He took an appreciative swallow.

  “So, Mr. Ford has decided to take the house?” she asked brightly.

  “Lock, stock, and barrel.” Dad nodded, and sipped and watched her. Marie took another sip and tried not to gag or cough. “Wants it dressed and staffed, and for us to handle security and grounds. The works. This is the big one, baby girl. The one we’ve been waiting for.” He drained his glass. She had to work not to stare. “You’re going to have a busy summer.”

  “That’ll be terrific!” Marie smiled and she sipped. There was a wrinkle in her skirt that she couldn’t smooth down, because she didn’t want to look nervous, but she felt it pressing against her thigh.

  “And we’re going to have to decide what to do about Geraldine.”

  Marie started. Her Scotch sloshed. Dad frowned just a little and Marie blushed. Dad hated twitchy women.

  “Things are happening, baby girl. We can’t let Geraldine’s shenanigans slow us down.”

  Marie sipped her drink. The gesture could take the place of an answer. For now. She felt the seconds sliding across her skin.

  “It’s only a matter of time before she gets into real trouble or winds up like Stacey. She needs help. You know that. We’ve talked about it.”

  Yes. We’ve talked about it and talked about it. Like we’ve talked about Mom, and Aunt Trish, and you and me.

  “It’s for Geraldine’s own good, Marie. I know we don’t want to air our problems in front of strangers, but you will be asked questions. I’ve found a good treatment center for her. They’ll…”

  “Why are you talking about sending Geraldine away but not Mom?” The words slid out, and Marie pressed her fingers across her mouth. What was she saying? It must be the Scotch. It must be.

  Dad’s mouth twitched. “Stacey’s problems are far enough gone that they’ll resolve themselves soon,” he said. “But Geraldine…”

  That was when the phone rang.

  Marie jumped. Dad frowned.

  Not at me, not at me, it’s still all right, she thought frantically as he got up to answer. We just need a little time now. That’s all. Just a little more time.

  But how much time?

  “Martin Monroe,” Dad said into the receiver. He waited, listening. Someone was babbling on the other end of the line.

  Dad swayed. He mopped at his forehead. Marie’s heart tried to jam itself into her throat.

  “Calm down. Calm down!” he ordered whoever he was talking to. “I can’t…I…Just say it again. Slowly.” He pressed his hand against the table.

  Marie gripped her knees with both hands to force herself to stillness.

  “All right,” said Dad, heavily. “All right.”

  He hung up. He looked at her, a little dazed. Then, he sat back down on the sofa, and looked around for what was missing. Marie poured some more Scotch into his empty glass.

  “Who was that?” she asked.

  “David Pendarves.” He picked the fresh drink up and stared at it.

  “David?” His name leapt out of her before she could remember that she wasn’t supposed to know David, not really. He was just one of the Whitestone boys they had grown up with. No one special. She had no one special. “Why? I mean…”

  “Geraldine’s had an accident.” Dad slumped backward. “She’s in the hospital.”

  “What?” Marie was on her feet without realizing she’d moved.

  “The emergency room. Sit down, Marie,” Dad said heavily. “You know I can’t stand it when you’re looming.”

  “Yes, but, I…” Oh, God. Oh, Geraldine. Why now? “I…Shouldn’t somebody go out there?”

  “I suppose. If you think it’s important.” He picked up his glass again and stared into the Scotch. “Remember last time we had to take her in? When she messed up her face so badly? Jesus, I hope she hasn’t done anything like that again.”

  Marie ran to the door. She grabbed her purse and the car keys off the rack on the wall and bolted out into the dark and the rain. Puddles splashed underfoot, and she skidded in the mud, tumbling against Dad’s Taurus.

  “Oh, Jesus fuck!”

  Marie’s head jerked around. Mom?

  She was a wavering white ghost on the road’s sandy shoulder, staggering from tree to tree. Soaking wet from rain, mud streaking her white hair and pale skin. Drunk. Stoned. Something. Again.

  How could she even be here? Geraldine promised to stay with her. Geraldine was in the emergency room. Mom should be there, too.

