I Don't Forgive You

by Aggie Blum Thompson

  I follow Lydia into a small, cluttered office. She glides behind a metal desk overflowing with stacks of paper and motions for me to move a pile of magazines off the one other chair in the room.

  “Unfortunately, Miss Sharon assaulted one of my staff members.” Lydia’s nose twitches, making the freckles on her brown skin dance.

  “What happened, exactly?”

  “Your mother must have decided she wanted to go for a stroll after dinner last night. She must have gone into her room, opened a window, and kicked out the screen. My staff found her halfway out the window. When they tried to pull her back in, she choked one of them. Had to be pried off.”

  You could never accuse my mother of lacking moxie—or piss and vinegar, as she called it—but this doesn’t sound like her. “Why was she trying to escape? She’s never tried anything like this before.”

  “She was having delusions of persecution. She said someone was out to get her and had tracked her down. That she needed to escape.”

  “Did she have an altercation with another resident or an argument with a staff member?”

  “We don’t think that’s it. Unfortunately, with dementia, a move into a new facility can precipitate this kind of degeneration.” Lydia interlaces her long fingers together in front of her face. “We understand it can be difficult to watch a loved one’s personality change so dramatically.”

  I shake my head. I know what Lydia is saying is true, but I can’t bear the thought that my moving Sharon down here may have triggered all this.

  “The reality is that we can no longer keep her in assisted living,” Lydia says. “It’s time for the memory ward.”

  Lydia explains what this means and produces paperwork that has already been filled out. She’s been through this enough times to know that the families sitting where I am have little choice. I look over the papers with a pang of sadness. I wish Mark were with me. He’s the one who’s good at reading this kind of fine print, not me. The cost is more than what I am paying now and almost double what I was paying for her assisted living facility up in Connecticut.

  Maybe Krystle is right. Maybe I should find a cheaper place.

  “I know this is a hard decision,” Lydia says, offering me a bowl of candy corn, as if sugar will distract me from the hefty cost of this place.

  I demur. “It’s a lot of money.”

  “I understand. You can cancel the contract at any time, as long as you give us thirty days’ notice.”

  I pick up the pen and hesitate. Staying at Morningside House will be expensive. But a move to another facility would destroy my mom. I sign. I’ll sell her house. I’ll find the money.

  After we’re done, Lydia takes me down a hallway I have never been before, pausing in front of a keypad.

  “Your mom’s been here since breakfast, in the community room. We don’t have a free room on the memory ward yet, so we won’t be able to move her and her belongings until the end of the month. But we’ll be taking her in here right after breakfast up until bedtime from now on.” I nod. My mother will be on lockdown for her waking hours. Lydia punches the keypad. “We’ll give you the code. We change it weekly, because otherwise the residents might learn it and try to leave.”

  The doors swing open to reveal a sitting room with a large-screen TV. Several women and one man sit slumped in front of a home-shopping show hawking cubic zirconia earrings. I see Sharon lying in a fetal position at one end of the sofa, and a wave of nausea hits me. She was always so tough. Now she looks helpless.

  I touch her shoulder, and she lifts her head, her big, green eyes brightening.

  “Alexis. I’m so happy to see you.” She holds out her hands, and I take them. I can feel her tiny, birdlike bones beneath her cool, papery skin. She’s lost so much weight since she had to move to D.C. that it’s aged her prematurely. I want to let go, but I don’t. I text Mike that I won’t be in today and then sit beside her, not speaking, as we watch a bronzed blond woman model a pair of fake diamond earrings the size of ice cubes.

  After a while, when I am sure she is dozing, I start to get up. But her hand clamps down on mine, and her eyes open. “She found me,” she says in a barely audible voice.

  “Who?”

  “That woman.” Sharon’s lower lip trembles, whether with anger or fear I cannot tell. “She came to the house, wanted me to interfere. But I can’t control Krystle, that’s what I told her.”

