Darling Rose Gold, page 19
I shook my head.
“Don’t bother. I’m more of a Margaret Atwood fan myself. I’ve read The Handmaid’s Tale at least thirty times. Gives you something different to chew on with every read, you know? But I’ll be the first to admit I like a little Eat Pray Love as much as the next guy. Elizabeth Gilbert is a national treasure.” The way Phil was babbling, I wondered whether he had spoken to anyone in the last sixty years. I had to admit, he didn’t strike me as an ax murderer.
“Do you really live alone in a cabin in the woods?” I asked.
He chuckled again. “That’s all you took away? I told you I live in a cabin.”
“Yeah, with your uncle and aunt,” I glared, becoming less scared of him.
“Let’s be honest.” His eyes twinkled. “Nobody wants to talk to an old guy online, even if he’s a nice old guy. Sometimes we have to get creative with the truth. You understand, don’t you, Katie?” He was enjoying himself, as though this were all some master prank.
I guessed it was. I’d spent five years of my life thinking I was in a real relationship, yet I was no closer to my first kiss. I wanted to both laugh and cry.
“I take it you don’t snowboard either,” I said.
Phil belted out a laugh and slapped his belly. “Not since I threw my back out in oh-eight. I did take a lesson once. Hunter said I was a natural.” He beamed.
Hunter—now that was the name of a plausible twentysomething snowboard instructor. I wanted to smack myself.
“Don’t you get lonely, living by yourself?” I asked.
“I thought you said you live alone too,” Phil said.
I stared at my hot chocolate. “I never said I wasn’t lonely.”
Phil’s expression softened. “Sure, I’d rather have a wife and kids, and even grandkids by now. But I strike out every time I try courting someone in real life. Had my heart broken one too many times, so I’ve accepted the hand I was dealt.” My face must have been filled with pity because he continued. “Look, I make the best of it. I grow vegetables and bake bread. I get my meat from a butcher in Denver. I’m trying to make my house self-sustainable, but I’m not a total recluse or anything. I sing in a church choir once a month. As Thoreau said, ‘I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.’”
In any other story, Phil would be a serial killer. In this one, he was a philosophical hermit.
The waitress dropped off our food. I drizzled a heap of blueberry syrup on top of the blueberry pancakes, cut off a piece, and ate it. A shiver still ran through me when I took a first bite of an especially delicious meal, and this time was no different. The pancakes were thick and fluffy and melted in my mouth. I ate forkful after forkful, not caring if I looked insane.
“What do you mean, ‘self-sustainable’?” I asked between bites.
“I have my own hydroponic garden for water. I use my own heating and cooling systems. No bank accounts. I pay cash and get paid in cash.”
“What do you do for work?”
“Sell my produce, tutor high school kids, snow removal in the winter.” He leaned in and gestured for me to do the same. “Create fake identities.”
I almost laughed, then realized he was serious. Where was this guy when I needed to pretend I was twenty-one so I could join Alex and Whitney at Kirkwood?
“Is Phil your fake identity?”
Phil raised his eyebrows, suggesting the answer was yes.
“What’s your birth name?”
Phil shook his head. “Sorry, kiddo. No can tell. I changed my name thirty years ago to get away from my past.” He studied his omelet. “I also have a mother I’d like to forget.”
I couldn’t believe real Phil and I had something in common. I had forgotten that all this time, I’d been telling him about the horror show that was my own mother.
“I know what you mean,” I said, anger creeping into my voice. “My mom ruined my life.”
Phil gave me a sad smile. “Don’t hold on to that bitterness, darlin’. It’ll crush you.”
“How do you let it go?” I asked.
“That’s the million-dollar question.” He took the final bite of his omelet.
I realized I probably needed the real Phil in this moment more than the online version I thought I’d been dating. I smiled at him, a genuine smile to let him know I was happy to be there, grateful to be sitting across from another human being with a lousy childhood.
