Darling Rose Gold, page 15
“We have those face masks,” Whitney said.
“I’ve been wanting to tint and wax my eyebrows for weeks,” Alex added. She glanced at my forehead. “We can wax yours too.”
The two girls eyed each other, making tiny adjustments to their hair, tops, and lips before scurrying out the door. They laughed and yelled until I couldn’t hear them anymore. They had ditched me in minutes.
I wanted to stab something sharp and poisonous through Alex’s face, but she wasn’t here. Instead I found a pair of scissors and got ready to cut the head off Bobo, her childhood teddy bear. I’d pull Bobo’s eyes from his face, leave the two buttons on her dresser, and throw the bear in a dumpster down the street. I watched the scene play out before my eyes, but in the end, I had to leave him be. I’d known Bobo as long as I’d known Alex, and it wasn’t his fault she was a terrible person.
Afterward, I was tired from all the screaming, so I lay on the couch, turned on the TV, and flipped through the channels until I found 10 Things I Hate About You. I’d moved on lately to all the nineties teen movies I’d missed, and while I usually loved this one, I couldn’t stop fuming over Alex. Three hours I’d driven to see her. She deserved to lose more than a beloved toy.
I walked back to Alex’s room and dug through the bag of makeup she’d been ransacking an hour ago. The shade of lipstick she’d used was called Raspberry Kisses. I puckered my lips and applied the color the way I’d watched Alex do. In the mirror, a healthier, prettier version of me gazed back. I put the lipstick in my pocket.
I jammed the bottles and pencils back in her makeup bag. When was someone going to teach Alex she couldn’t treat people like crap and get away with it? All her life, she’d done whatever she wanted, and because she was pretty and charming, nobody ever told her off.
I opened and closed the bathroom medicine cabinet. Nothing of interest. Under the sink, I found hair accessories, cold medicine, shaving cream, a box of tampons, and a bottle of depilatory cream. Unfamiliar with the word, I turned the bottle around and read the back label.
A quick and pain-free way to say goodbye to unwanted hair.
Skeptically, I applied the lotion to a small patch of hair on my thigh. I waited eight minutes instead of the instructed five, because five was bad luck, then wiped the patch with a washcloth. My hair came off.
Why had no one told me about this stuff?
I applied the cream to both my thighs and bikini area and kept rummaging while I waited for my phone timer to ring. Alex and Whitney’s organization system made no sense. In the bottom drawer, I found a bunch of Band-Aids and a box of blond hair dye.
The timer sounded. I wiped my bikini line and legs clean. Alex would use that blond dye to tint her eyebrows the next day. Picking up the dye box again, I peered inside. The bottle’s seal had been broken. I removed the cap and sniffed the colorant, wincing at the chemical scent. I placed the brow dye on the counter next to the depilatory cream and gazed at the two products side by side. My lips curled at the ends before I even knew I’d made a decision.
Being adored was easy when you were pretty. But if you took away Alex’s beauty, what was she?
Another Rose Gold.
* * *
• • •
By the time my rage had worn off, it was too late.
I didn’t sleep at all that night, tossing and turning while I thought about the bottle under the bathroom sink. Twice before Alex and Whitney came home, I got off the couch to throw it away.
Then I’d remember Alex skipping out her front door, leaving me behind without so much as a glance. I forced myself back to the couch, back under the thin blanket. When Alex and Whitney came stumbling home at two in the morning, I pretended to be asleep. They were too drunk to notice or care.
Now it was noon. They were each lying on a couch, hungover and moaning. I was sitting on the floor, intimate with the concept of having your heart in your throat. I worried I might throw up, that the guilt was plain on my face.
“When are we starting this girls’ day?” I asked, voice squeaking.
Both girls groaned.
“Alex, you promised,” I forced myself to say. “Come on, I’ll get everything ready.”
“Fine,” Alex said, a sleeping mask covering her eyes. “The face masks and hair dye are in the bathroom. Get a face towel from the hall closet too.”
