Darling Rose Gold, page 21
“I called Dr. Stanton’s office,” Dad said.
Shit.
“He’s a general practitioner, not an oncologist,” he said, hands shaking with fury. “Do you have any idea how humiliated I was?”
I’d worried this might happen. I did what my mother would have done—deny, deny, deny.
“Dr. Stanton is my GP, but I also have an oncologist,” I said, indignation building. “Why were you calling my doctor anyway?”
“Your doctor’s note was from Dr. Stanton,” Dad said, jaw muscles tensing.
“Yeah.” I jutted out my chin. “He’s capable of deciding whether I’m healthy enough to travel.”
“You told us Dr. Stanton was the one treating you.” Dad waved his arms like a lunatic. “So who is this mystery oncologist?”
Quietly I said, “I asked my oncologist to write me a note but he said no. So I convinced Dr. Stanton to do it instead.”
Dad’s forehead wrinkled. “Why did your oncologist say no?”
I shrugged. “He said my body had been through a lot, that I should rest a few more weeks and then we’d see.”
Dad was quiet for a minute, watching me.
“Rose,” he said, his voice full of pain, “is a family trip really worth risking your health?”
Without hesitating, I said, “It is to me.”
That much was true.
Our eyes met. I bit my lip.
For a second, I had him.
Then he blinked a few times and rubbed his forehead, like he was waking up from a spell. “Christ, what am I saying?” he fumed. “Why would one doctor say yes if the other said no? You never seemed sick. You were vague about treatment. You wanted all this support but then wouldn’t let me come to your appointments.” He paused, fresh anger brewing. “You pretended to have Hodgkin’s lymphoma to guilt-trip me. So I would let you come camping. What the hell is wrong with you?” he yelled.
The other parents exchanged shocked looks; they were watching their kids’ soccer coach ream out a helpless young woman. I imagined them speaking in hushed tones later: Is this the kind of man we want around our children? I wondered if they’d kick him off the team.
I felt about two feet tall. I could see now how colossal a mistake I had made. My mother had never been caught in a lie—until the end. How had this all gone so wrong? I just wanted a family, my family.
I cleared my throat and opened my mouth, having no idea what to say next.
Dad cut me off before I could speak. “Don’t you dare keep lying. Don’t you dare even think of opening your mouth and saying one more word about cancer or being sick or how much you need me and my family.”
Anna scurried over, hair disheveled, but she was smiling. She stopped short when she saw the livid expression on her father’s face. “Daddy?” she said, hesitant.
Dad’s eyes flicked toward Anna. “Go to the car and find Mommy.”
Anna didn’t protest. She walked straight to the car, turning back once to glance at me.
I tried not to squirm under the heat of Dad’s stare. Peering up, I marveled at the blue-sky day. The sun was shining, not a cloud in sight. How could my world crumble on such a beautiful afternoon? In the movies, it would be pouring right now, and I’d be stuck without an umbrella. I could have used a good-sized tornado right about then to scoop me up and take me somewhere else. Anywhere far, far away.
I’d banished the voice inside my head last year, yet I still found myself waiting for her to tell me what to do. She’d been silent since I’d arrived at the soccer field, though. I realized that, for the first time in my life, her voice was gone. She’d been guiding me through every day for the better part of twenty-one years. She told me how to eat, dress, behave, scheme. I hadn’t realized how dependent I was on her directions until she took them away, and I hated that I wanted her help. I’d been sure I’d never need anything from that woman ever again, but I’d been fooling myself. Now, when I needed her most, I had to rely on myself instead.
Dad stepped forward and wagged a finger in my face. “You stay away from my family—you got that?” He was trying to intimidate me, but fell a few feet short. I wasn’t scared of Dad—I was scared of not Dad. I was scared of the void I knew was coming. Warts and all, he was still better than having no one.
“Leave me the hell alone too,” he added. He was beginning to annoy me with this self-righteous act. Like he was a saint. Like he’d never made a mistake. He’d lied by omission for twenty years. He was the one who had come looking for me, who had dangled the promise of a family in my face and then yanked it away.
We had reached the point of no return. There would be no coming back from this. There would be no big happy family—at least not one that included me.
“I expect my son to act out,” he said, face still red with anger, “but girls are supposed to behave.”
I guessed my mom never got that memo.
Dad watched the other families pack their trunks, climb into their cars, and drive away. A few stragglers were stalling, trying to watch our little drama reach its conclusion.
“You’re just like your mother,” he jeered.
I wished he’d shut the fuck up and leave already. I imagined putting hexes on the four oldest Gillespies, wrapping them in tumors and stab wounds until they were mummies bound by their own blood.
But he couldn’t know that. He needed to think I was anything but a threat, that I was contrite even. Sugar and spice and everything nice, that was what he expected.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, wincing at the pathetic desperation in my voice, though I knew it was necessary. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Dad put the clipboard in his backpack. Before stomping off, he shook his head. “I’m sorry I ever went searching for you.”
I stood very still, squinting. He shouldn’t get off that easy. I swallowed my rage.
“Dad, I’m sorry,” I called after him, channeling the old Rose Gold, the meek girl, all shoulders and no spine. She was a lifetime ago. She was dead. I danced on her grave. “I said I’m sorry.”
