Darling Rose Gold, page 16
One September Mary and I took the girls to the nearby cul-de-sac for wheelbarrow races. Rose Gold had been bedridden for days. She was too weak to run around outside, but she was bored out of her skull. So Mary and I wheeled her and Alex around in circles, huffing and puffing and laughing at how out of shape we were. Mr. Grover, a crotchety old man, stopped us for a lecture about the appropriate uses of wheelbarrows. Every time he turned to face Mary, I made hand puppets behind his back and imitated his stern expression, while Mary tried not to laugh. She even rolled her eyes once—the Mary equivalent of giving someone the finger—while he was chastising me.
I realize I have lost my closest friend, maybe for good. Even if I can get her to come to the door, she won’t believe me.
I turn and begin the long walk home, concentrating on the sidewalk in front of me. Glassy eyes peer from dark garages and second-floor windows. Every time I leave the house, everywhere I go—they watch me. I feel their eyes on me in the shower, while I’m napping in my recliner. They crawl across my skin, but when I look, they aren’t there.
I speed up, distract myself by replaying the conversation with Mary. I keep coming back to the same question: is Rose Gold sick or not? If not, what does she hope to gain by faking an eating disorder? Attention? Sympathy? Making my neighbors hate me even more? Regardless of her motive, if she’s starving herself, that still means she’s sick, right? Maybe she has depression or an adrenal insufficiency or cancer. Shouldn’t I find her some help?
When I get back, I pace the house, nervous energy burning me up. Rose Gold won’t be home for a while. She took Adam to the pediatrician for his vaccines.
I sit in my recliner, but my legs won’t stop trembling. I stand and pace the house some more. I need to shake off that visit to Mary—I can’t strategize until I calm down. Maybe Rose Gold has the right idea with exercise.
In my bedroom, I change into sweatpants and a ratty old T-shirt under the gaze of the watery blue eyes on the ceiling. I tie the laces of a pair of gym shoes. My legs are leaden, but I walk to the kitchen and fill a water bottle under the faucet. I screw on the bottle top. I search the living room and kitchen to see if Rose Gold has one of those iPods for listening to music, but I don’t see one anywhere. Finally, I head toward the basement. Jogging outside, with all those evil eyes watching me, is out of the question. That leaves me with one option.
I breathe in, breathe out, then twist the basement door handle. I descend the stairs, keeping my eyes on the floor. The rafters are all I can think about, but that doesn’t mean I have to look at them. I scurry to the treadmill. Stay focused on the task at hand.
Rose Gold has tucked it into a corner so the right and back sides of the machine are nearly flush with the walls. I climb on and press the start button.
The machine’s screen illuminates, but the digits in the speed section are gibberish. I sigh, pressing the button to increase speed. This is what Rose Gold gets for picking up someone else’s trash. There’s a reason our neighbor was about to throw this old thing away.
The treadmill belt still isn’t moving. I press the buttons harder. The list of people who have humiliated me in this town is getting long. Someday they’ll regret the way they’ve treated me. I jab the ^ button, pretending it’s Mary Stone’s face. The nerve of that—
The treadmill belt rips to life under my feet. The garbled numbers on the screen straighten themselves. I recognize a speed of 16.5. The force of the machine flings me backward. I flail my arms, try to lean forward, but the belt throws me off.
My back hits the wall with a thud, knocking the breath out of me. A burning pain screams from my lower shins. I glance down and see my feet are wedged between the wall and the treadmill belt. It peels layer after layer of bloody skin from my shins.
I am screaming. Watching my own legs get shaved like gyros on a spit. The treadmill belt has blood stuck to it. I might pass out. I flail. I fall to my left. My palms smash into the concrete. I pull my legs toward me. They’re still burning. I glance at my shins—free now, but a bloody wreck.
The treadmill is plugged into the wall outlet beside me. From my position on the floor, I rip the cord from the wall. The belt stops. The machine is silent. I’m still screaming. My throat is dry. I close my mouth.
