I Don't Forgive You

by Aggie Blum Thompson

  With a sudden jerk, Mark snatches the envelope from my hands and turns to Cole. “You can’t just go through my bag, grabbing things.”

  “You told me to.” Cole’s lower lip quivers, and his eyes widen.

  “I said envelope, not manila envelope.” Mark goes to his bag and returns with a small white envelope.

  “Yikes,” I say to Mark. “You all right?”

  “Sorry, buddy,” Mark says. “Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  Cole gingerly takes the envelope, looking at Mark to see if it is really safe.

  “Go ahead,” Mark urges in a chummy tone. “Open it up.”

  Cole pulls out the photos of Caitlin and Charles, Bob and Joan. The Rosses are all accounted for.

  “Can you help me glue them on?” he asks.

  “I’d love to, buddy, but I have to leave for work,” Mark says. “I can help you this evening.”

  Cole turns to me. “Can you help, Mommy?”

  “Sure,” I say. “After school. Now it’s time to get dressed.”

  “Today’s a half day.”

  “That right?” I suppress a grimace. I had completely forgotten. It seemed as though there hadn’t been a full week of school this whole fall. “Cole, please go upstairs and get dressed.”

  Cole scowls and stomps upstairs with the photos.

  “I guess I’ll see if Susan can pick him up.”

  Mark stands up, takes Cole’s empty cereal bowl to the sink, and begins rinsing it. “You forgot about the half day?”

  “I’m sorry, did you remember?” I snap. I take a centering breath. I don’t want to fight about domestic duties. “Look, Mark, I think we should talk.”

  “Good idea.” He shuts the water off. “Listen, Allie, I’m not accusing you of anything, but I need you to help me understand something.”

  I swallow hard. “Fine. What is it?”

  He wipes his hands on a dish towel and grabs his phone. After some typing, he turns it to me. I see the familiar blue Facebook logo. “Brian at work, of all people, sent it to me.”

  I groan. I should have prepared him for this. And maybe I would have if he had stayed to talk to me last night instead of going to the Nats game. “Listen, that is the fake Facebook page I told you about. I contacted Facebook, and they’re looking into it.”

  “Who’s Lexi?” The name smacks me with the force of a slap.

  “It was a stupid nickname from high school.”

  “There are nude photos of you online.” His voice is taut like a guitar string that’s too tight and about to snap. “My colleagues from work have seen them.”

  “I know, I should have told you they were out there.”

  “Yes, you should have. Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for me?”

  His words stun me. “However you feel, believe me, it’s worse for me, Mark.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Of course. But, Allie, c’mon. You never thought to tell me there were nude photos of you floating around the internet?”

  “They’re not floating around, Mark.” My head begins to throb. This isn’t going the way I wanted it to. I shouldn’t have to defend myself. “They’re from high school.”

  “It’s not just the pictures. It’s the posts.”

  “I know how terrible this looks. But please remember that I did not write any of that. I feel you’re not getting it—this is happening to me.”

  “What does your boss think? Has he said anything?” His eyes are glued to the screen. I don’t think he’s listening to me. “I mean, aren’t you supposed to be shooting Valerie Simmons next week? What if she sees this?”

  His anxiety pricks me like a bee sting. I try to swallow the lump that is forming in my throat. “I don’t know. I’m praying I can get these accounts shut down soon.”

  Mark taps at the phone, his eyes wide. “I’m a prisoner in my own life,” he reads and then lowers his voice. “It says you regret having kids.” He looks up. “I know that’s not true, but…”

  “But what?” My guts clench and twist. “If you know it’s not true, then what?”

  “I remember you talking about an abortion.”

  “That’s not fair. That was years ago.” I glance at the stairs, terrified Cole might come down at any moment. “We weren’t even married,” I hiss. “We had only been together a few months.”

  “You said you weren’t ready for kids. I kept thinking that at some point, you would warm to all this.”

