“Plus,” Gavin concludes, “your grandmother obviously wants you to go to Paris. There must be a reason.”
“But what if there isn’t a reason at all?” I ask in a small voice. “She’s sick, Gavin. Her memory’s gone.”
Gavin shakes his head. “My grandpa had Alzheimer’s too,” he says. “It’s awful, I know. But I remember his moments of clarity. Especially about the past. And from what you said, it sounds like your grandmother was completely lucid when she gave you the names.”
“I know,” I admit finally. “I know.”
By the time I lock up and we walk out, daylight is waning, the blue of the sky starting to deepen. I shiver as I pull my denim jacket a little tighter around me.
“You okay?” Gavin asks, pausing before he turns to the left. I can see his Jeep parked along Main about a block down.
I nod. “Yeah. Thanks. For everything.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” he says. “If it’s true,” he adds as an afterthought, and I know the words are for my benefit, not his.
I nod again. I feel numb, as if the things he explained to me this afternoon completely overloaded my system. I simply can’t bring myself to believe that my grandmother has a past she’s never spoken of. But I have to admit that everything he said made sense. That chills me to the bone.
“Well,” Gavin says, and I realize I’ve been standing on the street, staring blankly into space.
I shake my head, force a smile, and stick out my hand. “Listen, thank you again. So much.”
Gavin looks surprised by my extended hand, but he shakes it after a moment and says, “My pleasure.”
His hand is calloused and warm, and it takes me an instant longer than it should to let go. “I hope you enjoy those cookies,” I say, nodding to the box in his left hand.
He smiles. “They’re not for me,” he says.
I feel suddenly awkward. “Well, take care,” I say.
“Take care,” he repeats. And as I watch him walk away, a sense of loss rolls in from nowhere.
Chapter Nine
I toss and turn all night, and when I do fall asleep, I have nightmares of people being rounded up in the streets, right outside my bakery, and marched off toward train cars. In my dream, I’m running through the crowd, trying to find Mamie, but she’s not there. I awake in a cold sweat at two thirty in the morning, and although I don’t normally leave for work until three forty-five, I get out of bed anyhow, pull on some clothes, and head out into the crisp air. I know I won’t be able to sleep another wink.
The tide must be low, because as I walk to my car, I can smell the muddy salt from the bay two blocks away. In the stillness of the early morning, I can hear the faint sound of waves rolling into shore. Before I get into the driver’s seat, I stand there for a moment, breathing in and out. I’ve always loved the smell of salt water; it reminds me of my childhood, when my grandfather would come over after a day of fishing, the scent of the sea still on his skin, and swing me high into the air.
“Who’s my favorite girl in the world?” he’d ask while he flew me, Supergirl-style, around the room.
“Meeeee!” I would reply with a giggle, delighted anew each time. I’d already figured out, even at that age, that my mother could be cold and moody, and my grandmother terribly reserved. But my grandfather smothered me in kisses, read me bedtime stories, taught me how to fish and play baseball, and called me his “best pal.”
I find myself missing him terribly as I start my car engine. He’d know what to do about Mamie. I wonder suddenly whether he knew the secrets that she kept. If so, he’d never let on. I’d always thought they had a decent marriage, but can a relationship really survive if there are lies wrapped around its roots?
It’s a few minutes past three by the time I walk into the bakery. I mechanically pull out yesterday’s frozen muffins, cookies, and cupcakes, which will go into the bakery cases once they’re defrosted. Then, I sit down to spend an hour online before I need to start the day’s baking.
I log on to my e-mail and am startled to see a message from Gavin, sent to the bakery’s online orders address just past midnight. I click to open it.
Hey Hope,
Thought I’d send you the links to the organizations I told you about. www.yadvashem.org and www.jewishgen.org are the best places to start your search. Then you might want to try the Mémorial de la Shoah, the Holocaust memorial, in Paris. They have good records for French victims of the Holocaust, I think. Let me know if I can help.