Darling Rose Gold, page 25
December 2016
I examined the three TV dinners on the folding table in front of me: Salisbury steak, lasagna, and a stuffed green pepper. I decided to start with the lasagna and pulled it closer to me. I couldn’t be bothered to cook for myself anymore—what was the point of making elaborate meals if I was just going to eat them alone in front of the TV? I refilled my cup with more Sutter Home White Zinfandel.
I scarfed down the food and flipped through show after show on Netflix. The new live-action Beauty and the Beast film had just come out—Mom’s favorite Disney movie. I stabbed at the remote, pausing on a documentary about weasels, but they reminded me of her too. I kept scrolling. After I’d been through every option, I turned off the TV and finished my dinners in silence.
For two weeks, a constant cry had run through my head: Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar!
It was like a car alarm with no deactivation button, and I couldn’t turn it off. I’d cracked a plate last night thinking about it.
After clearing away the plastic cartons, I flopped onto the recliner, drumming my fingers on the armrest. I’d already watched The Little Mermaid four times this week. I spotted Planty in the corner. By the time I found a pair of scissors, I realized I’d already trimmed her dead leaves yesterday. I stuck my finger in the soil: already watered.
I wandered the house. Opening the fridge, I stared at the alphabetically organized condiments. This was the way she’d stored them, I remembered. I swiped at the bottles, messing up the neat rows until I had three shelves of chaos. My elbow caught on a jar and sent it flying to the ground, glass breaking and dill pickles flying everywhere.
I squeezed my hands into fists and screamed.
Screaming felt good. I’d been doing a lot of it. Normally I screamed into pillows so my neighbors wouldn’t hear and call the police.
I left the pickles on the floor and stomped to my bedroom. The first thing I spotted was the pillow on my bed. I picked it up and pulled one end as hard as I could, arms shaking from the effort or rage. The satisfying rip of the cotton made me shiver. The stuffing tumbled out, landing in piles at my feet. I was standing on a cloud.
A knock at the front door broke my trance. I blinked, then tossed what was left of the pillow back on my bed and ran to the door.
When was the last time someone besides me had been in this apartment? I’d had an Amazon package delivered six months ago. . . .
I swung open the door. Mrs. Stone stood in the hallway. How had she gotten into the building? I thought about closing my door in her face. Then again, a little human interaction with someone not affiliated with Gadget World would be all right. I might need her down the road.
“Hi, dear,” she said, scanning me up and down, like I might have a bomb strapped to my chest. I wondered what she saw. I hadn’t looked in a mirror today or showered. Why bother on my day off?
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked, pasting a smile on my face.
“You haven’t been over in a while. I thought I’d visit. Can I come in?” Mrs. Stone gestured inside my apartment.
I opened the door wider and let her enter, taking her coat and draping it over a chair. She walked past me, eyes sweeping the living room. I didn’t know what she was searching for. This woman deserved a plaque for annoying people in record time—she couldn’t have been here more than thirty seconds.
“How’s work been?” she asked, moving onto the kitchen. She stopped short at the refrigerator. “What’s this?”
I remembered the pickles on the floor. “I was just cleaning those up,” I said, bending down to pick up the soggy vegetables. “Had a little accident.”
Mrs. Stone brought her hands to her face, a gross overreaction. “Oh, honey, are you all right?”
If I never heard that question again, it would be too soon. I was beginning to think there were worse things than loneliness—like unwanted company.
I tossed the pickles and dragged the trash can over to the fridge. Kneeling on the floor, I picked up the shards of glass.
“Oh, honey, don’t use your bare hands. You’re going to cut yourself. Be careful.”
I closed my eyes, fingering one of the shards, thinking of not very nice things the glass could do to some very important veins in Mrs. Stone’s neck. I picked up piece after piece of glass and tossed them into the trash, ignoring her warning. I glanced at her when I spoke.
“Everything okay, Mrs. Stone?”
She hemmed and hawed a bit. Then: “I heard you’ve been visiting your mother in prison. That you lifted the restraining order.”
Jesus Christ, would it kill her to mind her own fucking business?
I tossed the last big piece of glass in the bin, then began wiping up the pickle juice with a towel. I glanced at Mrs. Stone, but didn’t say anything.
“So it’s true, then?” she asked, playing with a button on her fuchsia cardigan.
I walked to the hallway closet, yanked out the broom and dustpan, then returned to the kitchen. “Yes, it’s true.” I swept the smaller shards of glass into a little pile. Mrs. Stone watched, then hurried to grab the dustpan and held it next to the pile. I swept the debris onto it, and she dumped the remnants into the trash can. Taking the dustpan from her, I returned it and the broom to the hall closet. Mrs. Stone followed me into the living room. I sat in my recliner. She remained standing and kept fidgeting.