  Mom lurched forward, but this time she missed her step and dropped to her knees. That was when she looked up and saw Marie.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, you stupid little shit!” There was something wrong with her face. “Help me!”

  Geraldine was in the emergency room. Her mother was right here in front of her, so messed up she couldn’t stand. Dad was in the house with the drink she’d fixed. She couldn’t be in all three places at once.

  Marie climbed into the car.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I have to choose. This is better, she told herself as she started the engine and peeled away, down the hill, toward the town and the hospital. She’ll pass out and that’ll be that. No explanations needed. It’s better this way. Much, much, much better.

  The words rang through her mind, blotting out all other thoughts. She was barely able to focus the road in the headlights, on not hitting the ambulance as she turned into the hospital drive, on making sure she had her purse when she ran through the hospital’s doors into the sterile white waiting room.

  On the fact of the square-faced young man who jumped off the bench and ran to intercept her.

  “David?”

  He smelled like beer and weed and fresh water. His hair was plastered to his head, his chin was a mess of pimples and five o’clock shadow. His shirt was half-tucked into soaking wet jeans.

  “Marie!” David put his hands out, like he didn’t know whether he’d need to catch her or fend her off. “Christ! I am so, so sorry!”

  “What’s happened? Where’s Geraldine?”

  “She…oh, Jesus Christ, Marie. I don’t even…”

  I don’t have time for this.

  Marie pushed past him to the nurses’ station. Mrs. Mayor—Becca and Lucy Mayor’s mother—was on duty. “Mrs. Mayor! What’s going on? Where’s Geraldine?”

  “Oh, Marie.” She was on her feet and coming around the desk. Marie couldn’t tell whether it was surprise in her voice or exasperation. Naturally, Mrs. Mayor had been expecting Dad. But she recovered quickly. She was an experienced small-town nurse. She knew how tangled things could get. “Come on, honey, I’ll take you to her.”

  “Marie…Marie…wait…” stammered David.

  “I’m sorry, David, family only,” Mrs. Mayor answered for her.

  Whitestone Harbor’s emergency room was three hospital beds separated by curtains. Geraldine lay in the middle one.

  The first thing Marie saw was that Geraldine’s ankles had both been bandaged. Then, she saw the red and pink stains on them. Then, she saw how white her sister’s legs and arms and throat were against her blue hospital gown. She had a tube in one arm, and another up her nose.

  Then Marie saw Geraldine’s face—eyes closed, lips a sick gray-blue, her scar a stark scarlet thread cutting across her white, white skin. She saw Geraldine’s dyed hair spread in black snarls on the thin pillow.

  “David saved her,” Mrs. Mayor said. Slowly, Marie became aware she had been speaking for some time.

  “Wh…what?”

  “David saved her, honey,” she repeated, more slowly this time. “Now, we don’t know for sure what happened, but it looks like she went for a swim, and couldn’t make it all the way back. David pulled her out of the lake and called the ambulance.”

  “What was he…how was he…”

  “You can’t worry about that now, honey,” Mrs. Mayor said firmly. “Just be glad he was there. Here. Come on. Sit down.”

  I don’t want to sit down. I want to know what happened. She was supposed to be with Mom, not David Pendarves. She promised. She was going to see Aunt Trish.

  “Marie,” said Mrs. Mayor. “Are your parents on the way? Geraldine’s still underage. We need them to sign her paperwork as her legal guardians.”

  My parents. My mother is staggering drunk. My father…Marie closed her eyes and swallowed. But that was enough for Mrs. Mayor.

  “All right. I’ll just get everything ready and they can sign when they arrive. You just…be here in case she wakes up.”

  Marie nodded. Mrs. Mayor drew the curtain in a rush of metal on metal, and she was alone with Geraldine in the little white cave.

  Time passed. Marie didn’t have a watch on, so she couldn’t tell how much. Geraldine didn’t move. There were voices outside, and the rattle of metal carts, and the squeak of rubber shoes on tiles. None of it penetrated far enough to make any sense to her. The glowing green lines on the monitors bobbled. The machines beeped randomly.

