I Don't Forgive You

by Aggie Blum Thompson

  “Terrific.” I force a smile.

  “I thought it would be a nice touch,” Susan says. “These gave me the idea.” Susan cups her ears to showcase her Union Jack earrings. “I printed them out, and we cut and taped them together, didn’t we, Cole?”

  Cole doesn’t answer. He’s returned to the task at hand—taping the unused toothpicks together end-to-end with the focus of a neurosurgeon.

  Susan points to a plate filled with overbaked edges and broken cookie pieces. “These are the ones that didn’t make the cut. Help yourself; they’re still delicious.”

  Susan pushes the plate toward me. I get the feeling she won’t stop until I try one, so I pop a piece in my mouth.

  I wonder if there’s some way I can get out of going tonight. Maybe Mark can take Cole, and I can stay home.

  Cole looks up at me from his work. “Where’s Daddy? Is he coming with us or meeting us at school? Ava said I could walk around with her. Can we walk around alone together, Mommy? No grown-ups? Please.”

  Amid this torrent of words, my phone chimes. I glance at it. It’s a text from Dustin.

  Found name connected to license plate: Jon Block.

  I type back: Name means nothing to me.

  “Mommy, are you listening?” Cole pulls at my sleeve. “I want to walk around with Ava. Her mom said it was okay with her if it’s okay with you.”

  Dustin texts: He works for a private investigation company called LFW Research.

  “Mommy!” Cole yells.

  I put down the phone, sure I have seen the name LFW Research somewhere recently.

  “What? Yeah, that’s fine, hon.” I don’t really know what I have agreed to, but it elicits a fist pump from Cole. He jumps off his stool, making his pink tulle princess dress rustle.

  “Why don’t you get changed, and I’ll see if Leah can take you and Ava over.”

  He frowns. “What do you mean? You’re not coming?”

  “I mean, Dad will be there, later.” I remember how ticked Mark got when Cole pulled an envelope from his briefcase thinking it contained family photos. It had LFW Research as the return address.

  Cole’s chin trembles. “No, no, no. You have to be there. What if I don’t like it? What if I want to come home? You said you would be at the England table. Mommy, you promised.”

  “Okay, sweetie, I’ll go.” I give his tiny little shoulders a squeeze. I can go for a little while, until Mark shows. “Let’s get changed.”

  “I don’t want to change,” Cole says.

  “Cole, go change. It’s cold out there.”

  He rolls his eyes, but the iron in my voice sends him stomping upstairs. Knowing Cole, it will take him at least twenty minutes to pick out an outfit. Twenty minutes I can use to search the house for that envelope.

  Now I just need to get rid of Susan.

  “So, thanks for everything, Susan.” I pour myself a glass of wine and stand there expectantly.

  “Not a problem.” Susan flits around the kitchen, tidying and chatting, oblivious to my chilliness. Her bubbly cheer, normally so reassuring, grates on me today like the tinny tune of a jack-in-the-box playing over and over. The clock on the wall ticks. I’m not sure how to make her leave without seeming rude.

  “You probably want to get home to walk Marnie. I can take it from here.”

  “Oh.” She straightens up, sponge in mid-swipe. “You sure? I feel like I’ve left you a mess here.”

  “You’re sweet, but I can clean up later.”

  As soon as she’s gone, I head to the guest room and begin looking through the boxes that contain our files. Even in moving boxes, Mark is a meticulous filer. No months-old receipts or scraps of paper with mysterious numbers scrawled on them. Each file gets its own folder, labeled Utilities, Health Care, House, et cetera. Nothing out of place.

  And nothing that says LFW Research.

  I sit on the floor and drink my wine. Who was I kidding? He wouldn’t just file it away under L.

  I stand up, wondering where to look next. In the bedroom, I rummage through Mark’s dresser drawers, sliding my hands between his neatly folded clothing, searching for something out of the norm. In his bottom drawer, beneath plaid flannel pajamas, my fingers touch something crinkly.

  I pull out a manila envelope, the same one that I saw in the kitchen, marked with a return address for LFW Research.

  My heart thumps as I open it.

