I Don't Forgive You

You know the rules.” I read that tip in an article called “When Anger Follows Dementia: Establishing Boundaries.”
“The rules. That’s a good one.” Sharon lets out a sharp laugh that would make Cruella De Vil wince. “I don’t remember agreeing to these rules, Madame.”
Growing up, my mother and sister used to joke that I was like a fussy old lady. They called me Madame as in Madame doesn’t think we should park in the handicap spot or Madame doesn’t think we should throw cigarette butts out the car window.
Oh, are we offending Madame?
But I also knew that it made my mother proud that I was pulled out in middle school for the gifted-and-talented program. I once overheard her bragging about me to the old lady who lived in the apartment below us. Even if Sharon thought it was hysterical that I didn’t want her using my library books as coasters for her evening whiskey sour, she was the one who pushed me to apply for the scholarship at Overton.
My mother launches into one of her tirades about how she doesn’t deserve to be locked away like a criminal, and I turn my attention to Cole, who is crouched like a baseball player, hoisting his spatula over his shoulder. “I am ze bum smacker!” he howls and gives Mark’s behind a good whack. “Smack! Smack! Smack!”
Mark recoils in mock pain and limps over to me, a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate in the other. “Les pancakes?” he asks in an exaggerated French accent. “And your cappuccino?”
Cole climbs onto the stool beside me.
“Get off the phone, Mommy.” Cole grabs at the phone. I twist away.
“Sharon, I have to go. We’re having breakfast.”
“Are you coming to see me? I’d love to see you, Alexis. I haven’t seen you in months.” Her tone has shifted again. Now she is needy, cloying. I can picture her in front of her vanity, batting her eyes at her reflection.
“I saw you last weekend. I come every Sunday. I’ll be there later today.”
“But what time? What time exactly?” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “They try to hide me when you come, make up some malarkey about having to see the nurse so I’ll miss your visit.”
Only after making assurances that no one is going to keep us apart am I able to hang up.
She wasn’t always this bad off. But the move from her assisted living facility in Connecticut to one in Maryland has triggered a precipitous decline in her mental state. I’d wanted her closer to us so that I could visit her more frequently and also to maintain her warm relationship with Cole.
I never knew any of my grandparents. My mom’s parents died when she was a teenager, and after my father died, we moved away from the small Massachusetts town where my father’s family, the entire extended Healy clan, had resided since James Healy took a boat over from Connaught in 1845. I have a few photos of me as an infant, sitting on my father’s mother’s lap, but no memory of her. Sharon maintained that she was never welcomed by the Healys and had always felt trapped living in a small town. I don’t blame her for leaving—she was barely twenty-five when widowed, with a toddler and a baby, and staying in that small town must have felt suffocating.
But it’s hard not to fault her for cutting ties with my father’s family. Norwalk is less than a two-hour drive from that Massachusetts town. I remember Krystle and I received a few cards and gifts at Christmas over the years and then the news that my father’s parents had passed. Essentially, Krystle and I grew up with no extended family.
So I suppose moving Sharon down here was competing in my own way with Mark’s large family, which has tentacles in every suburb of Washington, D.C. Krystle opposed the move from the beginning and blames me for our mother’s subsequent decline.
The worst part is that my mother’s relationship with Cole has soured. The first time we visited Sharon in her new place, she barely acknowledged him. And two weeks ago, she flew into a rage while we were there and threw a bottle of L’Air du Temps at one of the aides, striking her in the shoulder. That episode terrified Cole and gave him nightmares. Mark, his sister, Caitlin, and their mother insisted that I stop bringing Cole to see Sharon until she settled down.
I peer into my coffee cup and smile. Mark has managed to create a delicate fern in the foam. He knows I love when he does that. “You’re getting good at this foam art thing.”
He bats his eyelashes. “Why, thank you. If this lawyer thing doesn’t pan out, I might look for work at Compass Coffee.”
“Mine are Mickey Mouse pancakes.” Cole holds one up to show me. “I eat the ears first.”
“Is that right?” I pour the syrup and swirl it on my own pancakes. Mark cleans the griddle, half-watching a soccer game on TV that he’s recorded. Last night’s drama seems far away. We are a portrait of domestic contentment.
Suddenly, my phone starts vibrating.
Ping. Ping. Ping. A cascade of text messages, one after another.
I look at the phone and realize quickly that I am the third in a three-way text conversation involving Daisy and Leah.
What’s with the yellow police tape on Arleigh? Leah has typed. Saw it walking dog this a.m.
Didn’t you see the ENFB? Daisy responds. It takes my groggy brain a moment to translate that as the Eastbrook Neighborhood Facebook page. I haven’t looked at it since I woke up, hours ago now. There was a break-in!
Cops are EVERYWHERE!
Whose house?
5005 Arleigh Rd. Who lives there?
Averys. Daughter in fourth grade, I think. Parents divorced?
From across the room, Mark’s phone emits a buzz, too. He frowns. “What the heck is going on?” he asks.
I glance at Cole, not wanting to freak him out with news there’s been a break-in. “I think there’s something police-related over