Eddie, Ralph, and I looked at each other. Maybe Gran was further gone mentally than we’d realized.
“That’s when it hit me: forgiveness is not so much something you do as something youdon’tdo. You stop carrying your guilt and anger and resentment around. So I pictured it as a big old heavy suitcase I’ve been lugging around everywhere. I imagined carryingit onto a train and hoisting it into the luggage compartment. Then I climbed off and watched the train leave the station, going faster and faster and getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared down the track. And then I walked away, feeling light and free.”
My throat felt strangely tight. I think Eddie’s did, too, because his eyes were glistening.
“And that worked?” Ralph asked.
“Yes, dear. You might have to picture it a couple of times, but then when an old regret comes up, you just remind yourself, ‘I got rid of that baggage.’”
The doorbell rang. “Oh, that’ll be the Weldon sisters,” Gran said. “They said they’d come over for a visit tonight.”
I helped Gran up and onto her walker while Eddie got the door. And later that night, I dreamed about helping Gran load her steamer trunk onto a train, then watching the train levitate off the track and into the sky, where it soared away like an old warplane.
53
adelaide
Ishould have suspected something two days later, when Hope took me and Eddie and Ralph to the coffee shop to see her mural at five in the afternoon. Not because she was taking me to see her work—I’d been asking to see it, and she’d kept telling me it wasn’t finished yet—but because it was the afternoon before I left town for good. I was such a jumble of mixed-up emotions about leaving Wedding Tree for the last time, though, that it slipped right past me—plus it made sense, since Eddie said he wanted to take us all out to dinner.
My first clue should have been Eddie’s red cheeks. That boy has always gotten flushed when he’s excited about something. My second clue should have been Hope’s attention to her appearance. She wore a fitted pink sundress that made her skin glow, and she seemed as high-strung as a cat on a tightrope. I chalked it up to nervousness at showing us her work.
My third clue should have been that there was a parking spot right in front of the coffee shop. And if that weren’t enough, I should have known something was up when there wasn’t a soul in sight. “Looks like someone rolled up the sidewalks,” I said.
“Everyone quits work early on Mondays,” Ralph said.
“When did that start?” I asked. “No wonder the economy is in trouble.”
Hope got my walker out of the trunk, unfolded it, and helped me to the door of the Daily Grind.
It looked dark and vacant. “Are you sure this is open? It looks like the lights are off.”
“It just looks that way because the windows are tinted,” Eddie said.
Hope put her arm around me and opened the door—and sure enough, it was dark inside. I was about to say something, but suddenly the lights came on and a huge crowd yelled, “Surprise!” Well, it was good thing Hope had a hold of me, because I darn near passed out.
The place was packed. Practically everybody in town was there—including most of the residents of the nursing home.
Kirsten appeared at my elbow. “You didn’t think we could let you go without throwing the biggest party this town has ever seen, did you, Miss Addie?”
Well, I gotta say—I was flabbergasted. I put my hand on my chest.
“You all right, Miss Addie?” my doctor asked.
“Yes. Yes, indeed.”
Eddie and Ralph ushered me further into the room. After a moment of breathlessness, I felt buoyed and light and floaty as a kite. “My goodness, my goodness,” I muttered, over and over. The high school band started playing “Stand Up and Get Crunk,” the official song of the New Orleans Saints, and the local dance team did some high kicks on the coffee bar.
Person after person came up to me. It was only when the band stopped playing that I could understand what they were saying.
“Miss Addie, I want to thank you for how much you’ve meant to my family,” said Rachel Reed, who worked at the pharmacy and knew everything about everybody. “You’ve photographed all of my big life events. My high school graduation. My wedding. My baby’s christening. Her first birthday. Her high school graduation. You’ve been a big part of the best moments in my life.”
“Miss Addie, your photo of my mother is the one thing I took with me when we evacuated during Hurricane Katrina,” said the middle Boudreaux boy—who wasn’t a boy at all anymore, considering his graying temples.
“The pictures you took of my grandmother are the only ones I have,” said a teenaged girl I couldn’t place.
“I love the photo you took of our house,” said Bitsy Mangus.
“The picture you took the day my shop opened has been by the front door for forty years now,” said Wendall Preaux, who ran the local shoe repair place.
