I Don't Forgive You

answer me?”
But she doesn’t. She turns her face upward toward mine, like a marigold tracking the sun.
“Don’t ruin your life like I did. You have choices. It’s better you’re not too pretty. The boys will leave you alone at that school, let you get your work done. Look what happened to your sister. Too pretty for her own good.” She crinkles her nose. “What did you do to your hair? You look like a deranged elf.”
“I know you don’t like my haircut.” My hand goes straight to the back of my neck. “You said the same thing last week.”
“Aww, I hurt your feelings.” She frowns.
“It’s all right, Sharon.”
“Don’t be mad. Here, let me do your nails.” She takes one hand of mine in her bony fingers. “You’re just as good as those girls.”
We sit side by side on the bed, and I let her massage cocoa butter into my hands.
“What happened to your neck, Sharon?” I gesture toward the bruise. I wait a few moments, and when she does not respond, I try again. “Sharon, did you hear me? What happened to your neck?”
She shoots me an annoyed look. “I can’t recall.”
“Did someone do this to you?” From my handbag, my phone buzzes, but I don’t answer it.
She tightens her grip on my hands. “Don’t talk about it here,” she says through clenched teeth. “They’re listening.” She stands up and walks over to her dresser, where she pulls out a green silk scarf and wraps it around her neck. “I’ll tie it like so, and voilà. Georges loves green. He says it brings out my eyes.”
“I agree, green looks lovely on you.” I sneak a surreptitious look at my phone to see who called. Unfamiliar number. I check my voice mail and read the transcribed message. It’s filled with errors, but I can make out the gist. Valerie Simmons’s assistant wants to set up a time to chat next week. I can hardly hide my elation. Back in Chicago, I shot the wedding of the daughter of Illinois congressman Marcel Parks. When I moved to the D.C. area, we reconnected, and I did headshots for him. He’s the one who mentioned Valerie Simmons from CNN was looking for a photographer. If I land that job, I might be able to quit Mike Chau’s and start my own business sooner than I’d thought.
“Sharon, have you heard of Valerie Simmons?” I ask Sharon. “Former Obama advisor, and now she’s on CNN?”
Sharon frowns and holds a bottle of pink polish next to my hands.
“African American?” I push. “Mid-fifties? Bright silver hair?”
Sharon begins to paint my nails with the precision of Jackson Pollock. I sigh and give up on trying to impress her. I’ll have to wait and share my good news with Mark when I get home; he’ll be proud of me. While my nails dry, Sharon turns the pages of the gossip magazines and giggles. I can’t imagine what she gets out of them. At thirty-four, I already don’t recognize half the names and faces in those magazines, but they seem to make her happy. She has a comment about everyone and how they look and whether their outfits are “doing them any favors” or not.
After, I try to convince my mother to walk with me outside. I think the fresh air will do her good. I hate thinking of her cooped up in this room every day. But she begs off. Her eyelids are drooping, and I can tell the visit has exhausted her. She agrees to let me escort her to the large foyer and deposit her on the sofa next to a dozing man who has drool dripping down his cheek.
The room is filling up. Lunch is served at eleven thirty, and an impatient crowd has gathered, like before a concert or big game. I go in search of someone in charge, trying to keep from inhaling the scent of urine mingled with disinfectant. I find an aide with a put-upon look. She knows nothing of my mother’s injuries; she’s just come on duty. But she scribbles my information on her clipboard and promises someone will call me.
It’s the best I can do for now, and it’s not much.
I head back to my car, deflated.
Spending time with Sharon takes me back to those dingy little apartments where she left me to watch over Krystle so she could go out and meet Mr. Right. After my father died, she couldn’t bear to be alone, and that led to some questionable choices in male companions. I used to be bitter about the men she brought home, about her drinking, her inability to function like the other mothers I knew. But now that I am married and have my own child, I am more sympathetic. When my father died, she was thrust into a life for which she was totally unprepared. Sharon never went to college, but she was whip smart, and she had a way of charming men, making them feel protective of her. I remember men paying for our meals at diners, police officers giving her warnings instead of tickets. Job offers came easily, people took chances on her. But she could never stick with anything. Once the novelty wore off, she would give up. Now I can see that her rages and behavior were probably a result of depression, not selfishness. She was doing the best she could.
If I allow myself to remember, it still hurts. Like when she forgot my tenth birthday or how she never once came to parent night at school. So I try not to.
But I don’t want this for her. I wouldn’t want it for anyone.
They say forgiveness is giving up hope on having had a better past. I’m ready. I want to let it all go. I’m just not sure how to do it.
I’m about to pull out of the parking lot when my phone pings.
You and Cole coming to the park? It’s Leah.
On my way. I text back.
Check this out. And following