I Don't Forgive You

by Aggie Blum Thompson

  “Honestly, I don’t know what to think. If you’re arrested, obviously you can’t meet me at—”

  “That’s very understanding, Mark.”

  He ignores my sarcasm. “Let me finish. I plan on meeting you there, at Bridgeways, at five p.m. Of course, if something happens, and you physically can’t make it…” He exhales deeply. “But I’m telling you, Allie, if you’re not there at five, and you don’t have a damn good reason, I’m filing for emergency temporary custody.”

  Emergency custody. The two words knock the wind out of me. My chest feels concave, sucking in on itself. I open my mouth to take in air, but my lungs won’t expand.

  He’s going to take Cole.

  When I look up, Mark has left the room. I can’t let him do this. I force myself to stand despite the dizziness and follow him down the stairs.

  “You can’t do this!” I yell at his back as we pass through the dining room. In the kitchen, he pauses at the refrigerator to take out a bottle of water.

  “I want to help you. I’m trying to help you. But I can’t let Cole see you like this. I don’t want to do this, believe me, but—”

  “If you don’t want to, don’t.”

  He shuts the fridge and continues to the mudroom, where he tucks the water bottle into his overnight bag. It’s packed full of clothing. This is a fait accompli. There was never going to be a discussion. He opens the back door and walks out. Bits of stone and twigs dig into my bare feet as I stumble after him, my robe flapping around me, the cold air hitting my bare torso.

  “Emergency custody?” I have to force the words out as I run.

  Mark pops open the trunk of his car and places his bag inside.

  “I found the file,” I say, out of breath. “I know you hired someone to follow me. To spy on me.”

  He slams the trunk shut. “You went through my things?”

  “That’s what matters to you? That I went through your things? You hired a private detective, Mark. To spy on your wife.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Then explain it.” We stare at each other for a moment that stretches on. We are like two actors on a stage who have forgotten our lines. I, the accommodating wife. He, the stalwart husband. If only someone from backstage could whisper them to us.

  “Caitlin hired that detective,” Mark says, a tremor in his voice. “I didn’t ask her to. I didn’t even read the file.”

  “I don’t believe you. I heard you on the phone the other night. The night I told you that car was on our block?”

  He lets out an anemic laugh. “Allie, you’ve got this all wrong. Caitlin hired the guy without asking me, but once she told me about the detective, I asked him to look into everything that has been going on. To try to find out who is doing this to you. Caitlin said he’s the best.”

  “Caitlin. Did she put this in my car, too?” I toss the condom wrapper at him. “Maybe she’s the one who’s been behind all this online crap.”

  “That’s crazy. Why would she do that?”

  “She never liked me. Maybe she’s trying to split us up.”

  Mark pushes me aside so he can open the driver-side door.

  “To guarantee custody of Cole? Or maybe she wants him for herself.”

  He snorts. “Do you even hear yourself? You sound crazy.”

  “Do I?” I say, positioning my body so he can’t shut the door. “What is it that Caitlin said about her precious trifecta? No job, substance abuse, infidelity. Is that what you want? What your family wants?”

  “You know it’s not what I want.” He starts the engine and reaches to close the door. “I have to go, Allie. I don’t want to fight with you.”

  I don’t budge.

  “Now please, move back before you get hurt.”

  47

  But I am hurt already. Watching Mark drive away, my whole body begins to ache like I have the flu. I am alone on my street, my robe flapping around me. I yank it tight as his ultimatum rings in my ears: check into rehab or he’ll file for custody.

  I fall to the wet asphalt, feeling like the earth is dropping out from under me, and I’m scared I might be sick right there on the street. From the corner of my eye, I see two figures and a small dog coming this way. I wipe away my tears, and the forms take shape. Daisy is bundled into a yellow slicker, like the kind old-fashioned fishermen wear, and Leah is holding a thin leash attached to Dustin’s therapy dog.