  On top are several recent photographs of me—walking Cole to school, entering my mother’s assisted living facility, leaving the Mike Chau studio. It all falls into place. This must be who Mark was talking to the other night. The private investigator he hired.

  As disturbing as these images are, in some way they comfort me. I wasn’t being paranoid. I was being followed.

  A woman’s shrill laugh from downstairs catches me off guard. Someone is in the house. I flip past the photos to a photocopy of two newspaper articles laid side by side, both from the Stamford Advocate. The first headline reads: POPULAR PREP-SCHOOL TEACHER CHARGED WITH STATUTORY RAPE.

  My eyes drop to the second headline: RAPE CHARGES DROPPED.

  My breath is ripped from my lungs. I struggle to breathe deeply. I know the articles well. I cut them out when they were first published sixteen years ago and took them into my room, weeping.

  “What are you doing?” Cole asks, appearing in the doorway of the bedroom.

  Quickly, I try to stuff the papers back into the envelope. “Nothing.”

  He tugs at the waistband of the sweatpants he’s pulled on beneath his dress. “What’re those? I want to see.”

  I shove the envelope under Mark’s flannel pajamas and shut the drawer. “Did I hear someone downstairs?”

  He nods solemnly, still eyeing the drawer.

  “Let’s go say hi.” I stand up and take his hand.

  But all I can think of on the way down is: Mark knows.

  In my kitchen, I find Daisy, Leah, and Ava. Mother and daughter wear skinny jeans and light blue tees with blue Hebrew letters on them.

  “What does your shirt say?” Cole asks.

  Leah puts one hand on her hip and bends down. “They say shalom, which is the Hebrew word for peace.”

  “And hello,” Ava says, jutting out one tiny hip and flipping her long, dark hair.

  Leah laughs. “And goodbye, too.”

  Daisy waves a bottle of champagne.

  “Guess who just sold the Beckerman house?”

  I turn to Ava. “Honey, can you take Cole upstairs and help him change out of his dress? Cole, can you please put on a proper shirt?”

  This time, he doesn’t resist.

  “But don’t hurry,” Daisy says, patting Ava on the head as she waltzes by. “The mommies need to drink this first.”

  Ava runs off, and Daisy pops the champagne, letting out a whoop. “Thought I would never sell that damn house. It’s been on the market since mid-June.”

  Leah grabs two coffee mugs, fills them, and hands one to Daisy and one to me. My phone beeps with an incoming text. When I see it’s from Madeline, my chest tightens. I open my messages, holding my breath. I may be about to learn who Paul Adamson’s wife is. A part of me thinks I will be looking at a familiar face, like Vicki’s. But when I read the message, all it says is that Madeline asked her mother, who promised she would look through her old garden club newsletters tonight.

  I put the phone down.

  “Everything all right?” Leah asks.

  I stretch my lips into a tight smile and reach for my mug of champagne.

  “We’re keepin’ it classy, right?” Daisy giggles.

  I sip at mine, aware that I am getting buzzed. I don’t want to be drunk at International Night, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I loved how the cool, sparkling bubbles soothe my throat.

  Leah juts her chin at me, a sad smile on her face. “How are you holding up, Allie? Doing okay?”

  I shake my head. “Not really.” I haven’t told them about the police homing in on me as a sus
pect.

  She refills my mug. “What’s going on?”

  I look at these two women, wondering how much to tell them. I am tempted to shut down, pull into my shell like a turtle. But I need support now; I can’t handle this latest bombshell on my own. And Daisy and Leah are real friends. They have been nothing but empathic.

  Daisy frowns. “Not another online thing, is it?”

  I shake my head. She places one soft hand over mine. The heat from her body radiates through me, uncorking all my bottled-up feelings. “Mark hired a private detective to follow me, and I don’t know why. I would tell him anything he wanted to know, so why would he do that? It makes no sense to me.”

  They both step closer to me and hug me at the same time. I feel the tears come to my eyes and blink them away. I’m just glad Cole is upstairs with Ava and can’t see me lose it like this.

  “How did you find out?” Daisy asks.

