Chapter Twenty-Three #2
Pilar understood now that Eva explained what she had gone through working on the novel.
There had always been something about A Time for Forgetting —a tension, a story beneath a story.
There had been anger and sadness seeping through the love that filled the page, and that had been the thing that had drawn Pilar to the novel the most. It was messy in places, the way that life was messy, its jagged edges catching her.
“And then the book was done. And my daughter was born. I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done giving her up. I found a publisher in Boston and sent the book to them, and I boarded a boat and returned to Havana.”
“Do you know what happened to your daughter—to my aunt?” Evita asked.
“She was adopted by an American family in Boston. A couple who couldn’t have children of their own, I believe.
I never met the parents, never so much as learned their names, but some of the nurses took pity on me, I think, and told me that they seemed like nice people.
I held my daughter for a few minutes after she was born and then—
“Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of her,” Eva replied with a whisper.
The final piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
“I’m sorry, but when I read A Time for Forgetting— there was a folded paper inside the book. It was a letter. I thought it was a love letter, I just didn’t realize—” Pilar’s voice broke off.
Eva opened the book, flipping through the pages. She stilled when she reached the chapter where she’d left the letter. Her fingers ghosted over the page, but she made no effort to unfold it. Perhaps she was waiting for privacy to do so later.
“I wrote it for her,” Eva said with a sad smile. “When I feel joy, when I feel pain, when I need to express myself, I write. I wrote my daughter countless letters, ones I knew I would never have a chance to send.”
“I’m so sorry,” Pilar said. “I’m sorry to have come here and dug all of this up for you. I never meant to cause you pain.”
“No, you have nothing to apologize for.” Eva stared down at the book.
“You’ve brought me something truly remarkable.
I never thought I would see A Time for Forgetting again.
I always wanted to be a writer. I felt so alone, so invisible in the world in which I lived.
I desperately wished that one day my words would reach someone, speak to them. ”
“Your book meant more to me than you’ll ever know.”
“Thank you.”
Eva’s gaze drifted to her granddaughter. “I married Evita’s grandfather years later. It—it wasn’t a good marriage.”
If Evita was surprised by her grandmother’s candor, she didn’t show it.
“We divorced after our son was born—Evita’s father.
That was why Dolores and I lost touch in the first place.
She didn’t want me to marry him. Didn’t think we were suited, that I would be happy.
She was right in a way—we weren’t suited, even though I eventually found my happiness and then some in my son and now my granddaughter.
Dolores and I quarreled terribly at the time in the way only friends can do when they’re more like sisters. ”
Evita frowned. “How did you—”
“Survive it all?” Eva asked with a sad smile.
Evita nodded, and Pilar found herself leaning forward, desperate to hear Eva’s answer for some wisdom that could give her hope.
“It gets easier with time, I suppose,” Eva said.
“People always say that so it must be true.” She laughed.
“Your losses stay with you; your pain becomes part of the fabric of who you are. Some days they’re as fresh as the day they happened; other times they’re a dull ache inside you.
” Eva smiled. “I think about my daughter, your aunt. I imagine her out in the world, envision the kind of life that she has. Sometimes I talk to her. I write letters to her that I’ll never send.
I commemorate her birthday each year. I can’t regret what happened, can’t regret the mistakes I made because I know she’s out there.
I’ll never meet her, I’ll never see her, but the knowing is enough.
“I wanted to unmask the kind of man James was. In the beginning, that was my plan—to shame him. But I wrote A Time for Forgetting while my daughter grew inside me. Sometimes I read the passages to her. And if by some miracle she ever did read the words I’d written, I didn’t want her to feel as though she was born from anything but love.
Maybe James wasn’t capable of love, so I decided to give her enough for the both of us.
I gave her our story—the best part of it, at least.
“It sounds fanciful, I know, but all I had were the words inside me. I wanted to believe they were enough.”
Pilar wiped the tears away from her face.
“They were,” Pilar said.
“My life has been hard. But many can say that. My life has also been filled with more joy and love than I dreamed possible. My children—my grandchild—are my heart. They’re my legacy.”
They spoke for another hour, their conversation drifting from their personal lives to books that they’d enjoyed.
When it was time to go, Pilar rose to say goodbye.
Eva picked up A Time for Forgetting . She stared down at the cover, her fingers running over the title as though she was touching something particularly delicate and fine, as though she was holding her memories in her hands.
“Thank you for bringing this back to me, for letting me see it again. It means more than you’ll ever know. I like to think that things happen the way they’re supposed to, even if it’s hard for us to understand how or why. I’m glad the novel found you. I’m glad we met.”
Pilar nodded, nearly too overcome with emotion to speak.
There was something about books that brought people together, a passion, a devotion that created an intimate bond and understanding.
After all, books spoke to the deepest parts of the soul and so they linked readers in unforgettable ways.
Sharing a favorite book was like creating a shared history between people who had navigated the life and world that existed within the novel’s pages.
Pilar studied Eva Fuentes for a moment, all that she’d learned this evening weighing heavily on her mind. She’d trusted the wrong person in Ignacio; she knew that now. She didn’t think she was making that same mistake again.
Pilar hesitated, and then she reached into her tote.
“I need help.”