I sprang up from the floor. I had to calm down. As slowly as possible, I walked to the bathroom. I brought the stuff back to the living room, where Whitney and Alex were drinking red Gatorades. I placed each item before Alex, like an altar offering. She scanned all of it. I wondered if she could hear my heartbeat.
Alex motioned for me to sit in front of her. I leaned in. She applied the exfoliating mask to my clean face. The pads of her fingertips were gentle.
“Your skin is so soft,” she said with real admiration.
I watched her focused face while she worked, regretting what I’d done.
“How long do I leave this on?” I asked.
“Five minutes,” she said.
I nodded. I would do eight.
“Whit, you want to do my brows?” Alex asked, lying back on the couch.
Whitney grabbed the face towel and covered Alex’s eyes and the rest of her face below them. All I could see were her eyebrows and forehead. Whitney yawned and pulled the brush and bottle of dye from the box. She shook the bottle, then loosened its lid, not bothering to put on the gloves. She’d performed this ritual for Alex many times.
After a few minutes of Whitney’s dabbing, Alex’s eyebrows were coated in purplish cream. Whitney put all the supplies back in the box, then turned on the TV and flipped to a channel with cartoons. She slumped against the couch and closed her eyes.
I counted every second—one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi—in my head. After four minutes, I wondered if Alex had fallen asleep under the towel. Whitney hadn’t stirred. I resisted the urge to say anything.
“You going to take this off or what?” Alex said. I fled from the room.
My hands shook. I splashed water on my face again and again, long after my skin had been cleared of the grainy cream. I dried my face with a towel. I stared at myself in the mirror. I was even paler than normal.
A shriek came from the living room. Whitney’s.
I wanted to stay in the bathroom, lock the door until this was all over. But the old Rose Gold would come running as soon as she heard her friend’s alarm.
I dashed back to the living room.
“Your eyebrow is coming off,” Whitney cried, staring at the damp paper towel in her hand.
Alex ripped the towel off her face. “What do you mean, coming off?” She recoiled in horror when she saw the hair on Whitney’s paper towel. “What did you do?” She ran past me to the bathroom. Her right eyebrow was missing. Not just sparse—the hair was gone.
Alex let out a bloodcurdling scream. Whitney and I exchanged a look, then rushed after Alex to the bathroom.
“Where the fuck is my eyebrow?” she yelled when we reached her.
“I don’t know what happened,” Whitney said in panicked confusion. “It . . . came off.”
“I can see that, you dipshit,” Alex snapped.
Whitney bristled. “I told you you’re not supposed to use old hair dye.”
“You think my hair fell out because the dye is expired?” Alex thundered. “How fucking stupid are you?”
I watched Whitney try to redirect Alex’s wrath away from herself. “What are we going to do about your other eyebrow?”
Alex gaped at the mirror and moaned. “Try to get this shit off without any hair coming out.” Whitney moved to grab toilet paper, but Alex snarled, “I’ll do it myself.”
Whitney and I watched with held breath. Alex dampened a wad of toilet paper with water from the faucet. Even with the lightest touch possible, the cream still stole her hair when she blotted it away. She managed to salvage some of her left eyebrow, but the effect was almost worse. I could tell Whitney was thinking the same thing, but neither of us dared suggest that Alex finish the job and go for a hairless forehead.
If Tyler could see her now, I thought in spite of my terror.
By then, Alex was bawling, hangover long forgotten. “Look”—sob—“what”—sob—“you”—sob—“did,” she cried. I had never seen Alex lose her marbles before. I kept reminding myself that she’d had this coming. No one should be able to be so awful for so long and get away with it. I’d taught my mother that lesson the hard way.
Whitney apologized over and over. “What can I do?” she pleaded.
“You’ve done enough,” Alex screeched. She ran to her bedroom and slammed the door behind her. Then Whitney and I were alone in the bathroom.