  Daisy and Leah, Leah and Daisy, always there at every turn. A strange mixture of comfort and unease fills me. A notion lurks in the shadows of my thoughts, but before I can pinch it and pull it into the light, they are beside me, cooing kind words and lifting me up.

  Arms around me, they sweep me inside, clucking over me. I let myself be carried along by their confident concern like a broken tree branch being swept down a river. I haven’t even had time to process what happened with Mark. They get straight to work in my kitchen, putting the kettle on, banging cabinet doors, looking for tea and honey and mugs.

  Dustin’s small, yippy dog, whose name I can’t recall, runs around the kitchen sniffing everything in sight.

  Custody. The very word makes my stomach curdle. I don’t know if he can even do that. And I don’t know whom to ask. Whatever happens, I cannot lose Cole.

  Daisy puts a steaming mug in front of me. “You poor thing,” she says. She could be referring to any number of things—my public fight with Mark just now or my passing out at International Night. I cringe at the thought.

  Leah puts the condom wrapper on the counter. She must have picked it up from the street after I tossed it.

  “Do you want to talk about this?”

  “Not really.”

  “What happened last night?” Leah’s eyes scan my face for an answer. “Had you taken a Xanax or an Ativan?”

  I shake my head.

  “We were so worried about you.” Daisy purses her cupid-bow lips together.

  “I think someone drugged me.”

  They shoot each other a look. It’s quick, so quick I could easily have missed it. They don’t believe me.

  “You think someone drugged you?” Leah asks, her voice as soft and gentle as a cotton ball.

  “I don’t know. It could have been anyone. I ate a ton of different food.”

  No one speaks. The only sound is the click-click-click of the little dog’s nails on my wooden floor.

  “So you think someone made food for International Night,” Leah says slowly, “and put aside a little bit with drugs in it for you?” She keeps glancing over at Daisy when she says this.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” I jut my chin out, challenging them to question me.

  “Allie, we’re trying to help.”

  “Well, it’s not helping. I don’t need friends who don’t believe me.”

  “We believe you,” Leah says. Daisy nods in agreement and puts her hand on my back. My defenses melt, as does any effort at staying composed. Tears pour forth, and I can’t stop them. I put my face in my hands as my whole body convulses with deep sobs. Leah presses a paper towel into my hand, and Daisy rubs my back, which just makes me cry harder. The past ten days have been like hurtling up and down a monster roller coaster. Just when I think things are winding down, I find myself perched on the brink of disaster once again. “Mark took Cole for the weekend. He’s given me an ultimatum,” I say through tears. “If I don’t go to rehab, he’s going to file for emergency custody of Cole.” I look up at their faces. “Can he do that?”

  I scan their faces for answers, but they offer none. “Well, I’m not going. That’s for sure,” I say.

  Leah chews her lip. Daisy shrugs.

  “What?” I ask. “You think I should go?”

  “I don’t know.” Leah sighs. “I’m not saying he’s handling this the best way possible—”

  “Definitely not,” Daisy says, making circles on my back with her palm.

  “But maybe some time away wouldn’t be the worst idea. You need a break, Al
lie.”

  Her touch, which had soothed me moments before, now feels oppressive to me, and I shake her hand off. I stand up straight. “You guys think I need to go to rehab?”

  “That’s not what we’re saying,” Daisy says. “It’s just…”

  “It’s just what?”

  “Would it hurt to go talk to someone? Take a little vacation from all this craziness?”

  “Maybe it’ll be good to get away for a few days,” Daisy says. “Talk to a professional, someone who can be objective about everything that’s been going on?”

  Before I can answer, the tinny sound of a cell phone rings from the mudroom. “That’s my phone,” I say. “I should get it.”

  Leah steps toward me. “Sweetie, we only want what’s best for you.”

  I grab my phone and groan. It’s Morningside House. The last thing I need is more drama with my mother. “Hold on, please,” I say as soon as I answer. Then I hold the phone to my chest. “I need to take this.”

  Daisy’s mouth drops open, but she doesn’t speak. I wait until they are gone before I put the phone to my ear.