Dad spun around, glowering at me. “I know one thing for sure,” he said.
We had the same small noses and hazel eyes. He clenched his hands.
“You deserve every rotten thing you got.”
19
Patty
I stare at the watery blue eyes on my bedroom ceiling, too exhausted to be scared of them. After my four-hour embrace with the porcelain throne last night, I have nothing left to give. I swing my legs over the side of the bed; I have to drive Rose Gold to work. First, I want to confront her about last night.
I shuffle to the living room just in time to hear the front door close. Rose Gold walks by the window in running clothes: a tank top, mesh shorts, and gym shoes. She looks ridiculous in that getup in the middle of December. I watch her for a minute. She sets off at a plodding pace down Apple Street, all elbows, shoulder blades, and knees. I shake off the urge to run after her with a scarf and mittens. She takes a right on Evergreen and disappears from sight.
Fine, the conversation can wait until I have her cornered in the van.
Forty minutes later, we leave the house together, at our usual time. While I lock up the house, she buckles Adam into his car seat, then climbs in beside me. I take the wheel, start the engine, and head for the highway.
“Are you feeling any better?” Rose Gold asks.
I say yes, though my stomach is still a bit wobbly. I don’t want to betray any signs of weakness.
Rose Gold plays peekaboo with Adam while I debate the best way to confront her. Perhaps she had nothing to do with the treadmill or the yard fire, but I know she’s been making herself out as a victim to Arnie, Mary, and Lord knows who else. And now she’s poisoned my food. This has gone too far.
“I can’t believe you didn’t get sick at all,” I say.
Rose Gold shrugs. “I’m sure the prison food did a number on your digestive system. You must still be adjusting.”
“I got out a month and a half ago. I’ve never gotten sick before.” Composure, Patty, keep your cool.
“That’s true. . . .” Rose Gold trails off, content to leave my sickness a mystery. But I’m determined to pin her down today. I will not let her slippery excuses and noncommittal shrugs slide.
I stare straight ahead. We’re going fifty in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone. Just right, Patty. Keep it above the legal limits but not fast enough to get caught.
“Did you put something in my food?” I ask, keeping my voice flat.
Rose Gold turns to me, eyes bulging. “What?”
“We ate the same meal. How could you be fine while I was a wreck?”
The look of shock, the feigned innocence—I want to slap it right off her face.
“Are you suggesting I poisoned you?”
She is outraged. The speedometer climbs to sixty. Adam babbles in the backseat.
“How else can you explain it?” Stay quiet, Patty. Deadly calm.
“I don’t know, Mom.” There it is again, that sarcastic emphasis on my name. “Do you know how fucked up it is that that is the first place your mind goes? After everything I’ve done for you?”
My teeth clench so hard, my jaw starts to shake. After everything she’s done for me? She’s taken me in for all of six weeks. I gave her every single piece of me for eighteen years. Right up until she thanked me for my sacrifice by sending me to prison.
And she knows she’s forbidden from using curse words.
The speedometer hits seventy.
Rose Gold raises her voice. “Why on earth would I want to poison you?”
I am the surface of an undisturbed pond, a cactus in the still heat. The rational mind always wins. “Maybe to get revenge.”
Rose Gold narrows her eyes, her tone mocking. “Why would I need revenge if you’re innocent?”
Her smirk fills the air between us, taunting me, daring to suggest she knows more than I do, that she has outsmarted me in some way. The insolence.
“Maybe the media got in your head the way it brainwashed everyone else.”
I pull off the highway and am forced to slow down. I can see the Gadget World parking lot around the bend.
“Everyone but you, huh?” Rose Gold sneers. “Everyone in the whole town has gone crazy, with the exception of Patty Watts. Always someone else’s fault, isn’t it? You’re never, ever to blame.”
I can feel the soft flesh of the neck oozing between my fingers. My thumbs silence the voice box. The spinal cord bends to my will.
How dare she? I think over and over.
I will not stand for this abuse.
* * *
• • •
Adam and I watch the frozen pond, searching for signs of life in the park. But the animals have all moved south for the winter. The wind picks up. I zip Adam’s snowsuit all the way to his chin.
The weather is a bit nippy for a day at the park, but I needed to get out of that house. We drove forty minutes south to find a playground where nobody knows us. No Mary Stones or Tom Behans or Arnie Dixons to try to hurt us. No one at all—the park is empty today.
I pull Adam out of his stroller and bounce him on my knee. Already he is growing his own little personality: smiling when he farts, chewing on his hands, drooling all over every piece of clothing I’ve laundered. He’s used to me now, spending more time in my care than Rose Gold’s these past few weeks. At least he won’t be leaving with a stranger.
Because we do have to leave. I realize that now. Neither of us is safe with his mother.
My daughter has turned this town against me, flaunting her skin and bones during neighborhood runs. Mary and the rest of them think I’m poisoning her. Her coworkers believe I’m torturing her. All this time, I blamed Tom or Arnie or maybe a few neighbors teaming up to destroy me.
But Rose Gold has always excelled at playing the victim.
