I nod and make an attempt at humor. “Yeah, well, available men aren’t exactly beating down the door.”
Annie looks confused, like she hasn’t gotten the self-deprecating jab. “Anyways,” she says. “It’s better when we’re a family. Without strangers.”
I resist the urge to agree, which would be the selfish thing to do. But I’m supposed to do the right thing, aren’t I? And the right thing here is to help her to understand that eventually, her father and I have to move on. “We can still be a family, Annie,” I say. “Your dad having a girlfriend doesn’t change how he feels about you.”
Annie narrows her eyes at me. “Whatever.”
“Sweetheart, your father and I both love you very much,” I say. “That’ll never change.”
“Whatever,” she repeats. She places the mixing bowl in the drying rack. “Can I go now? I have a lot of homework.”
I nod slowly and watch as she takes off her apron and hangs it carefully on the hook near the larger refrigerator. “Sweetie?” I venture. “Are you okay?”
She nods. She grabs her backpack and crosses the room to give me a quick, unexpected peck on the cheek. “Love you, Mom,” she says.
“I love you too, honey. You’re sure you’re fine?”
“Yes, Mom.” Her annoyed tone has returned, and she rolls her eyes.
She’s gone before I can say anything more.
I go to see Mamie that night, after I’ve closed the bakery. On the drive over, my insides are swimming with a mixture of trepidation, sadness, and dread that I can’t quite understand. In the space of a year, I’ve become the divorced owner of a failing bakery, whose daughter hates her. Now I might be Jewish too. It’s like I don’t know who I am anymore.
My grandmother is sitting at her window, gazing out to the east, when I let myself in.
“Oh dear!” she says, turning around. “I did not hear you knock!”
“Hi, Mamie,” I say. I cross the room, kiss her on the cheek, and sit down beside her. “Do you know who I am?” I ask hesitantly, because this conversation will ride on how lucid she is.
She blinks. “Of course, dear,” she says. “You are my granddaughter. Hope.”
I sigh in relief. “That’s right.”
“That is a silly question,” she says.
I sigh. “You’re right. Silly question.”
“So how are you, my dear?” she asks.
“I’m okay, thanks,” I say. I pause, struggling with how to bring up the things I need to know. “I was just thinking about what you told me the other night, and I had some questions.”
“The other night?” Mamie asks. She tilts her head to the side and stares at me.
“About your family,” I say gently.
Something flickers in her eyes, and her gnarled fingers are suddenly in motion, kneading the tasseled ends of her scarf.
“At the beach the other night,” I continue.
She stares at me. “We did not go to the beach. It is autumn.”
I take a deep breath. “You asked Annie and me to take you. You told us some things.”
Mamie looks more confused. “Annie?”
“My daughter,” I remind her. “Your great-granddaughter.”
“Of course I know who Annie is!” she snaps. She looks away from me.
“I need to ask you something, Mamie,” I say after a moment. “It’s very important.”
She’s staring out the window again, and at first, I don’t think she’s heard me. But finally, she says, “Yes.”
“Mamie,” I say slowly, enunciating every syllable so that there’s no chance of her misunderstanding, “I need to know if you are Jewish.”
She whips her head toward me so quickly that I shift back in my seat, startled. Her eyes bore into mine, and she’s shaking her head violently. “Who told you that?” she demands, her voice sharp and brittle.
I’m surprised to feel my heart sink a little. As much trouble as I’m having believing in what Gavin has said, I realize I’ve been buying into the possibility.
“N-no one,” I say. “I just thought—”
“If I were Jewish, I would be wearing the star,” my grandmother goes on angrily. “It is the law. You do not see the yellow star on me, do you? Do not make accusations you cannot prove. I am going to America to see my uncle.”
I stare at her. Her face has turned pink, and her eyes are flashing. “Mamie, it’s me,” I say gently. “Hope.”