Darling Rose Gold, page 24
My heart jerked in my chest. I was sure it was either going to sink through my stomach or project up my throat and out of my mouth. Mom watched me wipe my hands on my jeans. She sat there, observing me for a while, an amused expression on her face.
She tittered. “This is why I limited your TV time growing up. When you watch too much drama, it melts your brain. You start thinking real life is like a movie.”
“Yes or no?” Any semblance of pleasantness had left my voice.
Her smile faded. She gave me a withering stare. “No, of course not,” she said. “Now, knock it off. You’re way out of line. Don’t forget who raised you, you ungrateful brat.”
I shrank back. She hadn’t changed at all. I should have known. Every single person to pass through my life disappointed me.
“It’s not my fault you have no friends and a dead-end job,” she ranted, face reddening. She was seething now. “If you’re awkward and ugly, you have no one to blame but yourself. I gave you every opportunity. I gave up my career and my independence, plus any pretense whatsoever of a romantic relationship. I gave you everything, all of me—can you get that through your thick skull? And you thank me for my sacrifice by turning on me the first chance you get? By marching straight to the witness stand? You believed that wench Alex and her bigmouth mother over me? It’s your fault I’m in here, not mine.”
Keep going, I begged her. Burn the whole thing down.
“How dare you storm in here, after four years of silence, demanding apologies,” my mother yelled. “You should be the one apologizing to me. I can’t imagine what in high heaven I did to deserve a daughter like you. When I was a kid, I got beaten far worse for far less. You thank your lucky stars I don’t believe in the belt.”
“Quiet down, inmate,” the guard in the corner of the room boomed.
His voice reminded me where we were. I loosened my grip on the arms of the chair. She couldn’t hurt me here. I didn’t need to be afraid.
Mom sat back, losing steam the way she always did. In the past, I would have scrambled to figure out a way to make up for whatever I’d done to her, to be the perfect daughter I was sure I could be. But I didn’t have to make nice anymore. I was no longer my mother’s possession. I was free to go.
I gathered my things, jaw set. I took out my sunglasses case from my purse. She would continue to grow old in her cell while I enjoyed this sunny day. I pushed back my seat.
“I’m sorry,” my mother blurted. “I shouldn’t have said the thing about the belt. That was too far. You know I would never lay a hand on you.”
I sat there, chair pushed back from the table, too angry to formulate a response.
My mother gestured for me to scoot closer. “Come on, come on now. I brought this photo to show you of another inmate’s dog.” She pulled it from her pocket. “Broccoli—that’s the dog’s name—lives with the inmate’s husband in California. He just won the World’s Ugliest Dog Contest. Come see.” I didn’t budge, arms crossed, so my mother stood. “Here, I’ll come to you.”
She hovered over me, jabbing the photo in my face, prattling about the hilarities of this hideous dog—back to sweet, funny Mom. I didn’t hear a word. For the first time in a while, I was thinking clearly.
In less than a year she’d be out. She’d start this Jekyll-and-Hyde cycle all over again. The warmth and jokes, followed by the inevitable mood swing, which then morphed into abuse, and then back to being the village sweetheart. A onetime screaming match or slap across the face was not enough to address this level of evil.
She needed a scar. Something permanent.
I glanced at the clock on the wall: six minutes until the guard announced the visit was over. I could do anything for six minutes. So I pretended to listen to her stories. I grinned and laughed and gasped in all the right places. I played the doting daughter right up until the guard signaled to me that time was up. To beat my mother at her own game, pretending was key. She once told me, after sweet-talking her way out of a speeding ticket, that it was easier to manipulate someone if they didn’t perceive you as a threat.
I pushed back in my chair, walked around to her side of the table, and gave her a big hug.
“No hard feelings?” she asked, searching my face for hints.
I beamed and shook my head. I walked toward the exit, calling back to her with the enthusiasm of a thousand cheerleaders. “See you next week!”
