go.

  “Give me a call if you find out anything, okay?” Gavin says as he heads for the door. “See you two tomorrow!”

  “Bye!” Annie chirps, waving at him.

  “Bye,” I echo. “Drive safely,” I add. He smiles once more, turns, and leaves the bakery.

  “He’s so nice,” Annie says once he’s gone.

  “Yeah,” I agree. I clear my throat and go back to setting up for the day. “He is.”

  Annie is spending the night at Rob’s, and since it’s been a slow day, I text her and tell her that she doesn’t need to bother coming in after school; I can clean up myself this afternoon. She calls me from her dad’s house after she gets off the bus and tells me excitedly that he’s left a note for her saying it’ll just be the two of them that night and asking whether he can take her out to a special dinner.

  “That’s great, honey,” I say. I’m glad; it sounds like Rob is making an effort to make her feel important. Maybe my words the other day meant something after all.

  “When you go to the hospital, can you tell Mamie I said hi and that I’ll be there tomorrow?” Annie asks. “In case she can hear you?”

  “Of course, sweetie,” I tell her.

  I pick up Alain at home after I close, and we chat the whole way to the hospital. I’m realizing how very much I like having him around; he fits nicely into our life. Some days, he helps out around the bakery; other days he spends at Mamie’s bedside; and on days like today, he stays home and surprises me by doing things around the house. I returned a few days ago to find all the framed artwork in my attic hung up on the walls; today, I returned to find my pantry and freezer, which both had been virtually empty, cleared out and restocked with new groceries.

  “It is the least I can do,” Alain said when I’d confronted him in disbelief. “It is nothing. I took a taxi to the supermarket.”

  At the hospital, at Mamie’s bedside, Alain holds my hand as we both sit with Mamie. He murmurs to her for a while in French, and as promised, I deliver Annie’s message, although I don’t believe that Mamie can hear me through the fog of her coma. I know that Alain and Annie both believe that she’s still in there, but I’m not so sure. I keep this feeling to myself.

  I find myself thinking about Gavin while Alain whispers to Mamie, and I’m not entirely sure why. I think it’s just because he’s been so helpful, and I’m feeling more alone than ever.

  Alain eventually settles back in his chair, apparently done with whatever story he was telling. Mamie continues to sleep, her narrow chest slowly moving up and down.

  “She looks so peaceful,” Alain says. “As if she is somewhere happier than here.”

  I nod, blinking back the sudden tears in my eyes. She does look at peace, but this just reinforces my idea that she’s already gone, which makes me want to cry. “Alain,” I say after a moment, “I don’t suppose you know Jacob’s date of birth, do you?”

  Alain smiles and shakes his head, and for a moment, I think he’s indicating that he doesn’t. But then he says, “As a matter of fact, I do. Rose and I met him for the first time the evening before his sixteenth birthday.”

  I lean forward eagerly. “When?”

  “Christmas Eve, 1940.” Alain closes his eyes and smiles. “Rose and I were walking through the Jardin du Luxembourg. She had brought me with her to visit a friend in the Latin Quarter, and we were in a hurry to get home before curfew; the Germans insisted on everyone in Paris being home with their blackout curtains drawn.

  “But Rose always loved the garden, and we were passing nearby on our way across the sixth arrondissement, so she suggested we walk across,” Alain continues. “We went, as we always did, to see her favorite statue in the park, the Statue of Liberty.”

  “The Statue of Liberty?” I repeat.

  He smiles. “The original model used by Auguste Bartholdi, the artist. Another stands in the middle of the Seine, not far from the Eiffel Tower. Your statue, the one in the harbor of New York, was given to the United States by France, you know.”

  “I remember that from school,” I say. “I just didn’t know there were similar statues in France.”

  Alain nods. “The statue in the Luxembourg Garden was Rose’s favorite when we were young, and on that evening, when we arrived at the statue, it had just begun to snow. The flakes were so tiny and light, it was like we were in a snow globe. Everything was very still and peaceful, even though we were at war. In that moment, the world felt magical.”

  His voice trails off, and he looks at Mamie. He reaches out to touch her cheek, where so many years of life without him are etched across her face.

  “It was not until we drew c
lose to the statue,” he continues after a long pause, “that we realized we were not alone. There was a boy with dark hair and a dark coat standing just across. He turned as we were just a few feet away, and Rose stopped instantly, as if she’d lost her breath.