I can’t tell if the ringing in my ears is from shock or pain or all the yelling. I lie on the floor for another minute, eyes closed. The concrete is cool against my cheek. My shins throb. I examine them. They’ll be a mess to clean, but nothing Neosporin and bandages can’t fix. I will be okay. Someday this will be a funny story, maybe.
Overhead: footsteps. Someone is whistling a song from The Little Mermaid. The one Ursula sings in her lair.
Rose Gold.
Has she been home the whole time? Was she up there, listening to me scream in pain? Or am I being paranoid? Maybe I’m still a little woozy from the accident.
“Rose Gold?” I call out.
The whistling stops. The basement door opens.
My daughter chirps, “Coming, Mom!”
14
Rose Gold
July 2015
It was not the greeting I’d been hoping for.
“Rose, what are you doing here?”
Dad jogged across the street, away from the blue SUV he was packing in his driveway. I opened my van door and jumped down from the driver’s seat.
“Hi, Dad,” I said.
The door to the Gillespies’ house opened. Sophie came out first, carrying thick sleeping bags under each arm. Billy Jr. carried two paper bags of groceries. Kim followed them, but spotted me before either of the kids did. She frowned. I hadn’t seen that frown since my first dinner at the Gillespies’ house. She’d been much nicer to me since she found out about my cancer.
I’d seen the Gillespies at least once a month since our first dinner eight months ago. Since Anna’s ear piercing outing, even Sophie and Billy Jr. were being nice to me. Dad and Kim had been especially hospitable. Sometimes I felt like an actual member of their family.
Dad stopped next to the van, letting the duffel bag on his shoulder slide to the ground. Out of breath, he said, “We talked about this on the phone. You can’t come with us to Yellowstone.”
Actually, he had said it wasn’t a good idea, given my condition. But he’d never said no. I’d come prepared.
I pulled the folded note from my pocket and pushed it into Dad’s hand. “My doctor says I’m fine to travel.”
Dad glanced down at the note, squinting while he read.
I’d made up some mysterious postexercise chest pains to get a doctor’s appointment. After the nurse took my vitals and left, I locked the door and dug through the cabinets until I found Dr. Stanton’s prescription pad. I took two pages from the pad—one for practice—and tucked them into my purse. I unlocked the door and was back on the exam table before Dr. Stanton knocked. He and I agreed we’d keep an eye on the chest pain.
I was beginning to understand how my mother had gotten away with all those lies for so many years. Doctors were walking Band-Aids; they were eager to fix every leak, squeak, and pain. All you had to do was provide your medical background, list your symptoms, and ask for help. Dr. Stanton assumed I was telling him the truth. The two of us were a team with the same goal in mind. Model patient was a role I’d mastered decades ago.
And yes, I realize the hypocrisy of lying about being sick while condemning my mother for the same act. The difference is her lies hurt someone. My lie was supposed to heal, to strengthen the bond between father and daughter.
Dad handed the note back to me. “I’m glad Dr. Stanton thinks you’re doing so well,” he said. He didn’t meet my eyes, though. I’d learned the meaning behind that cue years ago. When I was a kid, every adult about to give me bad news—doctors, teachers, my mother—avoided looking at me.
“You still can’t come,” he continued.
“But why?” I asked, failing to keep the disappointment from my tone. “I’m done with chemo. Dr. Stanton says everything looks good.”
I was beginning to regret this whole cancer story.
“All I do these days is worry about you,” Dad said, frowning. “I’m tired. This is my vacation too. I need a break from”—he gesticulated at me—“this. It’s too much.”
He gazed back at his family. They kept packing the car. He straightened. “This is my family trip.”
My fists clenched. “But I am your family.”
“You know what I mean.” Dad looked away.
I thought about the fishing pole, jumbo marshmallows, and bag of charcoal in the backseat of my van. I had seen Sophie’s Facebook post the night before, saying the Gillespies were leaving at nine sharp this morning for their big trip. I’d left my apartment at four a.m. to make it to their house in time.