* * *
• • •
In the parking lot at Walsh’s, I sat in the van, fuming. I took my hands off the steering wheel and watched with awe as they trembled; I had never shaken with rage before. Most of the time, my emotions tumbled out in the form of tears or fear.
I couldn’t imagine crying ever again. I’d aged forty years between walking into the visitors center and leaving it. Duped, again. And again. And again.
I wasn’t ready to face my neighbors inside the grocery store yet—I needed to calm down first. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I took my phone out of my purse.
I scrolled through the social media app where I had the most friends: thirty-five. Christmas was a few weeks away, so everyone’s status updates were about the holiday-themed activities they were up to. Here were the Johnsons, ice-skating at Riverfield Park. There was Kat Mitchum, posting photos of the puppy her parents had given her: an early Christmas present. I paused at Sophie Gillespie’s name; she, Dad, and the rest of the Gillespies were standing next to a tall pine at a Christmas tree farm. Dad was flashing a thumbs-up and a cheesy grin. He was as happy as I’d ever seen him. Clearly not losing sleep over losing me.
Sighing, I got out of the car and traipsed into the grocery store. I needed a bunch of frozen dinners—I didn’t have it in me to cook this week. Then I’d be on my way home to hang out with Planty.
I steered my cart down the frozen foods aisle, loading up with Salisbury steaks. Someone called my name. “Rose Gold? Doll, is that you?”
I knew before I turned that it was Mrs. Stone. I groaned internally. The last thing I needed right now was her peppy bullshit.
I contorted my face into a grin and turned to face her. “Hi, Mrs. Stone.”
She hugged me, then surveyed my cart. “Are you getting enough to eat? You never eat your vegetables.”
Shut the fuck up, I wanted to screech. Why did every person I know feel the need to tell me how to live my life? Where were all these adults when I was being poisoned in my own house for eighteen years? None of them had known better then; why on earth would they think they did now?
“Produce is up next,” I lied, although now I would have to pick up some vegetables in case I ran into her again at checkout. All I wanted was to go home, microwave some popcorn, and watch Amadeus, the next Oscar winner on my list. Was that so much to ask?
“Oh, good. You know, a vitamin deficiency can lead to hair loss. And you’ve always been so sensitive about your hair—”
“Tell me about your day,” I said, relaxing my jaw. “Anything newsworthy?”
“Oh, not really,” she said. Mrs. Stone was the office administrator at Deadwick Elementary, so I didn’t doubt she was telling the truth. “Actually, you know Karen? Ms. Peabody?” she added. Karen Peabody was my old neighbor and school principal before I started homeschooling.
When I nodded, Mrs. Stone continued. “Her parents are thinking about selling their house on Apple Street. Gerald’s cancer is back. Things don’t look good, bless his heart. Mabel doesn’t think she can manage the house anymore. Such a shame.”
I had no idea why Mrs. Stone thought this story was interesting to the average person. Lucky for me, it was.
“Two-oh-one Apple Street?” I asked, in what I hoped was a neutral tone.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Stone said. She paused a moment. “I think that was your mom’s childhood house, come to think of it.”
I nodded, mind whirling.
She gave me a haughty smile and patted my arm. “You must sleep well at night knowing she’s finally where she belongs.” She had no idea I’d started visiting my mother in prison. As I’d learned recently, there were a lot of other things busybody Mrs. Stone didn’t know about her former best friend.
I said good night and whistled on my way to the produce section. Maybe I’d buy a few mangoes or something, really live it up.
Two weeks ago Mom had told me—zipped-lips Rose Gold, her sweet little confidant—exactly what had gone on at 201 Apple Street. She said she’d never told anyone the horrific details before. Patty Watts had told me her secrets because she trusted me and me alone. Or maybe she didn’t trust me. Maybe she just never thought I’d use her weaknesses against her.
Maybe she had underestimated me.
23
Patty
I pull Adam from his bassinet, cradling him in one arm and feeling his forehead with the back of my hand. He isn’t burning up—no fever. I rock him back and forth a few times, but he keeps on wailing. The stench of vomit reaches my nostrils. I can’t leave it pooled there in his bassinet.