  “But the boy didn’t approach us, and we did not approach him,” Alain continues. “They just stared at each other for a very long time, until finally I tugged on Rose’s hand and said, ‘Why did we stop?’ ”

  Alain pauses for a moment to gather himself. He glances at Mamie and then settles back in his seat.

  “Rose bent down and said to me, ‘We stopped because it is very important for you to understand that the place where the real Statue of Liberty stands is a place where people can be free,’” Alain says, a dreamy look in his eye. “I did not understand what she was saying. She looked me in the eye and said, ‘In the United States, religion does not define anyone. They only look at it as a piece of you. And no one is judged for it. I will go there someday, Alain, and I will bring you with me.’

  “That was before the days of the worst Jewish restrictions. Rose, she was very knowledgeable, and so I believe she already knew of the Jews being persecuted elsewhere. She saw the problems coming, even if our parents did not. But I, at the age of nine, did not see what religion had to do with anything.

  “Before I had a chance to ask her, the boy approached us. He’d been staring at us all along, and I could see, as Rose straightened up to talk to him, that her cheeks had gone very red. I asked her, ‘Why is your face so red, Rose? Are you getting sick?’ ”

  He laughs at the memory and shakes his head. “This only made her turn redder. But the boy, his cheeks were red too. He looked at Rose for a long time, and then he bent down to my eye level and said, ‘Your friend here is right, monsieur. In the United States, people can be free. I am going there someday too.’ I made a face at him and said, ‘She’s not my friend! She’s my sister!’

  “They both had a good laugh over that,” Alain continues, smiling faintly. “And then they began to talk, and it was as if I was not there anymore. I had never seen my sister like that before; the way she gazed into his eyes, it was as if she wanted to disappear into them. Finally, the boy turned to me again and said, ‘Little monsieur, my name is Jacob Levy. And what is yours?’ I told him I was Alain Picard, and my sister was Rose Picard, and he looked at her again and murmured, ‘I think that is the most beautiful name I have ever heard.’

  “They talked for a long time, Rose and Jacob, until it began to grow dark,” Alain says. “I was not listening to them very closely, for their conversation bored me. At nine, I wanted to talk about comic books and monsters, but they were talking about politics, and freedom, and religion and America. Finally, I tugged on Rose’s hand again and said, ‘We must go. It is getting dark and Maman and Papa will be angry!’

  “Rose nodded, seeming to come out of a dream,” Alain continues. “She told Jacob we had to leave. We began to walk away, quickly, toward the west side of the park, but he called after us. He said, ‘Tomorrow is my birthday, you know! I will be sixteen!’ Rose turned and said, ‘On Christmas Day?’ He said yes, and she paused. She said, ‘Then I will meet you tomorrow, here, at the statue. To celebrate.’ And then, together, we hurried away, both of us aware that darkness was falling fast, and there would be trouble if we were not home.

  “She went alone to the park the next day, and she returned with stars in her eyes,” Alain concludes. “From that moment on, they were inseparable. It was love at first sight.”

  I sit back in my seat. “That’s a beautiful story,” I say.

  “Everything about Rose and Jacob was a beautiful story,” Alain says. “Until the end. But perhaps the story is not yet through being told.”

  I look off into the distance. “If he’s still out there.”

  “If he is out there,” Alain echoes.

  I sigh and close my eyes. “So Christmas Day, then,” I say. “He was born on Christmas Day. Nineteen twenty-four, I guess, if he was turning sixteen in 1940?”

  “Correct,” Alain agrees.

  “Christmas Day 1924,” I murmur. “Before Hitler. Before the war. Before so many people died for no reason at all.”

  “Who could have known,” Alain says softly, “what was to come?”

  That night, with Annie at her father’s, Alain and I sip tea in the kitchen, and after he shuffles off to bed, I sit at the table for a long time, watching the second hand on the wall clock go around and around and around. I’m thinking about how time ticks by without anyone being able to stop it. It makes me feel powerless, small. I think about the seemingly infinite number of seconds that have passed since my grandmother lost Jacob.

  It’s nearly eleven when I pick up the phone to call Gavin, and although I know it’s inappropriately late, I’m seized with the sudden panicky feeling that if I don’t tell him about Jacob’s birth date now, this very second, it might be too late. It’s a silly thought, of course. Seventy years have ticked by with nothing happening. But seeing Mamie slip away in the hospital day after day makes me acutely conscious of the relentless progress of the second hand.