  “What haven’t I warmed to?” But the truth is, his accusation hits a nerve. I’ve never regretted having Cole, not for a minute. I have ruminated, however, on how motherhood has swallowed me whole, whereas Mark has managed to tack father onto his list of descriptors. But I’ve never said any of this aloud.

  “To all of this.” Mark waves his hands around the messy kitchen. “To being a mom, to having other mom friends. To cooking. Allie, you don’t even know how to scramble an egg, for Chrissakes.”

  “That’s the metric you judge me by? How well I cook eggs?”

  “You’re being oversensitive.” He closes his eyes, and for a moment the only sound in the kitchen is that damn huge clock. Mark opens his eyes. “When Cole was little, we agreed we wanted him to have a brother or sister. I thought that was the plan, but now…”

  “Now what?”

  “Maybe this is all too much for you.”

  “Maybe it is sometimes. And yes, I am not sure if I want a second child. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love Cole or that I don’t love our life together. Just because I don’t scramble eggs … I mean, all parents get overwhelmed.”

  To this, Mark shrugs.

  “What, you’re saying you never do?” I ask.

  “No. Not like you do.” He shakes his head. “I like our life. I like our house, our neighborhood. This is what I want.”

  “I want it, too. But someone is trying to destroy me, Mark. Someone is framing me for Rob Avery’s murder.”

  “You’re being overdramatic.”

  “Am I? I don’t think so. Tell me you’ll at least be home by six.”

  “What’s happening at six?”

  “I told you.” I am furious that he doesn’t remember. “Artie Zucker is coming. Here.”

  “Of course I’ll be here,” he snaps. “Hiring him was my idea, remember?”

  My cell phone rings, but I ignore it.

  “Your phone, Allie.” He nods in the direction of the ringing. “Aren’t you going to answer it? Never know who it might be.” There’s no missing the snide insinuation.

  When he sees I am making no move, he walks over and glances at it. “It’s Morningside House.” He tosses the phone at me a little too roughly, but I catch it.

  “Allie Ross?” a woman asks once I bring the phone to my ear. “This is Lydia from Morningside. We’ve had an incident with your mother. She’s attacked one of our aides.”

  28

  Absorbed in my phone, I almost bump into a parked car as I walk Cole to school. Susan is not available to pick up Cole from early release, but thankfully, Leah can.

  No problem! At doctor, will be home by noon. Ava will be thrilled.

  Once that is sorted, I tap out a message to the Realtor in Westport.

  GM! Please call me. Looks like I’m going to need to put house on market ASAP.

  I press Send and pray that Barb DeSoto is the type who checks her work phone obsessively.

  “Mommy, are you listening?” Cole tugs at my coat. “You’re not even listening. Put away your screens.”

  I smile tightly. The first time he fed my own words back to me, it was cute. Now it’s just grating. “I’m listening, Cole.”

  Lydia made it clear Sharon would have to be moved, and soon. My mind spins with calculations. The Memory Care unit will cost much more, putting us in a monthly deficit. One that I will have to cover until we sell the house. Where will I get the money?

  “Cole, do you wish I made eggs more often?” I take his hand in mine.

  Cole stops skipping for a
moment and frowns in confusion. “Eggs?”

  “You know,” I press on. “Hard-boiled eggs. Scrambled eggs.”

  He screws up his nose in disgust. “Eww. I don’t like eggs.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But I wish you would make pumpkin muffins like Susan. They’re really, really good.”

  That stings a little. I plaster a smile on my face. “But we’re so lucky that Susan bakes for us, so we don’t need to, right?”

  He narrows his eyes into slits, unconvinced. “We were supposed to bake last night.”

  “Yes, I know. But you can do it another time.”

  “For International Night? International Night is Tuesday, you know. Don’t forget.” His tone is that of a jaded office supervisor.

  “I won’t forget. Leah and Ava are bringing a Jewish pastry called rugelach, and you and Susan are—”

  “We’re going to make shortbread, because she says that’s very English and Scottish. Shortbread is like cookies.”

  He lets go of my hand.