I place my grandson in his crib in Rose Gold’s bedroom.
“Just for a few minutes, sweetheart,” I call over his shrieks.
Running to the kitchen, I grab a roll of paper towels and antibacterial spray. Adam’s cries haven’t subsided, but they’re harder to hear now. I could walk out the side door and pace the yard for a while until he quiets down. Of course I won’t. Overbearing? Maybe. But I have never been neglectful.
I square my shoulders and walk back to my bedroom, cleaning products plus trash bag in hand. I scoop the puke out of the crib and whistle the Mary Poppins song “A Spoonful of Sugar,” struggling to drown out the baby’s cries.
When the bassinet is clean, I return to Rose Gold’s room, lean over the crib, and watch Adam. He’s still crying, but losing steam.
I pick him up. “We’re a team now,” I tell him. “You have to be good for Grandma.”
Adam’s lower lip trembles, breaking my heart a little. His cries sound pitiful.
“What’s wrong, sweet pea? Are you hungry?”
I carry him to the kitchen and pull a bottle from the refrigerator. A couple days ago, she was still here, pumping breast milk and feeding her child. Now she’s left me alone.
When I bring the bottle to Adam’s lips, he sucks hungrily, which means—oh, thank baby Jesus—he stops crying. I slump into a chair and try to feed him the bottle slowly, delighting in every second of quiet. That old maxim is true: children are better seen and not heard.
With the baby calmed down, I can think again. I need to make a plan, figure out where my daughter is.
When the bottle is empty, I return Adam to his clean bassinet in my room. He whimpers a little, but nothing that can be heard through a closed door. I leave the door open a crack when I leave.
I have been searching the living room for clues for no more than four minutes when he starts bawling again. I bite my lip. This is the last thing I need in the middle of a crisis. I head down the hallway to check on him.
He’s vomited again, more this time. I rack my brain for answers: the flu? Reflux? A stomach bug? I sniff his diaper and wince, carrying him to the changing table in Rose Gold’s room. He has diarrhea because of course he does. I put a new diaper on him before he makes a mess in two rooms.
His howling is giving me a headache. I put him in his crib and set to work cleaning the bassinet for the second time this morning. I’ve almost finished scrubbing when I hear the sound of spit up. I run over to the crib to catch him throwing up in there too.
“Panicking won’t solve anything,” I say aloud. The tremor in my voice is unmistakable. My heart is thumping in my chest. I should be used to this—I dealt with a sick child for years and years. But it’s been a while, and I am out of practice.
I clean off Adam’s face, then rush to the bathroom. Yanking open drawers and pulling on cabinet doors, I toss bottle after bottle on the floor next to me. There has to be some Pedialyte here somewhere. Is that even the recommended treatment for vomiting children anymore? I don’t know. I haven’t been a medical professional in a long time. Adam’s cries get louder.
I have ripped the bathroom apart, hunting for a relevant treatment, but I can’t find one. Rose Gold has very few bottles of children’s medicine; she is wholly unprepared for a sick baby.
I dash across the hall, back to Adam’s side. His cries have morphed from short bursts to a steady wail. I lift him from the crib. “Please be okay, little one,” I beg, trying to soothe him. He vomits all over my shirt.
“What’s wrong with you?” I cry, trying to rip my shirt off with one arm while holding Adam in the other. He’s going to get dehydrated if he keeps puking like this.
I should call his doctor, to be safe. That way, someone else will know what’s going on. Someone else can help me find a solution to this problem. And if it turns out to be a twelve-hour bug, then fine. There’s nothing wrong with calling to be safe.
I pick up my phone from the nightstand and press the address book icon before realizing I don’t know the name of Adam’s pediatrician. Maybe Rose Gold wrote it down in her physical address book. I ransack the kitchen junk drawer, pull out the address book, and flip through every page. When I get to “Z” and still haven’t found an entry with a “Dr.” title, I want to join Adam in his crying.
