“We’re jumping rope for—”
“Nein. Tell me.”
I lowered my head and tucked both hands in my lap. “I asked our neighbors for pledges,” I said, each word feeling as if it were being gouged out of my flesh.
She flattened the last page on the table. “Here.”
I had tried to write the last dozen pledges in different handwriting, but as I looked past her knobby knuckles, I could see how similar they all looked.
“Meredith Martina, how many?”
Martina was her name. My mother’s homage.
“Fourteen,” I mumbled.
“How many for prize?”
“Twenty-five,” I said. My shoulders slumped toward the table.
She placed two fingers under my chin and lifted. “You know wordaccountable?”
I shook my head. It sounded familiar, but I would not be able to define it, especially if I hoped not to pee in my pants as I struggled.
“You will look it up and then write me a paper about what it means.”
I nodded and rose from my seat.
“Wait. I explain other word.Forgiven.”
I slinked back down.
“You know you did wrong?”
I nodded.
“You not do it again?”
I nodded again.
“You will correct the form and tell your teacher, butLiebling, you are forgiven. I forgive. God forgives.” She pushed the plate of cookies toward me and waited until I chose one. “God always forgives. People, not always. Even Oma can be stubborn. But God—no matter what. No matter how long. He waits. He forgives.” She picked up aZimtstern, tapped one of the frosted points against mine, and took a bite. I learned about accountability that day, but I also learned the simplicity of forgiveness. And yet after all this time, I’ve given little thought to the trust required to admit my need for forgiveness. Because when it comes down to all the lies, the hurts, and the selfish moments of pride, I don’t trust that I’ll always be invited back to the worn walnut table.
I walk into the primary bedroom and run my hand down the old lighthouse quilt from our early days in Kennebunk. Like so many things, I just didn’t notice. I didn’t notice it was missing from our downstairs linen closet. It looks perfect in the room. The black, blue, and gold fabric is warmed by the copper light fixtures on either side of the queen bed. I sit, slide off my boat shoes, and stare at an unframed map above the small desk. The New York portion of the Appalachian Trail takes up most of the pine paneling opposite the bed.
I step up to the printed map laced with tidy notes in both Clint’s and Rob’s hands and notice the intertwinedTlogo in the lower right corner of the map. Odd. Same logo as the New York AT map in Dave’s office. But on this version, it’s bigger and the organization’s name is printed.
As I read the familiar two words, all the air leaves my lungs.
50
“CLINT.”My voice gets stuck in my chest. I cough and try again. “Clint, can you come here?”
Clint strolls into the room. “Our son is going to be a successful leader one day. He got me talking about Jiffy Pop, and somehow, I was making his popcorn. You better grab a handful if you want any. Unfortunately, we only had the one foil pan left.”
“We?” I spin around.
“Oui oui.”Clint laughs.
“No.” I close my eyes. I don’t want to fight. Just the opposite. I want to congratulate the love of my life on launching his dream.