Phil cringed a tiny bit—at my teeth, what else? My cheeks flushed. This whole time, I thought I’d been the only one repulsed. I imagined meeting Phil at this diner again, a few years from now, once I had my gleaming white teeth. I’d never be embarrassed to smile again.
“Excuse me,” Phil said, rising from the booth and folding his napkin. He placed it where he’d been sitting. “Need to use the facilities.”
When he’d left, I pulled out my phone and texted my dad.
Me: I decided to meet up with a guy in Colorado I’ve been talking to online
Me: Turns out he’s, like, 60 and lives alone in the woods. I thought he was 20
Me: He seems okay, but if you don’t hear from me for a while, just call the Denver police, okay?
I reread the texts. Everything I’d said was true. So what if I left out some minor details that would have assuaged my father’s fears? No way could he ignore me now. I’d have to wait for his phone to find service; he had warned me he would be out of touch while they were camping. I put my phone back in my purse.
Phil returned from the bathroom and sat. He noted my empty plate, impressed I’d finished. “Good?” he asked.
“Delicious,” I said.
“The Crispy Biscuit never disappoints.”
The waitress brought the check. Phil laid two twenty-dollar bills on the table. I reached for my own wallet, but he waved me off. I didn’t object.
He cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t think either of us is hoping for something physical.”
I shook my head. Part of me was overjoyed Phil wasn’t interested; the other part was ashamed I was being rejected by a sixtysomething loner.
“For me, our relationship was never about the physical anyway,” he said, fidgeting. “All those years ago, you seemed like you could use a friend.”
I opened my mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. I felt pathetic, listening to Phil describe sixteen-year-old me. Worst of all, five years later, the description still fit.
“I needed a friend too,” he tried to reassure me. “Which is why I didn’t want to leave you hanging at the bus depot today. I was also once a kid running away from abuse.”
Was that what I was doing? The question flickered while Phil kept talking.
“Here’s my idea. Why don’t I drive you to the airport? I’ll give you four hundred bucks for a plane ticket, and you can fly anywhere you want. You can start over.”
He watched me with hope. I’d read this man completely wrong. He wasn’t out to hurt me—he wanted to help. I was too exhausted and overwhelmed to tear up.
“I don’t want to get back on that bus.” I laughed weakly.
“You don’t have to. Let me help you,” Phil said. “When I was your age, someone helped me get back on my feet. And I vowed to do the same someday.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Absolutely,” Phil said.
We left the diner together. I had the urge to hug this stranger I’d known for so long, but didn’t want to chance sending any wrong signals. Just in case.
The thirty-minute ride to Denver Airport was a quiet one. While Phil drove, I thought about where I’d go. I could fly to California and see the ocean for the first time. Or the Statue of Liberty in New York. I wondered if four hundred dollars was enough to buy a ticket to Mexico—it was supposed to be sunny and warm, and no one would know my story there. I could be Rose or pick a new name, like Phil had.
I allowed myself these fantasies, although I already knew where I’d go when I reached the counter. I’d book the next flight to Indianapolis. From there it would be a two-hour drive to the bus station to pick up my van, and then a five-hour drive home.
I couldn’t give up on my dad or the life I was rebuilding. I had a job, a car, a savings account with actual money in it. In a few years, I would be able to pay for the dental procedure. I was not yet done with Deadwick. I couldn’t up and run away like Phil had, as tempting as it might have been.
Phil pulled his truck over to the departures drop-off area. From his wallet, he drew four crisp hundred-dollar bills.
He grinned and handed me the cash. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself?”
I beamed. “I promise. Thank you so, so much.”
Overcome with gratitude, I kissed his cheek. We both flinched, but pretended not to notice. I got out of the pickup, waved once, and watched the truck drive away.
17
Patty
Christmas in Deadwick is a pathetic affair. We have no town square, so the “festivities” are set up in the parking lot of our strip mall. Fabric and hardware stores, a nail salon, a pizza place, and a Hallmark—I thought they’d gone the way of Blockbuster—all stand as sad witnesses to the holiday spectacle.