“What about Mommy’s desk?” I say to the baby. I carry him back to Rose Gold’s bedroom. I’ve already turned every drawer inside out, seeking clues about her disappearance, but I wasn’t looking for doctor’s information then. Maybe I missed something.
I search the desk’s cubbies again, more frantically this time, not bothering to put everything back where I found it. Nothing in the file folders. Nothing on the side shelves. Nothing in the pencil drawer. She must keep the pediatrician’s contact information on her phone. I yell in frustration.
An hour later, Adam is still crying and throwing up. I’m no closer to having a plan. I’ve reached my breaking point, wanting nothing more than to collapse on the floor and throw a tantrum. I don’t know what to do, I keep thinking. Someone tell me what to do.
I get a flash of inspiration: I’ll give him another bottle. He quieted down for ten or so minutes when I gave him one earlier. Ten minutes is all I need—a little block of time to think straight and choose a course of action. And I don’t want him getting dehydrated. A little milk will be good for him. For what must be the fiftieth time today, I dart from the bedroom to the kitchen.
Adam latches onto the rubber nipple. His screams subside. I nearly crumple to my knees in thanks. I watch Adam’s tear-streaked face while he drinks. I need help. Then I have a thought.
I can—nay, should—take him to the hospital.
A tingle shivers down my spine. I imagine the doctors and nurses crowding around us, hurrying to attend to my sick baby, asking me questions, hanging on my every word.
What else is a worried grandmother to do? I have no way of contacting Adam’s pediatrician. He has been vomiting for five hours. This is, by definition, an emergency.
I let Adam drink the rest of the bottle, then put him on Rose Gold’s bed. Scurrying around the house, I pack the diaper bag with bottles of milk, wipes, and so on. I rush to my closet to put on a clean shirt. I run outside, open the garage door, and start the van so the interior will be warm by the time I bring Adam out.
Turning on my heel, I march back into the house again. When I open the side door, the first thing I notice is the quiet. Inside is as silent as outside.
My heart stops.
I realize I left Adam lying on Rose Gold’s bed. He might have fallen off of it and hurt himself—or worse. I sprint past the kitchen and down the hallway, terrified. What if someone . . . No, I can’t let myself go there. I was only gone for a second.
“Be okay, be okay,” I chant to myself.
I cross the threshold to Rose Gold’s bedroom. Adam’s cries slap me like a glass of ice water. I’m flooded with relief to find the baby flailing around on his mother’s bed. For a moment, I don’t even mind that he’s thrown up in here too. He is here. He is safe.
I vow never to let him out of my sight again.
My relief is short-lived. Is it possible his cries have gotten louder? I know in my gut something is wrong. Adam needs medical attention.
“Okay, bub, let’s go,” I say. I pick up Adam. I put his diaper bag over my shoulder and take one last glimpse at Rose Gold’s destroyed room. This is not how I hoped to leave the house. If she comes back, she’ll know I’ve ransacked her belongings. But by then I will also have restored her son to good health. I’m calling it even.
I buckle Adam into his car seat and remember again where we’re going. I wonder what the doctor will be like—convivial with a perfect bedside manner or more formal and facts focused. I bet the nurses will pat me on the back, whispering I did the right thing. The other people in the waiting room will coo over Adam, say he looks like me, touch his forehead, and offer their own solutions. This is what I love about the medical community: everyone wants to help.
I back the van down the driveway, feeling a small twinge of fear. Some of Rose Gold’s old doctors and nurses probably still work at the hospital. Worse, there’s a chance Tom will be there. Then again he always worked night shifts. Besides, what choice do I have? Even if people there hold grudges against me, they still have to care for my grandson. We all took the same oath: First do no harm.
Maybe Adam has severe food allergies that need to be diagnosed and treated. That would make sense, after all. His mother has a long history of gastrointestinal issues.
I press on the gas pedal. Perhaps little Adam needs a feeding tube too.
24
Rose Gold