  Geraldine didn’t move.

  Eventually, Marie got up. She can’t be comfortable like that.

  The sheet felt stiff as cardboard as Marie pulled it over her. She pressed her hand against her sister’s forehead. Like I think she’s got a fever. But she felt only ice and bone. Her hair was all snarled.

  Marie took one damp knot between her fingers and started picking at it.

  “You didn’t have to do this,” she said. “But it’s okay. I’ve taken care of everything. I’m sorry it took so long. We had to wait until I was a legal adult, otherwise they wouldn’t let me keep you, or the house, or anything. Especially with…what he’s been saying about you. But he can’t make you go away now. He’s dead, Geraldine. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. But, it’s over now, so, you can wake up, okay?”

  The curtains rattled and rushed back. Marie jerked her hands away from her sister’s tangled hair. Mrs. Mayor walked calmly up to Marie, but her face was almost as white as Geraldine’s.

  “Marie…” Her confidence was gone and she licked her chapped lips. “Oh, God. I am so sorry. Marie, they’ve just…honey, it’s…”

  “Dad?” she croaked before she caught herself. Before she remembered she wasn’t supposed to know.

  Mrs. Mayor looked confused. “Oh, no, hon. Your father’s fine. It’s your mother.”

  Your father’s fine.

  Your father’s fine.

  It’s your mother.

  Your father’s fine.

  That was when she passed out.

  “Turn back, turn back, young maiden dear,

  ’Tis a murderer’s house you enter here.”

  —“The Robber Bridegroom” from Kinder und Hausmärchen Vol. 2, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, 1812

  MARIE, PRESENT DAY

  THE ROSE HOUSE

  1.

  I can still change my mind.

  The old shoebox is heavy in my hands. It rattles and clinks as I carry it into my father’s study.

  This is what it is like to walk into a room you will never leave: it is cool and slow and silent. I am fully open. Fully present. Every whisper of sound and each physical sensation is critically important—the release of setting the box down, this taste of dusty cardboard in the back of my throat.

  The house breathes its approval. I feel it slick against my skin. I know this feeling. Just not from this source.

  I don’t have to do this again. I can stop.

  I dig my fingers under the ancient pink rubber band. It snaps in two, twanging against the cardboard and the back of my hand.

  It’s a sign. Things breaking. A bad sign. I should stop.

  I lift off the crumpled lid. The faint scents of dust and stale alcohol waft out. Inside waits a heavy-bottomed tumbler and the amber plastic bottle of pills. I saved them. What was left of them anyway. I always knew I’d need them. If not for somebody else, then for me.

  I bring a new tumbler out of the sideboard. My fingers relish the smooth curve of the clean glass as I set it next to the old one. They match perfectly. I made sure they would when I bought the new set. I contemplate the bottles that decorate my father’s sideboard. But there’s really no question as to which I should choose. I reach for the Scotch.

  There are no windows in here. But because I want my father to be able to find me easily, I’ve left the door open. Burnished gold sunbeams stream in from the front room. The sky at my back is salmon pink and lavender. It’s all utterly exquisite, and I’m glad. Tonight should be beautiful.

  I can still stop.

  I can’t think why that idea won’t go away. What part of me thinks there ever was any choice for us?

  The childproof cap bites against my palm as I struggle to open the bottle. The anonymous white, pink, and red pills click and slosh as they drop into the glass. I use the ancient wooden muddler to crush the pills into the seven-year-old Scotch, and then a long, swizzle-handled spoon to stir them into a slurry.

  Around me the house holds its breath. I feel its textures and anticipation against my skin. It’s not disapproving anymore. It embraces me like a lover. This is what the house has been waiting for. What we’ve all been waiting for.

  Finally, it says. Finally.