Thousands of cotton balls have been scattered across the pavement. That still isn’t enough to offer a passing likeness to snow, and more blacktop is poking through than white clumps. In one corner of the parking lot is a row of gingerbread houses—I have to assume their decorators were blindfolded. The reindeer are garden deer statues, made of flimsy plastic and antlerless. Someone has drawn a grin on each of their mouths with red paint, so they bear a striking likeness to Heath Ledger’s Joker. (Rose Gold and I watched The Dark Knight the other evening; my, her movie tastes have gotten sinister.) At the center of it all is a five-foot, Charlie Brown–ish Christmas tree. The ornaments are scratched, the garland is balding, and the angel on top looks embarrassed for all of us. A homemade countdown sign reads: 9 days until Christmas.
Kitty-corner from the gingerbread houses is the reason we’re here: Santa. Though it’s ten a.m., a line has already formed, all the kids dressed in red and green. Some are jumping in excitement; others look like they’re waiting for sentencing. (I would know.) One little girl is bawling. I wish I could join her.
I wanted to take Adam to the mall Santa two towns over, but Rose Gold begged me to come with her to Deadwick’s “Christmaspalooza.” She wants everyone to see we’re three peas in a pod—and also Adam’s adorable reindeer outfit (this one complete with antlers). I glance over at her pointing things out to Adam, like he has a clue what’s going on. Her excitement is somewhat endearing. I’m glad I came.
The day after our property was set on fire, I confronted Rose Gold about her odd behavior the night before. She admitted she’d thought I was exaggerating. In her sleeping-pill-induced state, she hadn’t realized the gravity of the situation. Of course, she had nothing to do with it, she insisted, insulted I would insinuate as much. She suspected Arnie was involved. He had a crush on her and had said something about teaching me a lesson a few weeks back. She promised to do a little digging.
A couple days later, she came home from work with an update: Arnie said he didn’t start the fire, but she had a feeling he knew who did. She thought his younger brother, Noah, and his friends were to blame.
“But why would they come after me?” I asked.
Rose Gold shrugged. “A lot of folks in Deadwick have grudges against you—even people you don’t know.”
My eyebrows reached for my hairline. “We should call the police.”
Rose Gold shook her head. “Don’t be silly. They’re harmless.”
“I wouldn’t call juvenile delinquents with a penchant for arson harmless.” I chewed my lip.
Rose Gold sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mom. People in town think it’s their job to keep me safe, and they believe the best way to do that is by getting you away from me. Listen, why don’t we go to Christmaspalooza next weekend, and we can prove to everyone how close we are?”
Which is why we are now standing in a ramshackle parking lot, her arm hooked through mine, waiting to stick my grandson on a strange man’s lap. I’m not completely satisfied with Rose Gold’s explanation—I’ve seen Arnie, Noah, and their gawky friends around town. They seem incapable of operating flyswatters, let alone vandalizing someone’s property.
I’ve decided to leave it be for now. I don’t want to spook Rose Gold by making accusations or asking pointed questions. I need to keep her close so I can figure out what she’s up to. Once I have more answers, I can regain control of this family.
I pat my daughter’s arm. She beams at me.
Five families wait in line ahead of us. Blessedly, I don’t recognize any of them, and they don’t recognize me. Santa is also an unfamiliar face, a fortysomething guy, if I had to guess. Bob McIntyre always used to play the town Santa. Maybe he couldn’t find his dentures in time this year.
Two little boys hop off Santa’s lap after their parents take four million pictures. What happened to one and done? They’re not going in National Geographic, for Pete’s sake. Santa “ho-ho-hos” and “Meeeeeeerry Christmases” them away. While the next parents in line straighten their children’s Sunday best, Santa’s gaze skims the parking lot and lands on me. His eyes squint, then widen in recognition. I may not know him, but he knows me.