  “Can I run to the stop sign?” He doesn’t wait for an answer but takes off. I break into a half-hearted jog. At the stop sign, he pauses a moment and then continues on. I catch up to him at the edge of the playground. The monkey bars and climbing equipment are crawling with the younger kids. The fifth graders are huddled, staring at their phones.

  A herd of moms stands in a cluster around the little lending library. These small structures, which resemble birdhouses on posts and can hold about a dozen books, are everywhere. It’s ironic that in this community—where everyone can afford to buy as many books as they want and where there is an excellent public library down the road—these have popped up on every other corner.

  The only books I remember in our home growing up were romance novels that came in boxes of Hefty garbage bags as part of a promotional campaign. I used to have to take two buses growing up to get to the library.

  I scan the women with the acuity of a gazelle evaluating the dangers of the other animals at a watering hole. I find my whole body tensing, wondering who has heard what about me. I know none by name, but I recognize a few of the faces. I steel myself. I hold my chin up and squeeze Cole’s hand tighter. It’s pathetic. He feels like protection. There’s no telling who has seen my fake Facebook page and that nude photo of me.

  “Okay, honey, let’s say goodbye now. I have to go.” The drive up to Sharon’s during rush hour won’t be pretty. I may not make it into the studio at all.

  “No! You have to wait for the bell like the other moms.”

  “Cole, c’mon, sweetie.”

  With no warning, Cole begins pulling me toward the group of women.

  “That’s Oliver’s mommy.” He points at a tall woman with a messy updo. I recognize her from Daisy’s party—she insisted I had gone to law school. “I want a playdate with Oliver. Oliver said you should ask her.”

  “I’ll ask her later. Today, you’re going to have a playdate with Ava.” I try to stand my ground.

  Cole pulls harder. “No, ask her now, Mommy. Oliver said so.”

  He breaks free of my grip and makes a beeline toward the group. The circle of women parts to make way for Cole. They remind me of a pen-and-ink illustration from a book I read as a girl. It chronicled the death of a young Puritan girl at the hands of the other women in her village, who thought she was a witch. I remember how good and wholesome the women were rendered, with their plump cheeks and sparkling eyes, and how at odds it was with their vicious behavior.

  Only these women are clad in black yoga pants and fleeces, not modest Puritan dresses.

  A woman standing next to Oliver’s mom bends down a little to say something to Cole. I wonder what my son is saying to her. I have no choice. I walk over.

  “Hi,” I say. “It’s Tanya, right? We met at the Gordons’ party.”

  The woman, ruddy-cheeked as if she’s just run a half marathon, straightens up. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Cole was saying that Oliver and he had talked about having a playdate? I’m happy to host.”

  I sense the mood shift without anyone saying a word, like a cool front moving across a summer’s day. They know, or they think they know. Tanya’s wide mouth folds into a facsimile of a smile, but her eyes are cold. “I’m afraid today’s not good.”

  “I didn’t mean today. I just meant at some point.”

  “What about tomorrow?” Cole asks, tugging at my jacket sleeve.

  “Aww, sorry, sweetie.” Tanya bends down so she can look Cole in the eye. “This week is super busy for Oliver.”

  “Of course,” I say, but Tanya has already turned her back on us, recompleting the circle.

  Cole frowns. “Ask her about next week,” he says.

  With some effort, I steer him away from the group, heartbroken for him. My own rejection is hard enough, but it’s far more painful to witness Cole on the receiving end. Before I am forced to make up an excuse as to why I won’t be asking Oliver’s mom about next week, or any week for that matter, Ava comes running up. She takes Cole by the hand, and I watch the two run down the hill until they are safely within the flock of children.

  Every other week, Cole comes home with some worksheet on bullying—how to be an upstander instead of a bystander, for example. As if cruelty is some sort of isolated childhood affliction, a gauntlet you must run through on your way to adolescence, that disappears once you hit twenty-one.

  I turn and trudge back up the hill, keeping my head down to avoid making eye contact with any of the parents. My stomach is in knots from my argument with Mark. Maybe things will be better once we meet the lawyer later today. We need to be united.

