Darling Rose Gold, page 14
We both fill our plates with the steaming food on the table. I break into the turkey first; this is the dish I’m most nervous about. But the bird is perfect: full of flavor, not at all dried out. I pile the food into my mouth, barely remembering to breathe between bites. After working on my feet all day, I’m famished.
“You have tomorrow off, right?” I ask. I scoop more stuffing onto my fork.
Rose Gold shakes her head, twirling her spoon through mashed potatoes. “Black Friday—I’m working overtime. I have to be in at six.”
“Six in the morning?” I cry. “Who in their right mind wants to buy a TV that early? These people aren’t getting enough tryptophan if they’re up and at ’em the morning after Thanksgiving.”
Rose Gold shrugs.
“Why don’t you leave Adam here, then?” I suggest. “That way you don’t have to get up even earlier to drive him to Mary’s.”
Rose Gold considers the proposition. “Okay,” she says after a few seconds. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
I clap in excitement. This is the first time she’s agreed to leave us alone for an extended period. A whole day with little Adam—the possibilities are endless.
By the time I finish my second helping, I can no longer ignore that Rose Gold’s plate is still full. “Darling, you haven’t eaten much. Everything taste okay?” She wouldn’t dare insult my magnum opus.
Rose Gold nods and takes a bite of the potatoes. “It’s all delicious.”
“You can’t keep working these hours and feeding a baby on so little food. You have to keep your strength up,” I say. “If not for yourself, then at least for Adam.” I scowl at my daughter. “Promise?”
“Okay, okay.” Rose Gold puts her hands up in surrender, glancing at the baby with concern. “I promise.”
Satisfied, I nod and get up. I open the freezer door to search for the vanilla ice cream. I want it to soften to get to the perfect consistency to pair with my pies. I search every shelf, but can’t find the tub anywhere.
“Did you eat the ice cream?” I ask, turning to Rose Gold.
She examines a piece of turkey on her fork. “I put it in the basement freezer,” she says, “to make room for my milk.”
I put my hands on my hips. She knows I hate the basement. The upstairs freezer has plenty of space.
“Would you mind going to get it?” I haven’t been down there since I moved home.
Rose Gold grimaces. “I would, but I made a promise to someone that I’d eat all this food.” She gestures to her overflowing plate and sticks the piece of turkey in her mouth. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.” She chews and smiles sweetly. Someone still hasn’t learned who’s in charge here.
I grit my teeth and walk out of the room. She watches me go.
I open the door to the basement. I can see the gleaming white freezer to the right of the staircase. I’ll run down, find the ice cream, and come right back up.
I take a tentative first step down the stairs. Think of Adam. Second step. Think of Rose Gold. Third step. Adam. Fourth step. Rose Gold. Seventh step. Dad. Ninth step. Mom. Tenth step. Him. My mouth dries. My knees buckle. I slide to a sitting position on the stair, breathing hard. I peer at the rafters. My brother, David, swings from one end.
Dad and the paramedics took David away before I got home from school. Sometimes I forget I wasn’t there, but I might as well have watched his suicide for the number of times I’ve pictured my seventeen-year-old brother alone here. In reality, the last time I saw David was that morning at the breakfast table. I don’t think either of us said goodbye before I flew out the door to catch the bus. I was seven.
He used Dad’s belt, the one that had beaten us bloody hundreds of times. Dad never used that belt, or any other, on me again.
“You find it?” Rose Gold calls from the table.
I push myself off the step and return to standing. My legs shake. I get the ice cream out of the freezer and climb the stairs. I head for the bathroom instead of the kitchen and lock the door behind me. I set the ice cream on the counter and sit on the toilet with my head between my knees. When my pulse returns to normal, I splash water on my face in the sink. I watch beads drip down my nose and cheeks.
After a few minutes, I’m in control again, ready to face her. I head back down the hallway. Out of habit, I try Rose Gold’s bedroom door, forgetting for a second she’s in the house and might hear me. As always, the door is locked. I’m no closer to figuring out why. It’s time to start unraveling this mystery.
