I Don't Forgive You

by Aggie Blum Thompson

  “Just tell us what’s going on,” Mark says, impatience bursting through his words.

  Flowers straightens an already tidy stack of papers on her desk and looks at me. “Look, Tenley Avery is a student here, too.”

  I flinch. During this entire ordeal, I have given no thought to the little girl who lost her father. “You’re saying Tenley Avery was involved in this? She’s not even in Cole’s grade.”

  “No, I am not saying Tenley Avery is involved. I am simply pointing out that children talk. And from what I understand, Ms. Ross, you’re involved in the investigation of her father’s death in some capacity.”

  My face flushes. I open my mouth to speak, but Mark beats me to it.

  “That is frankly none of your business,” Mark says, “and should have no bearing on Cole’s education.”

  “Of course, Mr. Ross.” The principal’s voice breaks. She knows she has pissed him off. “I realize that this is not really any of my business—”

  “No. It isn’t.”

  “But children don’t live in a vacuum. They hear things on the playground, they eavesdrop on their parents—”

  “What does any of this have to do with what happened this morning?” I ask. “With the scissors?”

  She clears her throat. “Apparently, a little girl in Cole’s class said some unkind things to your son—”

  “Now I get it,” I say. “What’s this girl’s name?”

  Flowers lets out the teeniest squeak of a laugh. “Ms. Ross, you must know that here at Eastbrook, we maintain the strictest confidentiality. We have zero tolerance for gossip.”

  “It’s that Piper girl, isn’t it?” My voice sounds shrill, but I don’t care. They’re scapegoating my son. I turn to Mark. “Cole has complained about her before. She won’t let him play on the monkey bars. She makes fun of him for wearing pink.”

  “That’s harassment,” Mark says. “Are you bringing her parents in, as well?”

  Flowers nods, acquiescing. “The other child’s parents have been notified. But you need to understand that there will be … Procedures need to be followed.”

  “Such as?” I ask.

  “Cole will have to be evaluated by an outside therapist.”

  “What?” I stand up. “That’s insane. My kid has to see a therapist because he stood up to some little bully?”

  Mark puts his hand on my wrist. “I think what my wife’s saying is that seems disproportionate. Isn’t there someone he can see at school?” he asks. “You have a guidance counselor, right?”

  Flowers’s strained smile suggests that she’s running out of patience. “We have limited resources available. We are simply not equipped to handle these situations. We have Mrs. Jelly Bean—”

  “Mrs. Jelly Bean?” Mark scoffs.

  “That’s what the kids call Mrs. Genbenito. She sends weekly Jelly Bean blasts in our school emails?” Flowers’s tone implies this is the sort of thing that involved parents already know. “Mrs. Jelly Bean is our resource counselor. She can help to some extent, but she cannot do the evaluation necessary to regain access to school. I have a list of local counselors who are usually quite accommodating in these situations. Cole is welcome to attend school for now, but he’ll need an evaluation within ten business days. After that, if you haven’t turned in an evaluation, he won’t be permitted to attend Eastbrook until you do.”

  “This is outrageous!” I say, turning to Mark. I wait for him to object, but he just gives the principal a perfunctory nod.

  I follow Mark, and as soon as we are outside in the cold where no one can hear us, I say, “Why didn’t you say more? I felt like I was the only one doing any fighting!”

  He spins around. “Maybe fighting isn’t the right response.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Allie, do you even see your role in this? This is happening because of you.”

  “Me?” My chest tightens, and I start to feel hot. Mark’s comment has awoken my most primal fear: that I am damaging my own son. In my gut, I know that Cole might be responding to everything that’s happening to me. He is so sensitive, and he picks up on everything. There’s no way he hasn’t noticed how freaked out I’ve been this week.

  I’ve always joked that Cole got his brown eyes from his dad and inherited his anxiety from me. I really hoped that once we had adjusted to our new neighborhood, his issues would recede, imperceptibly, the way snow melts into the ground and then one day is simply gone. But if anything, his anxiety has gotten worse. He’s become more rigid, more demanding.

  And now it’s spilled over into school.

  Cole needs me to be balanced and strong, but I feel the opposite, like I can’t find solid footing. I’m stretched so thin, between his needs and Sharon’s dementia care, the house in Westport, and my problems with Mark.

  I’m trying to keep it all together, but this Robert Avery thing might be what cracks me apart.

  40

  “We need to talk.” I am breathless as I catch up to him at the top of the hill. “It’s not my fault some bully attacked our son.”

  “I can’t do this right now. I have to be at a meeting in forty minutes.” He stops in front of my car. “Can you give me a ride to the metro? I Ubered here.”

  “Sure.”

  A look of confusion crosses his face. “Wait, how did you get here so fast? Weren’t you at work?”

  For a split second, I consider telling him what happened yesterday, that I have been fired. But the last thing I want is to give him more ammunition against me. Not after overhearing him on the phone last night. Whether I like it or not, Mark is holding something back from me. He’s playing a game, for which I don’t know all the rules. Some instinct tells me not to cede what little power I have. “I’m heading in later.”