  “I found an envelope with pictures,” I say, careful to leave Dustin’s involvement out of my explanation. “I thought someone had been following me.”

  Leah squeezes my shoulder. “Do you think it’s because of the whole Rob Avery thing? Like maybe he’s trying to clear your name?”

  “Maybe. I hadn’t thought of that.” I straighten up so her hand falls back. The idea cheers me up a bit. Maybe that’s what it is, an effort to exonerate me. But if that’s the case, why not tell me?

  “Did you ever go to the police?” Daisy asks. “About the harassment?”

  I let out a sharp laugh. “They were zero help. Told me to stay off screens and go ride a bike.”

  “Super helpful,” Daisy chortles.

  “Dustin was right about them—totally useless.” I tip my coffee mug toward Leah.

  “Dustin?” She snaps her head back and wrinkles her nose. “When were you talking to my son?”

  I clear my throat, my antennae on alert. “The other day. He must have heard us talking in your kitchen. He said the police wouldn’t be able to help me.”

  “But let me guess: He said he could?” Leah’s lower lip twitches.

  “He did offer.”

  “But you said no, right?” Leah’s voice has an insistent edge to it.

  I look to Daisy for guidance, but she’s picking crumbs of shortbread off the counter with her thumb.

  “Right.” I cradle the mug in my hand, unable to meet Leah’s intense gaze.

  “Good,” Leah says. Her emphatic response makes me question whether hiring him was the right move. No, I tell myself, he’s already produced some good information. Even if he is a little off, he knows what he’s doing.

  Daisy reaches across Leah and pops another piece of shortbread in her mouth.

  “Stop it.” Leah slaps Daisy’s hand. “Allie worked hard on those.” At the same time, Cole runs in, having traded in his pink tulle gown for his dinosaur pajama shirt.

  “Mommy didn’t bake those,” Cole says. “Susan did. Mommy can’t bake.”

  “My mommy is a really good baker,” Ava says.

  I wince inwardly. No matter how much I do, it never feels like enough. Daisy gives me a sympathetic look. We pack everything up, grab our coats, and usher the kids outside. Leah and Ava climb into their car across the street. I shudder in the cool air. The temperatures are supposed to dip below freezing tonight for the first time this fall. Daisy starts to place the trays of shortbread in the front seat, but when she sees the banker’s box full of my things from work, she heads to the trunk. I’m grateful she does not ask any questions.

  “See you at school,” Leah calls through her open car window as she drives by. Ava sticks her arm out the back window and waves.

  I buckle Cole into his car seat, then go to help Daisy make room in the trunk for the cookie trays.

  “So glad I don’t have to do any of this elementary school crap anymore. Listen.” She fixes her bright blue eyes on me. “Please tell me that you didn’t hire Dustin.”

  I don’t answer. I can’t even meet her eyes.

  “Oh, Allie. That’s not a great idea.”

  “What? The police can’t help me, and I need help.” I sound brash and defensive, but everything I am saying is true. “I need to find out who is trying to ruin my life. And I think he can do it. In fact, he’s already started.”

  Daisy raises one eyebrow. “How so?”

  “C’mon, Mommy!” Cole yells from the back seat. “We’re gonna be late!”

  “He’s the one who figured out that Mark hired a private investigator.”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind that Dustin is smart and can do what he says, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Leah would kill me if she knew I was telling you this, but he got in trouble last year. There was a teacher whom he had it in for, and he went to town on her. Made a fake Twitter profile and had her tweeting all sorts of inappropriate stuff. She got fired, Allie. It was all sorted out in the end, but not until the damage was done.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know the details. She’s teaching at a different school now. Private.”

  “And Dustin?”

  Cole pounds on the rear window with his fists.

  Daisy shakes her head. “I don’t know the details. There was some level of punishment. He finished last spring semester at home, which practically killed Leah. Had to stay off computers for like six months, something like that. Anyway, I think you should be careful is all.”

  44

  I ease the car into the parking lot, my head fuzzy. Although I didn’t drink much more than one mug back at the house, I’m having trouble concentrating. I’m not used to champagne. Apparently, it makes me loose-jointed, like a marionette with slack strings. I’ll have to be careful. The last thing I want to do is embarrass myself on International Night in front of every parent at Eastbrook Elementary School.