A couple days ago, I tried to force my way into the room through her window, but the window is also locked and heavy and old. It didn’t budge. I panted outside in the cold with my hands on my knees and remembered the abandoned house with eyes. I peeked over my shoulder. A curtain moved in the window of the Thompsons’ house. A chill dove down my spine.
I am never alone here, even when I’m the only one home.
When I come back to the table, I’m pleased to find barely any food on Rose Gold’s plate. She takes a final bite of turkey. I pull the pies out of the refrigerator. I set them and the ice cream on the table.
Rose Gold groans and laughs. “Not dessert too.” She shows no signs of remorse for the hell she has put me through—back when I was on trial or now.
I will myself to relax. “What kind of Thanksgiving dinner doesn’t have pie?” I scoff. “You’re getting the real deal today, kiddo.” I dish a piece of chess and apple pie each onto my plate. I top them with a scoop of ice cream.
“I’ll just have a bite of yours,” she says, lifting a little chess pie off my plate and into her mouth. I scoot my plate closer to her in case she wants more, and watch my daughter. Maybe she’s ready to talk.
I muster as much nonchalance as I can manage. “So,” I begin, “why did you really buy my parents’ old house?”
Rose Gold glances up, taken aback—or pretends to be anyway. “I told you: as a surprise for you. To help you move on.”
“And I told you about my dad’s abuse,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth. “Not to mention my brother’s suicide in the basement. You thought it was a good idea to force me to relive those memories?”
Rose Gold cocks her head, studying me. “Don’t you think it’s time to stop letting your dead dad control your life?”
“He does not control my life,” I start to protest before I realize what she’s doing. She’s forcing me on the defensive, putting me back on trial at my own kitchen table. This is an interrogation of her, not me.
“Then why are you still afraid of this house?” Rose Gold continues. “Your dad’s been dead for decades. He’s not going to pop out of the wall and hit you.”
Time to change tack. I twirl my fork in my hand and gaze at Adam, who is awake in his bassinet and watching me. “You know,” I say casually, “by two months old, most babies recognize their mother’s voice and face. Have you ever noticed Adam doesn’t turn his head when you talk?”
Rose Gold winces, as if she’s been stabbed through the heart. “That’s not true.”
I shrug. “He doesn’t seem very bonded to you.” I let Adam wrap his fingers around mine.
Panic fills Rose Gold’s face. She scoops Adam out of his bassinet and holds him close, searching his face for clues. “He’s a good baby,” she says, more to herself than to me.
“He is,” I agree. “He doesn’t cry at all when you’re gone.”
She jerks her head up and stares at me. I smile warmly at her. She bites her lip—doubt piles on top of fear. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head. She’s wondering if I’m telling the truth, if I’m right about Adam. Maybe this conversation will make her realize she needs to focus on taking care of her family instead of pushing us away. Maybe she’ll start worrying more about the future and less about the past.
We finish our dessert in silence. I offer Rose Gold another bite, but she shakes her head no. Her eyes are glued to Adam’s face as she rocks him.
As soon as my plate is empty, Rose Gold stands up and hands Adam to me. “You go relax in your chair,” she says, patting me on the back. “If you don’t mind keeping an eye on Adam while I clean?”
“Of course not,” I say, shuffling to my BarcaLounger with the baby in my arms.
This is more like it. I hate to make my daughter doubt her mothering capabilities, but I’m not going to be terrorized or condescended to in my own house. I’ll restore Rose Gold’s confidence as soon as she falls in line. I need to know for sure that she’s moved past this childish desire to get back at me.
An hour later, Rose Gold joins me, plopping down in the other chair. “All clean,” she announces. She turns to me. “This was the best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a long time.”
“Me too.” I smile, remembering the last five Thanksgivings of freeze-dried turkey and watery mashed potatoes served on cafeteria trays with plastic utensils. Every time I think of the grocery store debacle, I’ll replay this compliment. I decide to forgive my daughter for her earlier mistreatment.