  Gavin answers on the third ring.

  “Did I wake you up?” I ask.

  “No, I just finished watching a movie,” Gavin says.

  I feel suddenly foolish. “Oh. If you’re with someone, I can call back . . .”

  He laughs. “I’m by myself, on my couch. Unless you count the remote control as someone.”

  I’m unprepared for the feeling of relief that courses through me. I clear my throat, but he speaks again first. “Hope. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” I pause and blurt out, “I found out Jacob Levy’s date of birth.”

  “That’s great!” Gavin says. “How did you find out?”

  I find myself telling him the short version of the story Alain told me earlier.

  “What a great story,” Gavin says when I’m done. “Sounds like they were really meant to be.”

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  A moment of silence passes, and I look up again at the clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock. The second hand seems to mock me.

  “Hope, what’s wrong?” Gavin asks.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “I could start guessing,” Gavin says. “Or you could just tell me.”

  I smile into the phone. He’s so sure that he knows me. The fact of the matter is, he does. “Do you believe in that?” I ask.

  “Believe in what?”

  “You know,” I mumble. “Love at first sight. Or, you know, soul mates. Or whatever it is that we all keep saying my grandmother and Jacob Levy had.”

  Gavin pauses, and in the silence, I feel like an idiot. Why would I ask him something like that? He probably thinks I’m coming on to him. I open my mouth to take it back, but he speaks first.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, I believe in that kind of love. Don’t you?”

  I close my eyes. There’s suddenly a pain in my heart, because I realize I don’t. “No,” I say. “No, I don’t think I do.”

  “Hmm,” Gavin says.

  “Have you ever felt that way about someone?”

  He pauses. “Yes.”

  I want to ask him who, but I realize I don’t want to know. I feel a small surge of jealousy, which I quickly push away. “Well, that’s nice,” I say.

  “Yeah,” Gavin says softly. “Why don’t you believe in it?”

  I’ve never asked myself that before. I consider the question for a moment. “Maybe because I’m thirty-six,” I say, “and I’ve never felt it. Wouldn’t I have felt it by now if it was real?”

  The words hang between us, and I suspect Gavin is trying to figure out how to answer without offending me. “Not necessarily,” he says carefully. “I think that you’ve been hurt. A lot.”

  “In my divorce?” I ask. “But that’s just been recently. What about before that?”

  “You’d been with your husband since
you were what, twenty-one or twenty-two?”

  “Twenty-three,” I murmur.

  “Do you think he was the love of your life?”

  “No,” I say. “But don’t tell Annie that.”

  Gavin laughs softly. “I would never do that, Hope.”

  “I know.”

  Silence hangs between us again for a moment. “I think that you probably spent a dozen years with a man who didn’t love you like a person deserves to be loved,” Gavin says, “and who you maybe didn’t love the way you’re supposed to love someone. You got used to settling.”

  “Maybe,” I say softly.

  “And I think that every time a person gets hurt, there’s another layer that forms around the outside of their heart, you know? Like a shield or something. You were hurt a lot, weren’t you?”

  I don’t say anything for a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” Gavin says. “Was that too personal?”

  “No,” I say. “I think you’re right. It was like nothing I did was ever good enough. Not just with Rob. But with my mom too.” I stop speaking. I’ve never told anyone that before.

  “I’m sorry,” Gavin says.

  “It’s in the past,” I murmur. I’m suddenly uneasy with the conversation, uncomfortable that I’m telling Gavin these things and letting him into my head.

  “I’m just saying that I think the more layers there are around your heart, the harder it is to recognize someone you could really fall in love with,” he says slowly.

  His words settle in for a moment, and I feel strangely short of breath. “Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe when you’ve been hurt a lot, it just opens your eyes to reality and you stop dreaming of things that don’t exist.”

  Gavin is silent. “Maybe,” he says. “But maybe you’re wrong. Maybe it does exist. Would you agree that your grandmother’s been hurt a lot over the years?”

  “Of course.”

  “And Jacob Levy too, probably?”

  “Yeah, probably,” I say. I think of all they both lost—their families, life as they knew it, each other. What could hurt more than the entire world turning its back on you while all the people you love are hauled away to their deaths? “Yeah,” I say again.