  Once I get some food in my stomach, I’ll feel better.

  I peer at myself in the mirror. A quick swipe of lipstick helps, but not a lot. I pull at my short hair. My mother is right: I do look like a deranged elf.

  “Mommy, why aren’t we going in?”

  “Just a second.” I glance at Cole in the rearview mirror. My mini-Mark. I cannot reconcile the Mark who hired a private investigator with the trusting man I married. He always acted as though he loved me so much that my past didn’t matter. He never wanted to discuss it. This just doesn’t make sense.

  “I want to go! Ava is waiting for me.”

  Once we are out of the car, Cole rushes to the front door without me. I lag behind, struggling with the two platters of shortbread. I focus on not tripping on the uneven pavement in the dark. I can see other parents pass by in my peripheral vision, but I keep my head down and avoid eye contact.

  Mark will be here. He’s meeting us straight from work. What will I say? I want to ask him about the envelope I found in his dresser, but I don’t want to seem confrontational or accusatory in case he really is just trying to help me.

  A trio of women in Japanese kimonos standing just inside the front door turns to appraise me. I keep my chin up and ignore them, but I wonder who knows what. Who has seen my Facebook page with that nude photo of me? The buzzing fluorescent lights are like little electric needles in my brain.

  Cole and I enter the all-purpose room. During the school day, the cavernous room serves as lunch hall, assembly room, and indoor gymnasium. But tonight, it has been transformed into a miniature Epcot.

  When Mark was selling me on the move back to Bethesda, he would trot out certain key facts: its population is the most educated in America; the proximity to the nation’s capital puts it minutes away from great museums, landmarks, and historical sites; and finally, its immense international presence. Because many of the foreign diplomats and World Bank officials in the D.C. area live in Bethesda, Cole would be attending school with children from around the world.

  The result is International Night on steroids. If my own elementary school in Connecticut had a similar eve
nt, it would probably mean mostly white moms nuking some egg rolls and enchiladas purchased at Trader Joe’s. Not here at Eastbrook.

  The din crashes inside my brain like cymbals, making my head ache. Chinese pop music blasts from the front of the room. What look like professional dancers are swirling around with scarves. Then I remember an email I read saying that somebody’s father who works at the Chinese embassy had secured dancers to perform the traditional lion dance.

  Punctuating the loud flute music are the shrieks of children and laughter of parents. Mingling together in an unholy cacophony, these sounds bounce off the linoleum floor and reverberate in my brain. Cole has complained that he can’t finish lunch at school because it’s too loud to eat. Now I understand what he means.

  Someone has gone to great lengths to hang regulation-size flags from different countries on the painted cinder block walls. These are no paper printouts but the real deal. I locate the Union Jack and begin picking my way across the packed room to the United Kingdom table, sandwiched between the Jewish table and Bolivia.

  As I pass Nigeria, someone grabs my arm. It takes me a moment to recognize Janelle from book club. She’s traded in her austere pantsuit for a turquoise robe and head wrap.

  “I’ve been wondering about you,” she says, offering what looks like a plantain on a toothpick to Cole and one to me. “I wasn’t sure if you’d show tonight.”

  “Well, I did.” I take the food from her, unsure of how to gauge her concern. I can’t tell how much she knows or whether she is sympathetic or not.

  “Don’t let that queen bee get under your skin.”

  “Vicki,” I say. “You’re talking about Vicki Armstrong.”

  She shakes her head. “I mean Karen Pearce. She thinks she’s a better mom because she’s the school room–parent coordinator and a doctor, but the truth is she just feels guilty for working too much. It’s like, stop overcompensating, please.”

  I nod.

  “When I heard she kicked you off the Halloween party because you slept with Rob Avery, I was like, whaaaaaat? If you ask me, you dodged a bullet.” She turns and flashes a huge smile at a little girl who is reaching for the plantains.

  “Wait, I didn’t sleep with Rob Avery. Is that what you think?”