  The only worry is that the pills might have broken down. Lost their potency. But the devil is always in the details, isn’t it? And I’ve prepared for the possibility. As I passed through the kitchen, I put the paring knife in my pocket. Now I understand why I cut my hand. It was so I would think to bring the knife. I hope I don’t have to use it. I don’t want to leave a mess. A thread of panic runs through me at the thought and makes my hand shake as I carefully pour three fingers into both glasses. I will not repeat the mistakes I made before. This time I will have both drinks ready.

  I put the lid back on the pill bottle and crank it down tight.

  People do not act like this. I know that. These are things that people do not do out in the normal world. But out there, they haven’t spent their lives trying to save the things that should have been allowed to rot decades ago. Out there, they know there’s a point where you just have to say, I failed and it’s sad, but I just give up. Out there, they walk away.

  I could do that. Right now. Nothing has happened yet. I could spill the glasses. I can. If I stop now, then I can…

  If I stop now…

  If…

  “Marie?”

  I lift my head but do not turn around. “Oh, Dad. You’re home.”

  2.

  Dad snaps on the light and I have to blink. The light has faded while I’ve been working. I didn’t even notice.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” he says.

  “I’ve been right here.” Through the open door, I glimpse the glowing bands of red that stretch over the iron-blue horizon. I don’t look at my father. I can’t, not yet.

  The thick carpet pile crunches under his shoes as he comes toward me. I feel warmth. Polo aftershave. Mild curiosity. My father is all these things.

  “Scotch?”

  “There’s been so much going on, I thought we could both use a drink,” I tell him.

  But he’s ignoring me. Dad has seen the pill bottle. He picks it up, shakes it, looking inside at the random mix of ancient tablets, caplets, and lozenges. So pretty, really.

  “What are these, Marie?”

  I set the glasses back down. “You already know.”

  He does know. His face crumbles under the weight of that knowledge, and of the associated memories. He’s remembering being down there, down into the bottom of the gully, where Mom stares up at the sky, waiting for one of us to care enough to try to find out what happened to her. But Geraldine is in the hospital and I’m sitting next to her and there’s only Dad to see. Only Dad to know what happened between the time I saw her staggering across the road, and when he came to the hospital to take my hands and sit me down to tell me one more hard truth.

  At the time, he thought my confusion came from hearing that my mother was dead, while my sister was only hurt. He has never realized that he was the one who was supposed to die.

  I’ve never known what went wrong. Perhaps I should have asked Geraldine about dosages. She was, after all, the expert when it came to dealing with Mom’s pills. I was supposed to be shielded from all that.

  “Oh, God, Marie…” Standing beside me now, my father chokes on the rest of that sentence. It’s an undignified noise and I don’t like to hear it coming from him.

  “Don’t, Dad. Just…don’t. Here.” I pick up both glasses. I hold them out, equal distance from me, a move I have practiced any number of times. “We both need a little something.”

  Dad doesn’t take either glass. He’s staring at me, wide-eyed, white-faced. At first I think he might be scared, but that’s not it at all. He’s angry.

  “What did Geraldine tell you?” His whisper is low and rough and it grates against my bones.

  “What makes you think she told me anything?”

  “You got these from her, didn’t you?” His hand shakes the bottle, rattling the ancient pills. “She stood there. Right in front of me. She looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and all the while, she kept these!”

  “No,” I say, because it is the truth. I do not lie to my father. Not ever. “Geraldine had nothing to do with it.”

  “Don’t keep covering up for her! What’s it going to take for you to realize she’s not worth it!”

  I’m not expecting the shout and I stagger away from him. The sideboard bumps into my back and the drinks slosh, splashing dirty liquid against my palms and fingertips.

  For a second, I think he’s going to throw the bottle across the room, but no. Even as angry as he is, that kind of crude and open display is beyond him.

  “What was she planning to do?” he demands. “Try to get my fingerprints on the bottle? Did she actually think she could frame me like that?”

  He’s heading for the door, half-stumbling, half-running.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, stupidly standing here with both glasses in my hands. Splashed liquor and condensation are making my fingers slippery.

  “I’m going to flush the whole goddamn bottle down the toilet, what do you think I’m going to do?”

 

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