  “This is Lydia from Morningside House. Your mother has been taken to the emergency room.”

  48

  Once upon a time, a call that my mother was in the emergency room would have sent me into a tailspin. But over the past few years, I have gotten used to getting one every few months. Stumbles and falls, mostly. The problem with a dementia patient is that when she falls, she often has no memory of it, and she can even have difficulty expressing that she is in pain.

  That’s where the emergency room visits come in. If the patient can’t communicate, most facilities send their residents to the hospital to run every test known to man, just in case.

  A total CYA move.

  I’d been through this with Sharon a dozen times, and as I drive to the hospital, I say a little prayer that this is one of those times. A routine fall. Nothing more. I am grateful that her assisted living center sent her to Suburban, like I specified on her forms. It’s only a ten-minute drive from my house.

  I don’t think I can handle anything more right now.

  As I drive, I dial Krystle’s number, but the call goes straight to voice mail. I dial again and again, without success. I know my sister. She is never more than ten feet away from her phone. If she could have it surgically attached to her body, she would.

  A fat raindrop plops on the windshield. I look up at the milky white sky, which perfectly reflects the gloom suffocating me. It’s only a matter of minutes until it pours. Bits of last night’s conversation with Krystle float back to me as I wait at a red light. Something about an account opened up in her name.

  It feels like the three of us—Krystle, Sharon, and me—are all cursed.

  I turn into Suburban Hospital’s large parking lot and find a spot. I dash through the hospital’s sliding doors just as the rain comes pouring down. I get in line behind an elderly man at the information desk. My phone buzzes, and I pull it out, hoping it is Krystle, but it’s Leah. I send the call to voice mail.

  “I’m here to see my mother, Sharon Healy. Is she all right?”

  The woman assures me my mother is in good hands. She takes my name, gives me a visitor’s sticker, and sends me around the corner to wait. I sit below a television turned to the news and pick up a Redbook magazine from last winter. Five Easy Fifteen-Minute Dinners for Weekday Nights. I put it down, unable to concentrate.

  I keep looking at my phone, willing Krystle to call. A crack of thunder makes me jump in my seat. A young woman sitting across from me tenderly holding her arm gives me a wan smile.

  At this moment, Cole and Caitlin may be driving over the Bay Bridge on their way to the Eastern Shore. The first time I crossed the massive steel-and-concrete arc, I almost had a panic attack. The drive was endless, and though the bright blue Chesapeake spreading out on either side was beautiful, I was filled with visions of the car hurtling off the bridge into the water.

  I hate the idea of Cole driving over it in this storm. Have they crossed yet? Did they stop somewhere to wait out the rain? I want to call Caitlin, but I don’t dare. Nor can I call Mark after this morning. There’s only one call Mark would want from me, one confirming that I will meet him at Bridgeways this afternoon.

  My phone rings, jolting me out of my thoughts.

  “Hi, Allie,” Barb DeSoto says. “Is this a good time to talk?”

  I almost laugh at the question, but I answer yes.

  “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but now that there’s a criminal investigation into the mortgage on the house, we’re going to bow out. At least until things have been resolved.”

  “I understand.” And I do understand. She has a business to run, and we cannot sell a house under these conditions. Still, it is confirmation that the reverse mortgage is more than just a wrench in the works. It’s a complete disaster. I may never get that money back.

  I panic, realizing that if I get arrested, I’ll be leaving behind a huge mess. Who will deal with Sharon and the Westport house? Krystle?

  “Please get back in touch with us once you’ve cleared all this up,” Barb says. “I am sorry. We always knew this would be a tough one. The house had a whole host of issues to overcome even before this—being a rental property for so long, the dilapidated condition, and the ridiculously low price your mother paid for it back in 2005—”

  “My mother didn’t buy it,” I interject. “It was an inheritance.”