Never mind all the attention she got while she was sick. Never mind the free toys and extra lollipops from the nurses and the total adoration of every citizen in Deadwick. She had them eating from the palm of her hand—she chose to throw it all away. And now she wants it back.
I have tried to be the doting mommy I thought my daughter wanted. But I didn’t suffer through five years of prison to be turned into a villain again. She wants to drive me away? Fine, I’ll go.
I study the baby in my arms. “You look like your mother when she was your age,” I say. Same hazel eyes, same petite nose. I hope he’s stronger when he grows up.
I toss Adam in the air and catch him, swinging him down through my legs and back up. He giggles with delight, watching me with those wide, curious eyes.
So far he has been a healthy baby.
That won’t last long.
After all, Rose Gold’s digestion issues began around Adam’s age. He’s shown no signs of apnea or pneumonia like she did, but there must be something sinister lurking beneath those rosy cheeks. No baby is perfect.
I set Adam down on his stomach in the frosty grass. A little exposure to the elements will make him stronger. He stretches his legs and kicks his feet, facedown in the cold.
“Adam,” I whisper. “Adam, look at Grandma.”
As if he understands me, the baby raises his head. He balls his hands into fists, kicking his legs harder. His mouth opens. I wonder whether I should let him cry.
At the last second, I swoop down and scoop him up, tossing him in the air again. That’s enough for one day. His whine turns into a laugh. I laugh too and palm his forehead. His cheeks are pink—or are they green? Could he have a cold or the flu? I think a trip to the doctor is in our future. Better safe than sorry.
I put Adam back in his stroller and walk him to the van. Starting it, I head toward Deadwick.
Odd how you adjust to life’s new circumstances. I’ve already become used to pulling into the driveway of my childhood home. My stomach tightens at the sight of the house for a different reason now.
In the kitchen, I move two bags of Rose Gold’s frozen milk from the freezer to the refrigerator, then take out a bottle of chilled milk. We have our routines down pat: Rose Gold pumps breast milk and puts it into the freezer; then I thaw it to feed Adam. I may have to switch him to formula, but that’s not the end of the world. I grew up on formula and did fine.
Adam sucks at the bottle. He has a big appetite and rarely throws up his food. His weight and height won’t convince any doctor he’s having digestion issues. He is not his mother’s son in that regard. He gazes at me, the essence of goodness, while he drinks. What I love most about babies: their dependence. They need us in order to survive.
All I’ve ever wanted, as a mother, is to be needed. The first few years of your child’s life, no one is more important to her than you, not even her father. That biological imperative demands to be satisfied, over and over and over. And then your child turns ten or twelve or eighteen, and suddenly you’re no longer critical. How are we supposed to cope? We mothers give up everything for our children, until they decide they don’t want our everything anymore.
Isn’t it just like a daughter to blame all her shortcomings on her mother? Whether it’s limp hair or a penchant for lying, every character flaw is our fault, not theirs. Naturally, all our daughters’ best traits have nothing to do with us. What other traps does she have waiting for me behind closed doors? She has this wretched house rigged for my demise.
I put Adam in his bassinet, leaving him in his snowsuit. It couldn’t hurt to get his body temperature up, for his cheeks to look a little redder than normal. The baby begins to whimper. Maybe he needs a diaper change.
I walk down the hallway to the bathroom. Out of habit, I try Rose Gold’s bedroom door handle. Locked, as always.
Opening the cabinet under the sink, I pull a diaper from the box of Luvs. Adam cries louder. I rush back and change him. He keeps crying. I try burping him, rocking him, distracting him with toys—all of it on maternal autopilot. I need him to stop so I can make a plan. I need a minute to think.
He quiets down before I resort to putting him in the backyard.
I glance at the baby in my arms. I can’t leave Adam behind with Rose Gold, not if she’s become this unhinged. There will be time to take him to a doctor later. Besides, a new doctor in a different state won’t know my name or recognize me. Why wouldn’t she believe the story of a grandmother raising her grandson alone after a family tragedy?
I pick up my phone and search for flights out of Chicago. Where will we go—California? Maine? Montana? I have only ever lived in this godforsaken town. Maybe I should book the next outbound flight, no matter where it’s going.
“Hang on a minute, Patty,” I say, trying to calm down. “Think it through now. You’re the logical one. She’s the emotional one.”
I check my watch: four fifty-eight p.m. Rose Gold is supposed to be home from work in forty-five minutes. I need more of a lead than that. If I take Adam, Rose Gold will move mountains to find him. He and I will never be at peace.
This would all be so much easier if she just . . . disappeared.
Out the window, snow has begun to fall. Christmas is eight days away. Neither Rose Gold nor I have decorated the house. We’re the only ones on the block without red and green lights lining our roof. No doubt she expected I would take responsibility for this year’s festivities. She took everything I did for granted—the hand-cut snowflakes, the miniature-scale village, the Kolaczki cookies I bought from the Polish bakery. I worked tirelessly, every year, for her.
I squeeze Adam, relieved I’m not in this alone. We can’t go anywhere until Rose Gold comes home from work. I swivel my recliner toward the front door.
For now we wait.
20