  “Well, that’s the truth.” I pat her hand. She’s time-traveling again. She moved out of the Westport house more than five years ago.

  “I told her, if you’re looking for someone to blame your problems on, don’t blame my daughter. That’s what I said. I told her, you made your own bed.”

  “Uh-huh. That sounds very wise, Sharon.” I have no idea what she’s referring to, but it isn’t too hard to fill in the gaps. Krystle spent her twenties lurching from drama to drama, and I’m not surprised to hear there was blowback that reached all the way up to Westport, Connecticut. “Hopefully, that lady won’t come back.”

  “Oh, but she did.” Sharon’s eyes dart from side to side. “Yesterday. She pretended she was in the wrong room. I played along. Kept my eyes closed like I was sleeping.”

  I frown. “Sharon, are you saying some strange woman came into your room yesterday when you were resting?”

  She nods very slowly. “She’s found me, Alexis. Margaret Cooper. She’s back.”

  * * *

  On my way outside, I ask the receptionist if my mother had any visitors yesterday. I doubt it, but I want to double-check. The receptionist, who is on the phone, pushes the visitor log at me. I scan the names on the two pages for yesterday, looking for this Margaret Cooper that my mother mentioned, but there is none. In fact, no one signed in to see my mother. I feel a little silly. Margaret Cooper is as likely to be a soap opera character from the eighties as a real person my mother once knew.

  “Thank you,” I say, pushing the book back. But as I walk through the front door, a woman carrying a small fern passes me and smiles. I hesitate and watch her walk right through the lobby and turn left without signing in.

  The receptionist takes no notice.

  I shake the thought from my head. My mother suffers from delusions. I need to accept that. I’m viewing her dementia through the lens of my own personal problems.

  But I make a mental note to mention it to Krystle when I discuss the dismal state of the Westport house and what I have learned about there being a reverse mortgage. I am not looking forward to that conversation.

  I get in my car, exhausted from the day’s events. All I want to do is crawl home and get into a hot bath with a glass of wine, and then curl up all by myself and watch something dumb. But going home means facing reality—judgmental moms, an angry husband, and a needy kid. Not to mention meeting with that shark of a lawyer and going over this whole nightmare in detail. So much for self-care; tonight will be about self-preservation.

  Trying to exit the parking lot, I get stuck waiting for a break in traffic. Finally I can pull out and turn left, shooting a quick glance behind me to see if I am holding anyone up.

  That’s when I see it.

  Idling by the curb is that black Audi with Virginia plates, FCS.

  31

  I’m halfway into oncoming traffic. It’s too late to stop and back up, so I pull into the left lane so that I can make a U-turn and drive back into the Morningside House parking lot.

  I feel dizzy and hot. It’s the same car, I am sure. In addition to the F and the C and the S, I can now add the last three digits—372.

  I hold my breath, waiting for the car in front of me to make a left, doing everything in my power not to lay on the horn. Finally, I am zooming back in the direction I came from. It probably takes less than a minute, but when I get back to the parking lot, the Audi is gone.

  My whole body shakes as I merge onto the Beltway and head back to Bethesda. There is no doubt in my mind—someone is following me, but who, and why?

  The sh
rill ring of my phone vibrates through the car, startling me out of my thoughts. It’s Daisy.

  “Hey, sweetie, how are you holding up? What do you need to know?” Her disembodied voice bounces through the interior of the car. It takes a second to remember she is returning my call. The text I sent her about the reverse mortgage earlier today seems so long ago. I explain what Barb DeSoto told me.

  “Walk me through this,” I say. “Please.”

  “A reverse mortgage was designed so people who have tons of equity in their house can pull some money out and stay in the house,” Daisy says. “Like senior citizens. Let’s say your house is worth five hundred thousand—you can pull out three hundred thousand and use that money to pay for living expenses or a grandchild’s tuition, or whatever.”

  “It’s like a home equity line of credit?”