Rose Gold turns on the TV. I wait to make sure she isn’t watching the news, then doze off.
I wake up to Rose Gold patting my arm. “We’re going to bed,” she whispers. “Night, Mom.”
She carries Adam down the hall. “Are you ready for sleep?” she asks him. “Will you dream of puppies? Or maybe kitties?” She closes the door behind her and begins to sing to him.
I stretch, long and lazy, then pull myself out of the chair. Yawning, I amble through the kitchen on my way to bed. I open the fridge. A dozen plastic containers of food are stacked neatly. The countertops and kitchen table are spotless. Rose Gold’s done a thorough job of cleaning up my mess. Then I spot a forgotten Ziploc bag, filled with bacon grease, on top of the refrigerator. I pick it up and carry it out the side door, remembering how delicious the stuffing was.
The floodlights turn on. I step outside into the freezing night. I open the garbage can and toss the bag of grease into it. I’m about to replace the lid when I notice a bit of loose food underneath a black garbage bag. I make tsk-tsk noises with my mouth—if there’s a hole in the bag, Rose Gold should know better than to leave the garbage spilling out. Forget the plundering raccoons; the garbage men have strict rules. Everything has to be bagged.
I pull the bag of trash out of the can, expecting its contents to spill everywhere. Instead, the bag holds its shape. I lift it to eye level, examining for tears. There aren’t any. I peer into the can. Inside are turkey, mashed potatoes, candied yams, broccoli casserole, cranberry sauce, and butternut squash—about one plate’s worth. I think back to Rose Gold’s empty plate when I came back from the bathroom.
Well, what do you know? My daughter is hiding something from me. That something appears to be an eating disorder. I’ve turned a blind eye to it this long, but the facts are slapping me in the face. Her shrinking frame, granola bars for meals, hiding the food she’s throwing away: I can’t deny it anymore.
All these years, I’ve been telling people she was sick.
Look who was right after all.
12
Rose Gold
January 2015
I eyed the cartons of Chinese food. Alex and Whitney were already digging in, chopsticks between their fingers. I had never tried using chopsticks. My first attempt would not be in front of them.
“Can I have a fork?” I said to the space between them.
Alex didn’t stop eating. Whitney mumbled, “Drawer to the right of the fridge,” while continuing to scroll through her phone.
When I came back, they’d started discussing plans for the night, calling out options that materialized from their screens.
“Jenna wants to go to the Hangge Uppe,” Alex said.
“Dollar bottles at Kelsey’s,” Whitney volunteered. “Some of the basketball team is going.”
“Tyler and the guys are going to Kirkwood.” Alex took a sip of pink wine from her stemless glass. I examined the bottle label—Sutter Home White Zinfandel—and made a mental note to buy that wine on my twenty-first birthday. Less than a month now.
My pocket vibrated. I pulled out my phone and took a bite of Mongolian beef. The meat was lukewarm, but still tasty—both savory and sweet, which I’d come to realize was my favorite flavor combination.
Dad: Anna can’t stop talking about her ear piercings. She said all the girls at school love her earrings
Two months had passed since I’d stayed the night at Dad’s house in Indiana. I’d seen the Gillespies a handful of times since then. On my last trip, I’d convinced Dad and Kim to let Anna get her ears pierced, thinking cute earrings might help with her self-consciousness. After some hemming and hawing on Dad’s part, he’d finally agreed. Kim, Anna, and I had piled into their car and driven to the mall, where we’d found the Claire’s boutique and requested one set of pierced ears, please. Anna and I had painstakingly weighed the pros and cons of pink versus purple studs. In the end, she chose pink. When the technician brought out the gun, Anna squeezed Kim’s hand with her left and mine with her right. But she didn’t cry, barely even flinched. Afterward, she was ecstatic.
Dad: She let Kim put her hair in a ponytail for the first time in a year
Dad: Thank you so much, Rose
I smiled, proud to have had the answer for once, to finally belong somewhere. I had never fit in at school, but because of me, Anna would.
