Free The Ghost of Hannah Mendes by Naomi Ragen Page A

she answered weakly.
    “Okay. But Mom and Kenny knew we were planning on getting married. They must have discussed it with you. And I’m sure you didn’t tell them to wish me mazel tov ,” she accused, accurately.
    “I had no idea it had gotten that far,” she muttered, shocked, betraying herself. “What I meant to say was—”
    “Just stop! It’s done. Renaldo was an honorable man. Family was vital to him. He wasn’t about to get into a relationship where people treated him like the sleazy Puerto Rican boyfriend of the girl in the nail parlor. He couldn’t take it. But what’s the point? He’s gone.”
    The click of other people’s forks against their plates became suddenly almost deafening.
    “Suzanne, whatever else was involved, it was never personal. We never had anything against Renaldo personally .” She bit her lip, sorry to have said so much. “We were all devastated at how hard you took the breakup. Heartbroken, believe me. These things happen. Why do you insist on blaming your family, yourself…? We never wished either of you any harm.”
    She saw Suzanne’s bright face suddenly fade and darken, her lips twitching for control. She reached out impulsively across the table, taking her granddaughter’s hand in her own. “Child, he was a married man twice your age, from another culture!”
    “And another faith! Don’t forget that!” Suzanne wrenched her hand away.
    “Another faith,” Catherine admitted. “But also a man with two grown children and a wife!” she went on doggedly, ignoring the sharp turn onto thin ice that the conversation had suddenly taken. “You were so innocent, so inexperienced.”
    “He was a brilliant, talented artist! A man full of life, of joy! He’d been separated from his wife for almost five years. Catholics don’t believe in divorce.”
    “And we Jews,” Catherine said with a strange defiance, “don’t believe in intermarriage!”
    “Oh, really? Does Mom know?” Suzanne added nastily. Then, seeing her grandmother’s face blanch, she softened her tone. “Look, Gran, as far as I’m concerned, there is no we . What can you expect, after all those years of Hanukkah candles and Christmas trees, Passover seders and Easter candy? It’s all garbage, just artificial gimmicks that separate people. It just causes hatred and misunderstandings.” …‘Imagine no religion, nothing to kill or die for…,’” she sang.
    “And no Festival of San Gennaro.”
    Suzanne paused. “That’s different. That’s cultural,” she said slowly. “I mean, we should all respect different cultures, customs, art, music…”
    “Just not your own,” Catherine said, her voice rising unexpectedly. To her great shock, she found tears rolling down her cheeks.
    “Gran?”
    Catherine took out an immaculately clean, hand-embroidered and monogrammed handkerchief from her bag and dabbed her eyes. “I have something to tell you, Suzanne…” she began impulsively, then hesitated. The conversation had not gone at all the way she’d expected. She’d meant to lead up to this subject tactfully, making it sound like a beautiful new beginning, or at least a chance for a decent last chapter. Now, it would sound like so much blackmail.
    She saw the sand hemorrhaging inexorably through the aperture of an hourglass. There was no time for another such meeting, which might go more smoothly. It was either going to be now, or it was not going to be.
    “Suzanne, I’m dying.”
    She watched the slow, predictable look of wonder and horror pass over her granddaughter’s features, and then something less expected. A look of curiosity.
    “I’m seventy-four years old, and my young doctor says that with the proper care I might reach seventy-five. Except that I don’t plan to have the proper care, not if it’s painful or ugly….” She held up a hand as if warding off a potential flood of objections.
    There were none.
    She looked at her granddaughter, surprised and grateful. “You know I’ve