  “Not exactly. You don’t make monthly payments. Instead, when the owner dies, or when the house is sold, you pay back the lender. In the case of a senior who takes out three hundred thousand, when they die and their heirs sell the house, the heirs will need to pay back the lenders that money. With interest, of course.”

  “There’s no way my mother took out that loan. She’s been in assisted living for years.”

  “Sad to say that there is rampant fraud and identity theft these days. Anyone who has your mom’s basic information—social security number, date of birth—would have been able to apply in her name. Any strange financial letters or weird phone calls?”

  “My sister handles all the correspondence to the house,” I tell her before saying goodbye. The whole drive home, I am stewing in a hot mix of guilt and anger. I should never have left Krystle in charge of the management of the house. She was in over her head. This is as much my fault as hers.

  I’m only a few miles from my house when my phone trills. I don’t recognize the number, so I let it go through to voice mail, and a moment later, my phone beeps letting me know whoever called has left a message.

  “Hi, Alexis? This is Madeline. I just saw your email. I’d be happy to meet up with you. I’m actually around this weekend. Call or text me.”

  I immediately text her back and ask if she can meet me on Sunday. I wish I could do it sooner, but my Saturday is booked with shoots.

  Madeline Ashford, the Madeline who destroyed my senior year and now runs the D.C.-area Overton alumni group. The woman who may be behind everything that is happening to me.

  A rush of adrenaline courses through me. Maybe I can finally get some answers and put a stop to all this.

  32

  The smell of roast chicken hits me when I enter the kitchen. On the counter sits the telltale take-out bag from Nando’s. When I see the yucca fries inside the bag, I smile. I always have to lobby hard for those as a side, since neither Mark nor Cole likes them.

  “Hello?” I call out. “I’m home.”

  “Mommy!” Cole runs in from the direction of the powder room, holding out his hands. “I washed my hands. Smell them.”

  I bend down and take a deep breath of the floral soap.

  Mark follows suit, smiling. “He’s hopped up on sugar. Apparently, Leah let them have two boxes of candy at the movies.”

  “The movies, so that’s where you were all day,” I say, forcing his squirming body into a hug. “I was wondering.”

  “Just one box each,” Cole says. “But we switched halfway through.”

  We eat a quick dinner at the island in the kitchen, all in a row, under the bright lights suspended from the ceiling. I keep eyeing the clock, cognizant that the lawyer will be arriving at six. Cole carries eighty percent of the conversation, reenacting each scene from the movie for us. Mark laughs and makes funny faces. I can see our reflection in the large plate-glass window across from us. To my eyes, or to anyone who might happen to be walking through the pedestrian alley that cuts behind our house, it would appear to be a scene of domestic bliss.

  It’s hard to enjoy the merry mood, however, knowing what’s to come after—a meeting with a criminal defense lawyer. The desktop in our nook is glaringly clear, our computer gone. Cole has not noticed yet, thank god.

  As we are cleaning up, Krystle calls. I leave Mark and Cole to finish with the kitchen.

  “What’s this reverse mortgage thing?” Krystle’s words hit me rapid-fire. No hello, or how are you. “I didn’t understand your message.”

  As I walk into the dining room, I begin to explain what has happened, but Krystle interrupts me right away.

  “There’s no money? I need that money, Allie. We’re counting on it.”

  I ignore the we. I assume she means Ron, but I don’t want to get into a fight about her boyfriend right now. “Do you remember any weird mail that might have come to the house in Westport?”

  “Oh, so this is my fault? For not checking the mail enough? Good to know, Madame.”

  My body tightens. Her fuse has been lit, and it’s just a matter of time until she explodes. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m just asking if you remember anything out of the ordinary.” The truth is, a part of me wonders if Krystle found a way to get the reverse mortgage, but I don’t want to believe it, and I certainly don’t want to accuse her without proof.

  “Seriously? That house gets a ton of junk mail. I’m supposed to sort through every piece of trash that comes there?”

  “So that’s a no.” I circle the dining room table, picking up the detritus that Cole leaves in his wake. I can’t imagine what the police thought when they walked through here this afternoon.