I turned to face Whitney. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I think I should go,” I whispered, patting her shoulder. “She’ll be all right.”
Whitney followed me to the living room, like a lost puppy in her own apartment. For the first time, I felt a swell of power. I had the ability to make those girls behave the way I wanted. Maybe I couldn’t force them to like me, but I could punish them if they didn’t.
I picked up my paper bag of sleepover items, ensuring I had everything with me. I was never coming back. Whitney walked me to the door, crestfallen.
“Thanks for letting me stay over,” I said. “Sorry it ended on such a crummy note.”
Whitney nodded, in a trance.
I couldn’t help myself. Before I left, I lowered my voice. “She’s just so tragic.”
13
Patty
I raise my knuckles to the familiar door and knock with more confidence than I feel. For weeks I’ve been trying to work up an excuse to pay Mary Stone a visit. The discovery of my daughter’s eating disorder is as good a reason as any. Mary might be able to abandon me, but she won’t leave poor Rose Gold to the Big Bad Wolf.
I found the discarded Thanksgiving food a week ago. Since then I can’t decide what to do with my daughter. Reasoning hasn’t worked. Leaving her to her own devices is not an option. I’ve never been above seeking outside help, particularly if it involves a good and petty “told you so.”
Someone pads down the hallway. The door will swing open in a few seconds. Mary doesn’t peek through the peephole before she opens her door. How many times have I told her she’s too trusting? She’s going to wind up in the trunk of someone’s car.
The door opens, and the expression on Mary’s face is warm. Then she recognizes who’s standing on her doorstep. By now I’m used to people’s smiles turning into frowns when they see me.
“I told you you’re not welcome here,” Mary says. She starts to close the door.
“Wait,” I say, pushing back against it. “It’s Rose Gold. I think she’s in trouble.”
Mary hesitates, watching me. Then she sighs and opens the door wide. “Come in,” she says.
Bingo.
The house is just as I remember it, painted and carpeted in Easter pastels. Mary’s collection of angel statues in the living room has somehow grown—there must be more than fifty now, fashioned from ceramic, concrete, glass, wood, and marble. I wonder if she’s ever driven past a yard sale without stopping.
I sit on the couch. Two glass bowls are on the coffee table: one full of potpourri, the other of M&M’s. I’m already concocting a slapstick routine that involves pretending to eat a handful of the dried petals, but remind myself this is supposed to be a somber visit. I am here to play the role of Concerned Mother. I grab a handful of M&M’s. Concerned Mothers still need to eat.
“What do you want, Patty?” Mary says.
I toss the M&M’s into my mouth. “I think Rose Gold is sick.”
Mary’s face softens. “Sick how? Is this an emergency?” She reaches for her phone.
“No, no,” I reassure her. I stare at my folded hands in my lap, like this is hard for me to say. Timing is key before a big reveal. You want your audience on the edge of their seats, hanging on your every word.
Mary leans forward, as if she can read my mind. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with her?”
I take a deep breath. “I think Rose Gold has an eating disorder.”
I’ve played Mary’s reaction a hundred times in my head, but never did I imagine it would be a laugh of disbelief. She crosses her arms. “Funny, she never had any trouble with food while you were in prison.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
“She used to come over here for dinner all the time,” Mary says, gazing at the cherubs dancing on her fireplace mantel. “She usually had multiple helpings.”
“How do you know she didn’t make herself throw up afterward?”
Mary’s expression darkens. “I know.”
“How?” I prod.
She sighs. “I would have known if she went to the bathroom every time we finished dinner. She didn’t. She helped me clear the table, and then we’d come in here. I never heard her get sick—not while she was pregnant, and certainly not before.”
“She could have waited until she got home,” I insist, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together.
“Patty, she was over here for hours after dinner sometimes. We’d watch a movie or just talk.”
I try not to picture Mary Stone serving as Rose Gold’s surrogate mother. The image makes me feel like tiny spiders are crawling all over my body.