He glowers at me. I try to stand my ground, frown back, but feel creepy having a staring contest with Santa. I turn away. His eyes are still trained on me, even as the new group of kids climbs onto his lap.
Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe he’s not staring at me at all.
I glance over my shoulder to see if he might be watching someone behind me, and whom should I spot across the parking lot but the walking Gumby that is Arnie Dixon and, presumably, the creatures that spawned him. A level of rage builds within me that I have not felt since Rose Gold took the stand at my trial.
I stride across the lot toward them. Arnie sees me coming and looks scared. I stop in front of him and put my hands on my hips.
“You and your fire-loving derelict of a brother better stay away from my family,” I yell.
Arnie gawps and peers around, like I might be talking to someone else. His parents, slender, bespectacled folks who smell like cat lovers, are also caught off guard.
“Tell your little crew to feed their pyromania elsewhere. If I catch any of you on my property again, I’m calling the police.” My head pounds from shouting.
Arnie’s mom steps in, raising a soft-spoken voice. “You stay away from my sons, you crazy witch.”
I wheel around on her. “Your sons set my trash can on fire.”
A tall man grabs me by the arm and looms over all of us. “How about you leave the spectacles to Santa and let the Dixons alone?”
Tom.
He’s not the only spectator, I realize. The flurry of activity in the parking lot has more or less ground to a halt. Moon-faced dimwits wrapped in sleeping bag parkas stare at me, their faces filled with animosity. One couple hurries their little girl to the car, but the rest stay and watch with crossed arms. They want a show? Fine.
I rip my arm from Tom’s hold and raise my voice even more, flailing my arms for emphasis. I want everyone to hear me. “You’ve all been awful to me since I came back. You know nothing about my relationship with Rose Gold, how close we’ve become. And yet you’re all conspiring against me.”
The PTA moms make a show of pulling their children close. A group of high school wrestlers cracks their knuckles. I realize I am raving. Those who don’t know about the fire might think I’m a lunatic. I have a sinking feeling the town mob is going to force me to leave again when a raspy voice speaks up behind me.
“Why don’t we all let Patty enjoy her holiday, and you all can enjoy yours?”
I whirl around to find Hal Brodey, an old friend of my dad’s, gazing down at me. I haven’t seen Hal since I was a kid. He has to be pushing ninety now, but other than a wrinkled face and slightly stooped posture, he doesn’t seem much worse for wear. Hal never went out of his way to be kind to me when I was younger, so I’m not sure why he’s defending me now.
Tom stares at Hal, incredulous. “You’re going to defend her? After what she put Rose Gold through?”
Hal takes off his Chicago Bears baseball cap, then settles it back on his head. “I know what she did, Tom.” As he speaks, his eyes never leave mine. “Most of you didn’t know Patty as a kid, what she went through. I do.”
The crowd stills. My lungs feel emptied of air.
“Her daddy beat the crud out of her for years.” Hal wears a haunted expression, his mind somewhere dark. “I still remember the bruises.”
So that’s what this is about. Hal Brodey needs to clear his conscience after looking the other way while his best friend beat his kids to a pulp. I didn’t know Hal knew. I didn’t know any adults knew, besides my mom. Blood rushes to my face—I’m half horrified to relive the memories, half humiliated to have my shame shared with so many people again.
“A lot of us got the belt as kids,” someone in the crowd grumbles. “None of us grew up to be monsters. We didn’t poison our daughters or starve our sons.”
The rest of the group murmurs their agreement. Someone claps.
Hal frowns. “Well, you’ll get a goddamn gold star in heaven. Is that what you wanna hear? All I’m saying is this woman’s had a hard life, and she needs a second chance now. Maybe we should give it to her.”
Nobody says anything. I wish I could freeze this moment right here. Hardly anyone has said a kind word about me in six years. I feel a tear coming and blink it away.
Hal keeps going. “What about forgiveness? From what I remember, that’s a big part of the Good Book you all are always preaching from.”