  Neither of us speaks on the way to the Friendship Heights metro station. I pull in to the driveway entrance to a shopping mall, next to a No Stopping Any Time sign, and put my hazard lights on. This is a popular pickup and drop-off spot for commuters using the metro, and the police usually won’t bother you if you’re fast.

  Mark takes a glossy, colorful brochure out of his briefcase and lays it on the console between our seats. On the cover, a woman with a contemplative look on her face stares out at a lake as the wind blows her hair back.

  I pick it up.

  “What’s this?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Bridgeways Treatment Center,” I read aloud. “We can help.”

  “It’s on twenty acres, with hiking trails, on an estuary of the Chesapeake Bay. They have kayaking.”

  “You make it sound like summer camp.” I open the brochure. Certain words jump out at me—addiction, mental health, residential program. “This is rehab, Mark. I thought you said you didn’t think I needed rehab, remember?” I put the brochure back on the console.

  “You’re taking this the wrong way. Bridgeways is a facility with outpatient counseling, experts who deal with all kinds of mental health issues, including substance abuse.” He sounds like he’s practiced this little speech in front of the mirror. “You don’t have to check in.”

  “Mental health issues? I don’t have mental health issues.”

  He bites his lower lip as if he is forcing himself not to answer. His silence infuriates me.

  “Substance abuse?” I ask him. “You think I have a substance abuse issue?”

  “Allie, a whole bottle of wine every night—it’s not ideal. We can agree on that, right?”

  “It’s not every night. I’m under a lot of stress, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  He exhales a deep breath. “I didn’t want to tell you this, but the other day Cole came home with this worksheet from school. Mommy’s favorite this, Daddy’s favorite that. Your favorite food? He wrote down wine.”

  “I didn’t know that.” A burning sensation tingles at the edges of my scalp. I wonder if the teacher saw it, too.

  “I knew you wouldn’t like this idea—”

  “Well,
you’re right.” The words fly out of my mouth like bullets.

  “I’m at a loss. I feel like I’m watching you disintegrate in slow motion.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.” My tone is icy.

  “I am, too. But now it involves Cole. So I have to step in.”

  “I see.”

  “I actually think marriage counseling might help, but Caitlin says that marriage counselors will not see couples where alcohol is a factor. They insist the alcohol issue must be treated first.”

  “Caitlin said that, huh?”

  “Caitlin says this place is one of the best. Very upscale, very discreet. They have a seven-day program and a fourteen-day program.”

  “Fuck Caitlin.”

  His head jerks back. “My sister is not the problem here.”

  “I’m the problem, is that it?”

  “No, you’re not a problem.” He reaches out and squeezes my hand. “But if you can’t see that things have gotten out of control, I don’t know what to say. You’re a suspect in a murder investigation, Allie. And I want to believe you, I do. I want to be on your side, but then you do things that I just don’t understand. You need help. This family needs help.”

  “You want to help?” I am practically shouting, but I can’t help it. “Find out who launched an online campaign to destroy my life!” I pull my hand out from under his. “Do you have any idea how frustrating it is that you don’t believe me?” In my rearview mirror, I see a white police car pull up behind us, and my heart begins to pound. I know it’s only a traffic cop, but Artie Zucker’s warning about being prepared to be arrested rings in my ears. “You should go.”

  “This isn’t about believing you, Allie.”

  “Who were you talking to on the phone last night?”

  “What?” He jerks his head back. “No one.”

  “Bullshit. I heard you, Mark. Around midnight. You were on the phone.”

  “Oh, that. That was Caitlin. She wanted to talk about Thanksgiving.”

  “You were talking about me. You said something about a car following me? About how I recognized it?”

  He blinks at me, expressionless. “You’re being paranoid, Allie.”

  “Can I see your phone? Your work phone?”

  “Excuse me?”

  I hold out my hand. “Can I see your work phone? I want to see that it was Caitlin.”

  Mark lets out a low whistle. “I’d better go. That cop is headed here.” He opens the door and extends his long legs, but before he climbs out, he looks back at me. “Think about making an appointment, Allie.”

  I watch as he disappears down the escalator into the metro and then put the car in drive just as the traffic cop is almost to my car.

  My guts twist all the way home with the knowledge that Mark has betrayed me. He’s been talking with Caitlin behind my back, plotting. What was it she said in the bathroom at the restaurant last week? When you and Mark get divorced.

  The question hovers in my mind: How long have they been cooking this up?

  Stop.

  I tell myself to stop, remind myself that this is Mark, that yes, even though we’re going through a horrible time, he loves me.

  But what about that phone call last night?

  My head hurts from trying to sort it all out. Back at home, I put the kettle on in the kitchen and give the brochure Mark gave me a closer look.

  What to expect on your first day. You will meet with a counselor during intake and be given a complete examination to assess your physical wellness.

  You will then be screened to determine if there are drugs or alcohol in your system. If you test positive for drugs or alcohol, you will be taken to detox, which usually lasts three to ten days. If no substances are found in your system, you will go straight to the rehabilitation center.

  Think about making an appointment, Allie.

  His plea could be coming from the heart, out of love and concern. Or it could be something darker. I cannot overlook that Caitlin’s specialty is getting full custody for fathers.

