But she seems not to hear me. “Do not harass me, or I will have you reported,” she says. “Just because I am alone does not mean you can take advantage of me.”
I shake my head, “No, Mamie, I would never—”
She cuts me off. “Now if you will excuse me.” I watch, openmouthed, as she stands with surprising agility and walks quickly toward her bedroom. She slams the door.
I stand up and take a step after her, but then I freeze. I don’t know what to say or do. I feel terrible that I’ve made her upset. The violence of her response confuses me.
After a moment, I follow after her and rap lightly on her door. I can hear her get up from the bed, the springs of her old mattress creaking in protest. She pulls open the door and smiles at me. “Hello, dear,” she says. “I did not hear you come in. Forgive me. I was just reapplying my lipstick.”
Indeed, she has a fresh coat of burgundy on. I stare at her for a moment. “Are you okay?” I ask hesitantly.
“Of course, dear,” she says brightly.
I take a deep breath. She seems to have no recollection of her explosion just moments before. This time I reach for her hands. I need an answer.
“Mamie, look at me,” I say. “I’m your granddaughter, Hope. Remember?”
“Of course I remember. Do not be foolish.”
I hold her hands tightly. “Look, Mamie, I’m not going to hurt you. I love you very much. But I need to know if your family is Jewish.”
Her eyes flash again, but this time, I hold on and make sure she doesn’t look away. “Mamie, it’s me,” I say. I feel her hands tighten around mine. “I’m not trying to hurt you. But I need you to answer me.”
She stares at me for a moment then pulls away. I follow her as she strides back to the window in the living room. I’m just beginning to think that she’s forgotten my question when finally she speaks, in a voice so soft it’s almost a whisper.
“God is everywhere, my dear,” she says. “You cannot define him in any one religion. Do you not know that?”
I put a hand on her back, and I’m heartened when she doesn’t flinch. She’s staring at the oyster sky as the blue seeps into the ground along the horizon.
“No matter what we think of God,” she continues in the same soft, even tone, “we all live under this same sky.”
I hesitate. “The names you gave me, Mamie,” I say softly. “The Picards. Are they your family? Were they taken away during World War Two?”
She doesn’t answer. She continues to stare out the window. After a moment, I try again. “Mamie, was your family Jewish? Are you Jewish?”
“Yes, of course,” she says, and I’m so startled at the immediacy of her reply that I take a step back.
“You are?” I ask.
She nods. Finally, she turns to look at me. “Yes, I am Jewish,” she says. “But I am also Catholic.” She pauses and adds, “And Muslim too.” My heart sinks. For a moment, I’d thought she was speaking with clarity.
“Mamie, what do you mean?” I ask, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “You’re not Muslim.”
“It is all the same, is it not? It is mankind that creates the differences. That does not mean it is not all the same God.” She turns to look out the window again. “The star,” she murmurs after a moment, and I follow her gaze to the first pinprick of light against the sunset. I watch with her for a moment, trying to see what she sees, trying to understand what makes her sit at this window every night, searching for something she seems never to find. After a long while, she turns toward me and smiles.
“My daughter Josephine will come to visit one day soon,” she tells me. “You should meet her. You would like her.”
I shake my head and look down at the floor. I decide not to tell her that my mother has long since died. “I’m sure I would,” I murmur.
“I think I will rest,” she says. She looks at me without a glint of recognition. “Thank you for coming. I have enjoyed our visit. I will show you out now.”
“Mamie,” I try.
“No, no,” she says. “My mamie does not live here. She lives in Paris. Near the tower. But I will tell her you say hello.”
I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out. Mamie is herding me toward the door.
I’m over the threshold and the door has almost closed on me when Mamie suddenly cracks it open once more and stares at me, long and hard. “You must go to Paris, Hope,” she says solemnly. “You must. I am very tired now, and it is nearly time for me to sleep.” And then the door is closed, and I’m staring at a characterless palette of pale blue paint.