  I am lost in thought when I sense someone behind me. Instinctively, my back stiffens. I glance back to see Karen Pearce, the woman I met at Daisy’s, power walking and grimacing, her blond bob stiff and unmoving.

  I catch her eye and smile. No acknowledgment from her at all.

  I speed up, eager to get to my car before she reaches me. I open the door and toss my bag inside.

  “Excuse me.”

  I jump. Karen is right behind me, panting from exertion. She wasn’t just power walking; she was chasing me.

  “Can I help you?”

  She steps in so close to me that I can smell the mix of pungent sweat and fruity deodorant on her.

  “Hi. I didn’t want to say this in front of the other moms, but the room parents for Ms. Liu’s class have contacted me as room-parent coordinator.”

  “Yes.”

  “Right. So I wanted to talk to you about the Halloween class party. I wanted to tell you in person … gosh, this is so awkward.” She sighs and rolls her eyes skyward. “That they won’t be needing you to help set up after all.”

  “All right. That’s fine.” I want to get out of here, but she’s not done.

  “Eastbrook is a pretty tight-knit community, and Rob Avery was a dear friend to a lot of us. Some of the other moms are just not comfortable with your involvement with everything. I mean, no one’s accusing you of anything. We don’t like to gossip. But we have to think of the children.”

  “I see. I won’t help plan the party. Got it.” I climb into my car, my pulse quickening. I need to get away from this woman before I do something that can’t be undone. But when I try to shut the door, she wedges her hip so that I am unable to.

  “And it’s probably best for everyone if you didn’t come to the Halloween party. Like, at all.”

  “For the record,” I say, “I did not make any of those posts. I’ve been hacked, and someone has created false social media accounts impersonating me. Not that you gossip.”

  “Look, don’t get upset. You can still send something in with Cole if you want to help. I think we still need black-and-orange sprinkles for the cupcake-decorating station.”

  “Terrific. Will do!” The words fly out of my mouth before I can even process what I am saying. She pivots back toward the playground. Just then, the whoop of a police siren sounds as two marked
cars followed by a familiar sedan round the corner.

  The three cars pull up in front of my house, effectively blocking me in.

  Detective Lopez gets out of the sedan, a folded-up piece of paper in her pocket.

  I get out of my car as well, and walk toward her, aware that Karen Pearce is watching from the edge of my peripheral vision.

  “Ms. Ross.” She passes me the paper. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

  29

  “Can you open the door for us, please?”

  I nod and walk up the walkway. I open the front door. She holds out her hand. “And we’ll need the keys to your car, too.”

  “What? I need my car. I need to go somewhere today.”

  “You’re not going anywhere in this car.” Detective Lopez flicks her eyes at the paper in my hand. “That warrant gives us the right to search your house, your garage, and your car.” She holds out her hand. “And your cell phone.”

  I take it out. “Can I call my husband first?”

  Lopez scowls. “Make it quick.”

  The call goes straight to voice mail. I try his office as well, but no luck. With D.C. traffic, he may not even be in yet. “Call me back as soon as you get this,” I whisper into the phone. Before shutting it off and handing it over, I turn my back and make another call.

  “Mr. Zucker?” I say into the voice mail, praying that he’s the type who checks his messages compulsively. “This is Allie Ross. We’re supposed to meet this evening. But I need your help. The police are at my house.”

  “I’ve called my lawyer,” I say before giving Lopez my phone.

  “That’s within your rights.” She hands the phone over to a squat, uniformed officer behind her. I watch as he jogs off with my phone, wondering what he plans to do with it.

  “Don’t you have to wait for my lawyer before you do the search?” I ask.

  “No, ma’am, we do not.”

  “How long is all this supposed to take?”

  The detective shrugs. “We’ll get your cell phone back to you within the hour. As for the search, can’t say.”

  “Can you estimate? I’m supposed to be at my mother’s assisted living facility right now.”