  “I’m sure I saw in the records that she bought it for some nominal fee, something like twenty dollars. Wait, hold on, I have the deed right here.” I can hear her shuffling papers in the background. “She was probably just using the word inheritance loosely. It’s a pretty common way to pass a house down to a relative. Here we go—she purchased it for the grand sum of five dollars from Margaret Cooper.”

  I look up to see a woman in purple scrubs scowling at me. “Can’t you read?” she hisses, pointing to a sign on the wall: No Cell Phone Use Permitted in Waiting Room.

  I say goodbye quickly and put my phone on vibrate. The nurse, satisfied, walks away muttering under her breath about selfishness.

  Margaret Cooper. I know that I’ve heard that name before, and I don’t think it was in connection with the Westport house. Then I remember—that was the name of the woman Sharon said had come into her room and tried to hurt her.

  If that was the name of the great-aunt who left my mother the Westport house, then Sharon must have experienced a dementia-induced episode where she thought her late aunt visited her.

  I was unaware of the details of my mother inheriting the house until it was all over. At the time, I never learned the name of the relative who left it to Sharon, and there was no one else to ask. The whole thing happened while I was in San Francisco, and my mother was never very forthcoming about the details. All I knew was that an elderly aunt had died, one whom my mother had never mentioned, whom we had never met, and who had no other living relatives. That was all Sharon ever said when I pressed her. That wasn’t unusual for my mother; she could be as tight-lipped as a Cold War spy when she wanted to be.

  I guess that aunt must have been named Margaret Cooper. A quick search on my phone brings up nothing useful. The world abounds with Margaret Coopers. What had my mother said about that imaginary visit? It had something to do with Krystle, but I can’t recall what exactly.

  “Alexis Ross?” I look up to see a man in a white coat adjusting his glasses. “Dr. Ahmed.”

  He doesn’t offer his hand or lead me to a more private place to talk but launches immediately into an emotionless recitation of my mother’s condition.

  “Your mother is in stable condition after ingesting a substantial amount of ethylene glycol. Not that any amount of ethylene glycol is safe for ingestion, but—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but what is ethylene glycol?”

  His brown eyes widen behind his round glasses. “It’s the main component in antifreeze.”
<
br />   “Antifreeze?” The word sends a chill through me. “Where the hell did she get antifreeze?”

  He shrugs. “At the levels found in her, she is lucky to be alive. She was found unconscious and convulsing this morning. We have stabilized her, but we need to run some further tests and to keep an eye on her. Her heart rate was quite elevated, and she is dehydrated from all the vomiting. She’s also developed metabolic acidosis as a result of the accumulation of organic acids.”

  I bite hard on my lip to stop from crying out. How did this happen? The doctor’s increasingly obscure jargon blends into the rhythmic beating of the rain against the windows.

  “Do you have any questions?” He glances at the clock above me, tapping one foot in a not-so-subtle reminder that he’d like to get back to work.

  “I’d like to know how antifreeze got into my mother’s system.”

  He holds his hands open and shrugs his slender shoulders. “I cannot answer that for certain. Along with the ethylene glycol, we did find a substantial amount of what appear to be undigested gummy candies in her stomach. But that is going to be a question for the police.”

  “The police?” The word reminds me that at any moment I could hear from Artie Zucker that the police have filed a warrant for my arrest.

  “Yes.” He nods. “This is being referred to the Montgomery County police as a matter of procedure.”

  “Can I see her?”

  “Soon, but I’m afraid not right now. She’s in the process of being transferred out of the ER, and I know the nephrologist wants to run a few tests on her kidneys. It may be a few more hours before you can see her.”

  He gives me a little bow of his head and then disappears behind two large double doors. I stare out at the rain, which has slowed to a drizzle, trying to process what he has told me. They found poison, along with undigested gummy candies, in my mother’s stomach. I think of that box of Dots—the one I am sure I did not buy her.

  I need to call Lydia at Morningside to see what they know. I have to reach Krystle, too. My stomach growls. I have not eaten anything all day, and I’m not thinking straight. The doctor said it would be a few hours. Maybe I should leave, get some food, and come back.