  The kettle shrieks, and I pour hot water into a mug. I pick up the phone and put it back down. A part of me is willing to make the bargain—an appointment at the treatment center in exchange for preserving my marriage and family.

  But what would I say once I arrived at Bridgeways? That my husband thinks I have a drinking problem, but I don’t? That the police think I’ve killed my neighbor? That somebody is out to get me and no one believes me? It sounds crazy. They’d lock me up.

  I saw a documentary once about a man who was wrongly convicted of rape. Every time he’d come up for parole, he couldn’t bring himself to apologize for something he had not done. Just show remorse to the parole board, his lawyer would tell him every year, and you’ll be released.

  But he couldn’t do it.

  Could I show remorse for something I hadn’t done? God knows I’m not a perfect mother. I forgot Blue Day. I can’t bake to save my life. But I’m not the person Mark has painted me out to be.

  I pick up my cell phone and see the voice mail notification from earlier. I don’t recognize the number and hit Play.

  “Ms. Ross? Detective Khoury here from the Montgomery County Police Department. I have some news for you. We located the Paul Adamson that you mentioned.” A shiver runs through me at the sound of Paul’s name. With trembling fingers, I pause the message, not quite ready to hear what the detective has found.

  I realize I have been waiting for this moment for more than sixteen years. It’s a small hole in my soul, a tear that has never been mended. Where is he? What has he become? A part of me does not want him to be the one behind all this. It’s pathetic, but I want a happy ending to the Paul Adamson story. Maybe he’s living in Alaska with that wife I erased and their children. Maybe this whole thing has nothing to do with him.

  I listen to the rest of the message. And then I replay it once more as key phrases jab at my brain like ice picks. “—cannot be responsible … a resident of the Mt. Auburn Cemetery … car crash on the Jamaicaway in Boston.”

  The third time I play it, the words devolve into white noise as the serpentine, tree-lined roadway springs forth in my mind. I’ve driven that winding route through Boston a few times. I couldn’t help but notice the small piles of teddy bears and plastic flowers that dot it, shrines to those who perished on the notoriously dangerous road.

  Had one of them been for Paul?

  The last thing Detective Khoury says before hanging up is, “That should put your mind at ease.”

  But the detective is wrong. I do not feel at ease. I feel unmoored, adrift. That rip can never be sewn up now. Paul’s been dead all these years. I’ll never learn why he did that to me. Was there something defective about me, some kind of high-pitched whistle that only predators can hear, that led him to me?

  I was twelve years younger, his student. I was clearly troubled. A different teacher might have rebuffed me, called my mother, notified the school counselor. But he didn’t help me. Instead, he took me to a motel room where I traded my virginity and my innocence for a few hours of uninterrupted adult attention.

  For the first time, I feel a disgust for him.

  But now I know: Paul can’t possibly be behind what’s been happening.

  But Paul had a wife.

  Correction, a widow.

  I stare at my phone for a moment, then at the brochure for Bridgeways, before I dial. I don’t want to do this, but I have no choice.

  The phone on the other end clicks on the first ring.

  “This is Allie Ross,” I say, trying to keep my voice from trembling. “I need your help.”

  “I figured you’d call,” Dustin says. “It was just a matter of time.”

  41

  I brake suddenly to avoid hitting an enormous black Mercedes SUV that’s trying to cut in front of me. Construction workers have torn up the left lane on Wisconsin Avenue so that the two lanes must merge into one. All the drivers had been taking turns in a civil manner, alternatin
g one car from each lane, until this guy came barreling along.

  I’m supposed to meet Dustin at a Starbucks near his high school in twenty minutes, and I don’t want to be late. I’m almost there when my phone rings. It’s Krystle. We have not spoken since the other night when she called me a cunt and I hung up on her.

  I hesitate, but then accept the call.

  “Are you still mad at me?” Krystle asks as soon as I answer. “I hate the way we left things.”

  “Yeah, me, too.” I note that feeling bad doesn’t equate to an apology for her. But then again, I never ask her to provide one. When we were kids, we would fight like drunken dockworkers, kicking and biting, scratching and screaming. I would retreat to our room, while she would camp out on the sofa in the living room in front of the TV. But at some point in the night, she would crawl into my single bed without saying a word. We would wake up in a tangle of limbs, whatever storm that had raged the night before having passed.

  “I know you think the mortgage thing is my fault, and I promise I am going to fix it,” she says, her words bursting forth like a current. “I’m going to find out what happened to that money.”

  I sigh as I turn right onto Montgomery Avenue and into a public parking garage.

  “Honestly, Sharon’s house is the last thing on my mind right now,” I say. “The past few days have been hell.”

  “Tell me everything.” This is typical Krystle, swinging from one polarity to the other. One day she’s a raging bitch, the next she’s the most empathic confidante. It’s enough to give me whiplash, but today, I need support wherever I can find it.

  I tell Krystle everything, about the police investigating me, about the phone call I overheard last night. And Mark’s urging me to go to Bridgeways.

  “This is a nightmare. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to meet Dustin.”

  “That weird kid that lives across the street from you?”

  “I feel like he might be able to help. It can’t hurt.”