Mary crosses her arms. “You’re doing it again.”
I study her, questioning.
“Creating an illness where there isn’t one,” she says, lips forming a tight line.
If Rose Gold doesn’t have an eating disorder, why have I never seen her eat? I turn the question over and over in my mind. She doesn’t eat my meals, but she doesn’t make her own either. I haven’t seen her eat more than a few pieces of toast and granola bars since I moved in with her. My silence continues for a beat too long.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, keeping my voice steady.
“Here’s what I know,” she says. “The only time Rose Gold has looked healthy in her entire life was during the five years you were locked up.”
I picture my friend Mary up on the mantel among her angels, stripped naked, hot tar poured down her back, wearing seraph’s wings of filthy pigeon feathers. She holds her hands together in prayer.
“We’ve all seen her jogging around the block,” Mary says, gritting her teeth. “That girl is being starved or poisoned again. She may not be able to see through you, but the rest of us are watching. We know you brainwashed her. And if baby Adam so much as catches a cold on your watch, I’ll call the police so fast, you won’t see the handcuffs coming.”
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by the accusation, given all I’ve been through. The truth is, I haven’t put anything in her food. Rose Gold and I have been sharing meals, which means if I’d tainted the casseroles or soups, I’d also have been poisoning myself. Even if she were ridiculous enough to be afraid of my cooking, that doesn’t explain why she’s not making her own food.
“I know she started visiting you during your last year in prison,” Mary says. “Before that, she hated your guts, wanted nothing to do with you. I don’t know how you changed her mind, but since then, she’s been acting different.”
“Different how?” I ask.
“That’s enough questions. It’s high time you left my house.” She ushers me—rather forcefully, I might add—off her couch and down the hallway.
As I near the door, something clicks into place. Mary thinks I’m to blame for Rose Gold’s size. They all think I’m to blame. What if that’s what Rose Gold wants? What if she’s trying to turn them all against me by pretending to be sick?
“If you love Rose Gold, if you’re even capable of love, you will move out of her house and leave her alone.” Mary opens the door and shoves me outside.
“Mary—”
She silences me with a stony expression. “Take care, Patty.”
The door closes in my face. I am left standing on her stoop, speechless. The dead bolt clicks.
I pound on the door. “Mary, what if she’s making it up?”
No response.
I pound again. “Mary!”
Still no response.
I pound a third time. “Mary, maybe she’s lying.”
On the other side of the door, Mary sighs. “I was there for you,” she says, sounding more tired than angry now. “I held your hand and listened to you cry. I made you dinners and gave you money. You were like a sister”—here her voice wobbles, and I can tell she’s trying not to cry—“to me.”
I hang my head. She clears her throat. I imagine her dabbing her eyes, regaining her composure. I hear her pad down the hallway. She’s done with me.
I move away from the front door and sit on the stoop, my head in my hands. I don’t think I can muster another ounce of peppy Patty positivity today.
One afternoon Mary and I decided to make French macarons. I got powdered sugar and almond flour everywhere when I forgot to put the lid on the food processor. By the time we’d piped the batter onto baking sheets and cleaned up the kitchen, we were exhausted. We settled onto Mary’s couch to catch up on All My Children and were horrified when our favorite hunk, Leo du Pres, plummeted to his death over Miller’s Falls. While our macarons burned in the oven, we made plans to send an angry letter to the showrunners, demanding Leo’s return. We never did write that letter.
One spring Mary and I signed up for a 5K. For months we trained side by side, progressing from walking to slow jogging to running the three miles. Together we raised five hundred dollars from our neighbors and donated the money to the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. On the morning of the race, we both had nervous jitters. Our goal was to finish in thirty-five minutes. We’d just crossed the starting line when Mary tripped over a stick and twisted her ankle. She insisted she still wanted to complete the race and could walk if I supported some of her weight. We crossed the finish line an hour and twelve minutes after we started.