  “Don’t be mean. I know you think this is my fault. Just say it.”

  She’s goading me into a fight, a habit she honed with our mother. I used to shrink into the shadows watching the two of them go at it like two fires feeding off each other. Their faces would glisten red, not just with anger but with excitement.

  Normally, I am better at steering Krystle away from her rages. But I don’t have the energy tonight, not right before I’m about to meet with a criminal defense lawyer.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” I say. “Look, Krys, we don’t even know what happened. Is there any possibility that you might have signed something accidentally?”

  “What kind of idiot do you think I am?” she screams.

  I blink hard at her ferocity and plow forward. Mark and Cole pass through the dining room and head upstairs, the dinner dishes done, the kitchen lights shut off. They wave at me as they leave the room.

  Mark is going to put Cole in front of the TV with a movie and then come back down to meet with the lawyer. I’m not happy about how much we’ve been using screens to distract Cole from what’s been going on recently—our strict rules have been bent so far they’ve completely broken in the past week. But I don’t feel like we have a choice. I’d rather him get lost in screens than learn his mother is being framed for murder.

  “What about Ron?” I ask Krystle. “I know he’s had money troubles.”

  “That’s not true.” I can picture her mouth pressed into a straight line as she says this, jaw locked.

  “This is the same guy who pawned his blood glucose monitor.”

  “That was two years ago. He bought it back. God, I wish I’d never told you that. You can be such a judgmental cunt sometimes.”

  And just like that, I am done. I hang up and put the phone on vibrate.

  * * *

  With his shirt sleeves rolled up, Artie Zucker leans his elbows on our seldom-used dining room table and lets out a deep sigh.

  “I don’t like this, I’m gonna be honest.”

  Mark and I exchange a glance. Zucker, pushing sixty, is sweat-stained, has about two days’ worth of growth on his face, and smells like day-old pizza. But Mark says he is one of the three best criminal defense lawyers in Montgomery County, so here he is in our dining room trying to help me understand why the police have focused their attention on me and what we’re going to do about it.

  Mark and I spent the better part of the last hour explaining in excruciatin
g detail what happened at the party on Saturday night with Rob and me, and everything since, including the fake Tinder and Facebook pages.

  “So tell me again,” Artie says, “about talking to Avery in the kitchen. Can you characterize your conversation?”

  “I would say it was flirtatious. We were having fun—”

  “So now you admit that you were flirting with Rob Avery?” Mark snaps.

  I turn to him, blindsided by his accusatory tone. “It was a party. Besides, he was doing most of the flirting.”

  “No, that’s fine,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “But your first story was that this random drunk guy followed you into the bathroom. And you had no idea why.”

  “My story?”

  “Yes, your story.” He is in full lawyer mode now, voice clipped and emotionless. “It’s changed a bit, you have to admit.”

  “You found me out, Mark. I slightly flirted with a stranger at a suburban party.” I reach for the bottle of wine to refill my glass. “Any takers?” I ask. But both men say no. I don’t know how Mark can make it through this ordeal sober, but I need the gentle buzz of wine to help stop me from falling apart.

  “I just find it curious that you left out that little detail until now,” Mark says, his eyes trained on me.

  “All right, kids. That’s enough of that.” Zucker picks up his pen and scribbles something on the yellow legal pad, something I can’t read from my vantage point across the table. “We’ve established that Allie flirted a little. Can we move on? Let’s talk Ambien. You have no idea where that liquid Ambien came from?”

  I shake my head. “Neither Mark nor I ordered it.”

  “Could someone else have left it here? Or had it delivered here?” Zucker asks. “Without telling you?”

  Mark grunts. “And how exactly would that work?”

  Zucker leans back in his chair, twirling a well-chewed pen between his fingers. “You tell me. A relative?”

  “Caitlin has a key,” I say.

  “You think my sister left a bottle of liquid Ambien in our house?”