“I can’t believe you’re not going to let me come,” I said, crossing my arms.
Dad chewed his lip. “Why don’t you spend the weekend with Alex?”
I tried not to laugh. I hadn’t seen or heard from Alex in six months. A week after the eyebrow fiasco, she’d sent me a text.
Alex: i know what you did. don’t ever contact me again
I didn’t respond. I had to hand it to Whitney—she was smarter than I’d thought. Apparently she’d passed the “tragic” comment along to Alex, and one or both of them had put two and two together. I couldn’t blame either of them for not wanting to be friends with me anymore. What friend left another friend eyebrow-less?
I wasn’t sure how to react to the loss of Alex. She’d been my friend since we were kids. But was it a loss if that friend treated you like crap? Without her to text the daily minutiae about my life, I’d been texting Phil, and especially Dad, twice as much.
I shrugged. “She’s out of town. I guess I’ll go back to Deadwick and obsess over whether the chemo worked.”
Dad glowered at me. “Don’t do that,” he snapped.
“Do what?”
“Try to guilt-trip me. I offered to come to all your appointments. You didn’t want me there.”
“Well, I need you now.” I knew how pathetic I sounded, but the camping trip was slipping through my fingers. I peered at my brand-new hiking boots—I could already feel a blister forming on my right pinkie toe.
Dad hoisted the duffel back over his shoulder. “For Christ’s sake,” he said, exasperated. He gestured to the driveway. “You want to see us off or not?” I followed him across the street to his SUV.
Kim yelled inside the house, “Anna, we’re leaving.”
A few seconds later, Anna skipped out the door and down the driveway, holding a Frisbee and wearing a rainbow backpack. When she spotted me, she dropped the Frisbee and ran to my side.
“Rose, Rose,” she yelled, hugging my legs. “Is Rose coming?” she asked Dad.
Dad shook his head.
I leaned down and hugged Anna. “I want to,” I said. “But Dad won’t let me.”
“Why not, Daddy? Why?” Anna burst into tears. “I want Rose to come.”
Dad’s jaw tightened. “Get in the car, kids,” he said, never taking his narrowed eyes off me.
Sophie and Billy Jr. stood limply while I hugged them goodbye. The kids climbed into the SUV and began arguing about whether they were going to play a game first or watch a movie. Anna was the only one bothered by my absence. Here I thought they had all accepted me.
“I really, really want to join you,” I said to Kim, making one last-ditch effort. I hated the pleading tone in my voice.
Kim didn’t say anything. She tilted her head and watched me. Her eyes rested on the ends of my hair, which by now grazed my shoulders. The kids had grown quiet in the car—eavesdropping, no doubt.
Dad broke the silence. “What did you say the name of your doctor was?”
“Dr. Stanton,” I said. “Why?”
“What street is his office on?”
“Kinney,” I answered. A bead of sweat formed at my hairline.
Dad pulled out his phone. “Why don’t we give him a call,” he said, impassive, “to make sure he’s okay with this?”
I gnawed on my bottom lip, heart beating faster. “He’s on vacation this week,” I said. “Out of touch.” I didn’t like where this was going.
Dad touched a few buttons on his phone. “There must be an assistant or nurse we can talk to.”
I snuck a peek at Kim. She wouldn’t meet my gaze. I had to get out.
“Maybe you guys are right,” I said. “Maybe this is too big a trip for me. I’ll get out of your hair.”
Dad and Kim watched me, both tense.
From the car, Billy Jr. gave me a small wave and sad half smile. Now that I too had been on the receiving end of Dad’s meanness, he was willing to acknowledge me. I bet it wasn’t often someone else served as Dad’s punching bag.
I glared at Dad for a minute. He was supposed to be kind, a decent man. “I thought you cared,” I spat, and marched down the driveway toward my van.
Before stepping into the street, I heard footsteps behind me. Dad grabbed my arm. I turned around, hoping my cheeks weren’t as red as they felt.
