I Don't Forgive You

Connecticut, and by renting that out over the years, she’s been able to pay for assisted living.
It’s the one smart financial move she ever made.
Only now it looks like selling the place might be the best option.
We haven’t had tenants in four months, and the house requires major repairs. The septic tank needs replacing to the tune of twenty-five thousand dollars, and the roof will need to be replaced in the next year—probably another fifteen grand. We’d have to pull money out of the house to pay for that. Frankly, the whole thing seems like a nightmare, and I’d rather just sell and invest the money. But Krystle freaks out whenever I mention selling.
“Morningside House is not fancy. It’s what assisted living costs around here.” Krystle never got behind the plan to move our mother down here, but she also never visited Sharon when Sharon was living in Connecticut, even though it was only about an hour from New York City. “Come down and see for yourself.”
“I mean, I want to come down, but my shifts at the restaurant have changed, and now I don’t have two days off in a row. Did I tell you I got a callback for The Young and the Restless? I’m this close, Allie.”
“Is that still on the air?” Krystle’s been this close to her big break for about ten years now. I’d hoped that once she turned thirty, she might realize she was not going to become a famous actress. I thought at least she’d get a day job with real earning potential and benefits.
“Don’t be a bitch. This is a big deal for me.” Even over the phone, I can see that sour look on her face—eyes narrowed, lips pressed together. “Look, it’s not like I don’t want to come,” she wheedles, “but it’s just harder for me.”
I don’t argue. My sister’s narrative is that things have always been easier for me. In her mind, my scholarship to Overton Prep school is exhibit A in this fundamental unfairness. My hard work versus her hard partying do not play a role in her version of our life. My marrying a lawyer only cemented this belief. I change subjects. I’m not in the mood for an argument that I can’t win. Instead, we chat for the rest of the ride. If she’s in the right mood, Krystle can talk unabated about her life in New York City with the ease and comic timing of a cabaret star. She’s always made me laugh. In fact, that’s pretty much the only thing I can depend on her for.
Even though Krystle is two years younger than I am, as children, we were often mistaken for twins. I was short for my age, and she was tall. We shared everything: our clothes, our bed, our long, brown hair. But somewhere in high school, our responses to the same circumstances put us on divergent paths.
We have the same genetics and the same upbringing, but the chaos of our childhood made me cling to stability, while it made Krystle allergic to it.
I’ll never forget the day—I was in fourth grade—that Krystle and I came home to my mother announcing with great cheer that she was no longer going to work as a receptionist to a local podiatrist, and that we were moving to a small apartment building where she would be the manager. I cried, while Krystle jumped on the sofa with glee that she would get to miss a day of school.
The apartment-managing stint lasted all of six months. We left that place in a hurry, the building’s owner threatening to sue my mother for some damages that had taken place on her watch. When we packed in the middle of the night, Krystle and my mother giggled like they were Thelma and Louise, outwitting the law. I got a stomachache that lasted a year. Our next stop was a basement apartment near a CPA where my mother worked during the rush of tax season only to be laid off come spring. Krystle loved that Sharon was working late and we were unsupervised, whereas I was visited by nightmares of my mother being abducted on cold, dark March evenings as she walked home from work.
Rinse and repeat.
Finally, there is a pause in the conversation, and I fill her in on what happened at the party last night.
“Wait, so you’re on Tinder now?” she asks.
“No. That’s not what I said, Krys. The guy said that.” The fact that she has missed this salient point irritates me.
“I don’t get it, Allie. Why did he think that?”
“I don’t know. That’s why it’s so crazy.” Her doubting tone irritates me. “But that’s not the point.”
I hear the gurgle of the coffee machine, and I can picture her in the kitchen of that tiny studio apartment on East Eleventh Street that she moved into ten years ago, with the miniature fridge and sink small enough for an airplane bathroom. “There’s no shame in looking for a little excitement, Allie. I don’t blame you. If I had to live with Mark in the suburbs, I would’ve turned to Tinder a long time ago.”
“A, that’s not funny. And B, I didn’t turn to Tinder.” I brake and honk at a Volvo that has drifted into my lane at forty miles an hour. “That’s not even the weirdest part. This guy, the one who did this? He died.”
“Died? What do you mean, died?”
“I mean stopped breathing. I don’t know how. Could be he fell down the basement stairs, could be a heart attack. I only know that it happened late last night or early this morning.”
“How do you know?”
I laugh. “Believe me, in my neighborhood everyone knows everything.”
“That’s so creepy, Allie. It’s like karma or something. It’s like the universe saw what he did and then, you know.”
“No, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about this guy. I don’t know why he came onto me like that, and I don’t know what he meant when he