“Maybe it’s none of my business,” she said, clearing her throat, “but why?”
Damn right it’s none of your business.
I made my eyes big and innocent. “Well, she is my mother, after all.”
Mrs. Stone made a face, as if I’d suggested she eat the jar of pickles, glass shards and all. “After what she did to you, you don’t owe her a second of your time.”
She and I had avoided the topic of my mother in the past. I guessed neither of us cared to revisit how Mom had conned us, how stupid we were for falling for her lies all those years. At least I was a kid. Mrs. Stone must have felt like a real idiot, being tricked as a grown woman. I saw now how furious she was—I’d never seen her nostrils flare before.
“She’s been in prison for more than four years,” I said, knotting my hands in my lap. “Don’t you think she deserves a second chance?”
Mrs. Stone’s lips tightened to a thin line. “No. I don’t think you should have anything to do with that woman.”
Now was probably not the time to tell her I’d met with Gerald and Mabel Peabody. They had agreed to sell me their house way below the asking price. Mabel said it was the least they could do after my “trying” childhood. She had been friendly with my grandmother and said she’d always suspected my mother was something of a “bad seed.”
Buying the house meant giving up on my beautiful white teeth. I didn’t take the decision lightly. For as long as I could remember, every time I was happy, every time the corners of my mouth inched upward, my only thought had been: stop. Smiling was a bad thing. I’d been this close to kicking those thoughts to the curb. For years I had dreamed of what joy without self-consciousness would feel like. What could be more worthwhile than my confidence, my happiness?
How about a satisfaction so deep, every inch of your skin tingles? How about a different kind of happiness—the kind people who have never been mistreated would call perverse?
When my mother got out of prison, I knew she would want—no, expect—me to take her in. I’d gladly spend my hard-earned cash to screw with her while she lived under my roof, in her childhood home. There would be time to fix my teeth later. The opportunity in front of me required action now. This time I was the one in control.
Mrs. Stone kept blathering. “She’s dangerous, Rose Gold. She already hurt you once. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried again.”
The idea of my mother hurting me now, as a twenty-two-year-old, amused me. “I’m not a kid anymore, Mrs. Stone,” I teased kindly. “I think I can handle a mind game or two.”
“I’m not just talking about mind games,” Mrs. Stone insisted. “She brainwashed us, you most of all. What’s to stop her from doing it again? What if she poisons your food when you’re not paying attention?”
The idea was preposterous. Or was it?
“You believe she’d do that?” I asked.
She didn’t hesitate. “I’d be more surprised if she didn’t. If she comes back to Deadwick when she gets out, we’ll all be watching her like hawks.”
All this time, I’d been thinking too small. Pulling juvenile pranks around the house might have scared my mother, but they wouldn’t teach her a lesson. Buying the old house was the first of multiple steps.
Mrs. Stone interrupted my train of thought. “Honey, promise me you won’t let her back into your life.”
“I can’t promise you that,” I said, arranging my features in what I hoped was an earnest expression. “I want to start over with her.”
Mrs. Stone opened her mouth to argue, but I stood up and put my arm around her shoulders.
“I’ll tell you what: if she starts up her mind games again or lays so much as a finger on me, you’ll be the first person I call.” I stared her dead in the eyes so she knew I was telling the truth, because I was. “I promise.”
Mrs. Stone sighed, unhappy with this deal. “I don’t know what you hope to gain from this. She’s not a good person, dear.”
I smiled. “She’s my mom, Mary,” I said sweetly, noting the surprise on her face when I used her first name. “The bond between a mother and a daughter is sacred. You know better than anyone that no matter how awful they are, we still find it in our hearts to love them.”
Mrs. Stone—Mary—looked confused, as though she was trying to puzzle out whether I’d just insulted her pride and joy. “Speaking of daughters,” she said, “Alex says the two of you aren’t friends anymore.”
Alex and I hadn’t spoken in almost two years, and she had just now told her mother. Unbelievable.
I nodded sadly.
“When did this happen? I had no idea.”
Of course you didn’t. Because your daughter is a two-faced bitch who tells you nothing.
I tilted my chin to the floor. “I hate to say anything bad about her, but she wasn’t very nice to me. I caught her talking behind my back to her college friends.”
Mrs. Stone looked mortified. “Alex told me you were the one to blame. But if what you’re saying is true, then I’m sorry. I didn’t raise her to behave that way.”
No, you raised her to walk all over you and everyone else she knows.
I picked up her coat and handed it to her. “I’m so sorry to have to cut our visit short, Mary, but I’m meeting a friend from work for drinks,” I said, ushering her toward my front door. “But thank you so much for stopping by. It means a lot.”
I scooted her across the threshold. She tried to keep the conversation going. “Is this a new friend? What’s their name?”
“Arnie,” I said, the first name that came to mind, almost laughing at the thought of him and me spending time together outside of work.
