own sentence, looking away from me. “All she cares about is my music career. She doesn’t really care about what I want.”
She took a bite of her hamburger, looking around the restaurant instead of at me. The way she talked about her mother sometimes, you would think she hated her. Shannon reminded me so much of Isabel in the early sixties, while Julie reminded me of myself during that same time period. I could see my mistakes being played out all over again.
“When did you tell her?” I asked.
She swallowed her bite of hamburger. “Yesterday,” she said.
“And your father?”
“I told him last night.” She shook her head. “You know Dad,” she said. “He said ‘Oh, Shannon,’ and that was it. At least Mom yelled. Dad just…he can be so totally lame sometimes.”
“I bet it wasn’t easy telling them, huh?” I asked.
Her eyes filled suddenly, and she went from hardened young woman to scared little girl. I handed her a napkin, but she only clutched it in her hand as a tear fell from her eye and rolled down her cheek.
“Who is the boy?” I asked.
A light came into her eyes, the first glint of joy I’d seen since she walked into the restaurant. She told me his name was Tanner, that he lived in Colorado, and that she planned to move out there with him. That nearly stopped my heart.
“I tell you what, Shannie,” I said, using the nickname I’d given her when she was a toddler. “If those plans fall through and you end up staying here, I’ll be happy to baby-sit for you.”
Her mouth fell open in surprise. Then she smiled.
“Nana,” she said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, darling,” I said.
She pushed her Big Mac aside. “I think I’m going to get a salad,” she said, rising to her feet. I told her to stay put, and then I went behind the counter and got her the healthiest salad we made.
As I drove home later that afternoon, I felt good about how I’d handled things with Shannon. I thought I’d given her what she needed—some loving kindness, free of judgment. That’s what Isabel had needed, too, but that was not what she’d received from me.
My good mood ended the moment I got in my door. The phone was ringing, and when I picked it up, there was Ross Chapman once again.
“Maria,” he said. Even speaking that one small word seemed to be a great effort for him. The three syllables came out slowly, sadly. “Has your daughter told you what’s going on?” he asked.
I closed my eyes. I was angry beyond measure at him. I believed he’d lied for his son, and now he was badgering me for forgiveness he was never going to get.
“You mean, did she tell me about Ned’s admission of guilt?” I responded, and then I hung up. I had let that man toy with my mind before. It was not going to happen again.
On the first day of my senior year at the New Jersey College for Women, I arrived in New Brunswick still able to taste Ross’s kisses in my mouth and feel his hands on my breasts. We had grown ever bolder during that summer, each of us seeing several other people in order to avoid leading one person on, as I was afraid I may have done with Fred. Many of the young men—Fred included—were fighting in the war at that time, so Ross had quite a few more dating options than I did, but I did my best. Ross had been drafted, but at his physical exam they discovered a minor heart problem and he was classified 4-F. Although I was patriotic when it came to the war and felt everyone should do his or her part, I was relieved he did not have to go.
My parents had made friends with another couple in Bay Head Shores and they often went to their house to play bridge, leaving our bungalow empty. When I knew they would be gone, Ross and I canceled whatever dates we had for that night and we would have the house to ourselves, free to satisfy the hunger we felt for each other. The summer had been filled with cunning, deception, and a fierce physical passion. I could barely tear myself away from him that last night at the shore.
The fraternity down the street from our sorority house had a “welcome back to school” party the night of my arrival. I went with some girlfriends who were anxious to meet some of the Rutgers boys, even if most of them were “4-Fers,” but my heart wasn’t in it. I was standing in a doorway, missing Ross and already writing a letter to him in my mind, when a young man approached me. He walked with a pronounced limp, and something about his eyes reminded me of Ross. That was the only reason I could think of for the instant, feverish attraction I felt toward him. He introduced himself to me as Charles Bauer.
“A lovely girl like you shouldn’t be standing here alone,” he said. “Would you like to dance?”
“Sure,” I said. I moved easily into his arms. He was an awkward dancer because of his limp, but he didn’t seem at all selfconscious about it and I didn’t care a bit, because he felt like Ross in my arms. He was the same height, his shoulders the same slender width, and he used Canoe aftershave, the same as Ross. I inhaled as I rested my head in the crook of his neck, near tears with missing my lover.
After a few minutes, he leaned his head away from mine. “Is something the matter?” he asked.
I started to cry. He let go of me, took my hand and led me outside. We sat on the front steps, the sounds of the party behind us.
“What does a beautiful girl like you have to cry about?”he asked.
“I’m sorry,” I said, then lied because it was the only way I could possibly explain my sorrow. “I recently broke up with someone.”
“And you still care about him,” Charles said.
I nodded.