Me: I’m just glad I could help
Me: Also, I made it to Alex’s okay. She says hi
I took a photo of Alex while she wasn’t paying attention and sent it to him.
Dad: Tell her hi back. And make sure you take it easy this weekend, okay? Be safe
He’d become even more attentive since I’d told him about my cancer diagnosis, offering to come to chemo appointments with me. I said no, of course, explaining Mrs. Stone would be crushed if she couldn’t take me. The few times Dad and I had gotten together since then, at his house or at Tina’s Café near me, he’d been surprised by how healthy I looked. I pointed out not everyone loses their hair during chemo. I was nauseated and fatigued, I told him, and had no appetite. To prove it, I had two measly bites of a breadstick when I met all the Gillespies for dinner at an Olive Garden one Sunday. They’d watched me with pity, but still no one mentioned the camping trip. When I brought it up over dessert, Dad patted my back. He said being that far from medical care wasn’t a good idea.
Didn’t see that coming.
Still, I insisted I’d be done with chemo well before the trip. I told them my doctor said I’d be fine to travel this summer. Now, as a show of good health, I’d come to stay with Alex. If I could already handle a weekend with friends, Dad and Kim would have to let me go with them six months from now. Road trip games, stargazing, Dad putting his arm around me by the campfire—this vacation would be the best two weeks of my life.
“I’m sick of Kirkwood,” Whitney was saying.
“I want to see Tyler,” Alex pouted.
“Who’s Tyler?” I asked.
Alex jerked her head in surprise, as though she’d forgotten I was there. She probably had.
“The guy I’m seeing,” Alex said, swinging that long blond ponytail off her shoulder. She turned to Whitney. “We’re going to Kirkwood. You owe me one.”
Whitney didn’t argue. Based on my observations of her and Alex’s friendship, she was constantly repaying Alex for invisible good deeds.
Whitney sighed and started clearing away the Chinese food. “Fine. Then I’m borrowing your new leather jacket.”
I followed Alex to her bedroom. She began applying makeup in the dresser mirror. I sat cross-legged on her bed. “What kind of bar is Kirkwood?” I asked.
“Sports bar.”
“So I shouldn’t get dressed up?”
“We always get dressed up. But you don’t have to.” She paused, lipstick tube in hand, to study me. Then she went back to her makeup.
“How do you choose a lipstick shade?”
“Depends on your skin tone,” Alex said. “Cool tones make your teeth look whiter.”
I made a note to research “cool tones” later. The right lipstick would make my future teeth look even better.
“You have a fake ID?” Alex asked.
She could be so thick. Yes, Alex, I had my first drink a year ago with you, haven’t had one since, and spend all my time selling video games to teenage boys. I totally have a fake ID.
“No,” I said.
“Ohhh,” Alex said. She sounded like the Wheel of Fortune audience when a contestant missed a no-brainer puzzle. “Kirkwood is twenty-one and up.”
I stared at her. “Do you have a fake ID?”
She bit her lip. “When I turned twenty-one, I sold it to a girl at work who looks like me.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“What do you mean ‘we’? You’ve been here before. You know Chicago bars are twenty-one plus.”
“Can’t Tyler meet us somewhere else?”
Alex gawked at me as if I’d suggested Tyler waltz in front of a snowplow. “I didn’t ask you to come this weekend. You invited yourself.”
My mouth hung open.
Whitney sashayed into the room. “Carmen is going to Kirkwood too,” she announced. She stopped when she saw my expression. “What’s with Sally Sadface over here?”
Without a trace of remorse, Alex said, “Rose Gold isn’t twenty-one. She’s not coming.”
She finished her lipstick and then turned back to me. “But my DVR is full, so you can watch anything you want. There’s a makeover show that might be of interest.”
Whitney tittered. I flushed.
Alex continued. “We’ll have a girls’ day tomorrow. How about that?” I hated her patronizing tone, hated every rotten thing about her.