“Rose, listen, I’m sorry,” Dad said, and he did sound contrite. “I’ve been under a lot of stress, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I care about you. I do.”
I waited for him to continue.
“I know I’m the parent here, so maybe I’m supposed to know what to do. But there’s no rule book for getting to know your long-lost daughter. I feel like I’m botching things every step of the way.” He rubbed his face, and for the first time, I saw how exhausted he was by all of this, by me. “Why don’t you and I get together once I’m back from this trip?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He gave me an awkward hug before retreating to Kim’s side. I waved to both of them, plastering a fake smile on my face. They waved back, studying me.
In my car, I pretended to get something from the glove box so they couldn’t keep watching me. What parents wouldn’t let their cancer-riddled daughter go on the family trip? Who the hell did they think they were, deciding my capabilities for me? Dad had already abandoned me once—now he was trying to do it again. But they weren’t getting off that easy. When their car doors slammed, I sat upright.
Dad started his car, so I did the same. He was waiting for me to drive off, but I waved him on to let him go first.
I couldn’t let the Disney on Ice disaster happen again.
They were not taking this trip without me.
The garage door closed. Dad eased the Explorer down the driveway. He honked when he passed me. Kim stared straight ahead. I watched them drive down the street and halt at the stop sign. I put the van in drive and followed them.
Ten minutes later, we reached a two-lane road with a bunch of strip malls on either side, and I realized Dad and Kim were watching me in their rearview mirror. I pretended not to see them. The first highway they needed—US-30 W—was coming up on the right. I’d memorized the twenty-four-hour-long route so I could help Dad navigate if their satellite signal didn’t work.
But the SUV didn’t get on the highway. Instead, Dad changed lanes. I did the same. Then, without much warning, he turned on his left blinker and pulled into a Subway parking lot. I pulled into the auto repair shop lot across the street and watched the Gillespies traipse inside Subway. Sophie glanced over her shoulder at my car. They all knew I was following them.
I gripped the steering wheel until my hands hurt. Mom once told me about her own childhood camping trip in Pokagon State Park. On the second day, a white skunk had wandered through their campsite. Her dad jumped onto the picnic table and froze, trying not to alarm the skunk. Mom said that was the one time she saw him scared. After the skunk moved on, the rest of the family burst out laughing at him. He looked, my mother said, like a robot turned off mid–dance move. They laughed until their stomachs hurt, until tears dripped off their faces and onto their melting sticks of ice cream. Weeks later, someone dubbed the close call “Pepé Le Phew.”
I wanted my own close call, my own inside joke, a story retold at every family gathering. I wanted the bonfire smell to get stuck in my jacket—I’d been planning not to wash it for at least a couple months so I could sniff it every day back in Deadwick. I could almost taste the crunchy exterior of my roasted marshmallow, then the gooey inside as my teeth dug further. I was already sitting on a log, listening to Billy Jr. tell ghost stories, with Anna on my lap.
I thought I’d done everything right. I’d been polite and funny and laughed at all their jokes and gone out of my way to help them every chance I got. When Kim mentioned blisters from gardening, I’d bought her a pair of gloves. I told Dad over and over how lucky I was to call him my father. I’d helped Anna learn to love something she thought was ugly about herself; she wasn’t scared to go to school anymore. How did they decide when I was good enough to be one of them and when I wasn’t? Why wasn’t I ever enough for anyone?
Don’t get mad. Get even, she hissed.
Her instructions cleared my head. First I had to get rid of this van. It was too big, too recognizable. I googled the nearest bus station.
Twenty minutes later, I was examining the bus schedule and map. At the counter, I bought one ticket. We departed in an hour.
I spotted another Subway across the street and realized I was hungry. Sitting on one of the hard yellow benches with a ham-and-cheese sandwich in hand, I imagined I was with Dad’s family, eating lunch alongside them.
“Ew, ham?” Billy Jr. said, wrinkling his nose. “Salami is the best.”
“No, turkey is the best,” Sophie corrected him.