“Is Arnie a special friend?” she said, smiling.
For Christ’s sake.
“Just a regular friend.” I smiled back and waved. “Bye now.”
Mrs. Stone turned and walked down the hallway. “Bye, dear,” she called.
I closed the door and walked to the other side of the apartment, waiting for her rotund body to appear in the parking lot. A minute later, there she was, standing on the sidewalk, peering into the dark. Wary of the nonexistent crime in Deadwick, no doubt. I left the window to finish tidying the apartment.
Five minutes later, I walked by the window again. Mrs. Stone was still in the parking lot, sitting in her car. She’d started the engine and had her lights on, so she wasn’t trying to be sneaky. But what was she waiting for? Was she checking up on me?
“Shit,” I groaned. I was going to have to get in my van and go somewhere so she wouldn’t know I’d lied. Once you were caught in a lie, no one ever trusted you again.
I pulled on a jacket and grabbed my purse. Jogging to the van like I was in a hurry, I pretended not to see Mrs. Stone’s car two rows over. The parking lot was full. Most of my neighbors would be plunked in front of their TVs at nine o’clock on a Wednesday night, myself included.
I drove five minutes to the town dive bar, checking my rearview mirror. I didn’t think Mrs. Stone was following me, but just in case, I went inside.
The bar was quiet, except for two old guys sitting in a corner booth with a lot of empties on their table. One of them noticed me walk in. I sat at the bar, on the opposite side of the room from them.
The bartender approached—a scruffy guy around my age—and asked what he could get me. I ordered a vodka and cranberry. He placed the drink in front of me. I’d been watching the front door of the bar for five minutes. Mrs. Stone wasn’t coming. I breathed a sigh of relief.
I took a sip of my drink and thought through my new options.
It would take some dedication to make them all believe I was back in her clutches. I’d have to play the role well, although I had sixteen years of experience being Patty Watts’s victim, so that shouldn’t be difficult. I’d have to be convincing. Nothing short of total commitment would suffice if I were going to send my mother back from where she came.
The corners of my mouth turned up.
“What’s a babe like you doing all alone in a bar?”
The bartender had reapproached, hands on hips, eyes glinting. I had never been called a babe before.
“What’s it look like?” I said, holding up my empty glass.
“Another?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“That’s your job, isn’t it?” I put an elbow on the bar, rested my chin on my knuckles.
The bartender grinned. He picked up a bottle of cheap vodka. “I like them sassy.”
I didn’t say anything. I watched him add cranberry juice to the vodka in my glass.
He opened the ice bin. “Out of ice. I’ll be right back.” He moved toward the back room with my drink in his hand.
“Hey,” I called. He turned around. I gestured for him to come back. “That’s okay. I don’t like ice in my drink.”
A flicker of disappointment crossed his face, but he brought it back and set it down in front of me. He stuck a fresh straw in the glass before sliding it across the bar.
I put my lips to the straw and sucked. The cool liquid eased down my throat. We locked eyes.
He winked. “I wish I was that straw right about now.”
I lifted my head from the drink and sat back in my chair. “Do you?” I asked, tilting my head to the side.
I grinned, putting every rotten tooth in my mouth on full display.
The bartender recoiled, then mumbled something about needing to restock the ice. I watched him scurry away to the back room.
Once he was gone, I hopped off my barstool. I tipped my drink over the bar. Red liquid began to drizzle out.
“This is for trying to slip something into my drink,” I muttered.
I walked the length of the bar and back, dripping the liquid from my glass the entire way. As someone not part of society until semirecently, I could by now confirm it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Other people were exhausting.
I returned to my barstool, leaned over the bar into the half-full ice bin, and pulled out a piece, cracking the ice between my teeth. Then I scanned the rows of liquor against the wall for the most expensive-looking bottle, and hurled my glass as hard as I could at it. My glass shattered, and the bottle fell to the side, knocking other bottles off the shelves. I jumped at the noise, feeling more psychotic than badass.
Looking around the bar, sure that someone would arrest me, I noticed for the first time a cute guy with sandy blond hair sitting in the corner. He watched me with a lopsided smile and winked.
I smiled back. “Oops,” I mouthed.
The bartender would be back any second—I had to get out of there. I picked up my purse and walked out the door, forcing myself not to turn around to see if the cute guy would follow.
I had work to do.
25
Patty
I burst through the hospital doors with Adam in my arms. The half dozen people in the waiting area turn when we walk in—Adam’s wails are hard to ignore. I scan the room. A few upgrades have been made since Rose Gold was a child, but, for the most part, the lobby is unchanged. I hurry to the receptionist’s desk.
“My baby needs to see a doctor,” I cry when the young man doesn’t turn away from whatever game I’m sure he’s playing on his computer. He strikes me as someone who’s been living in his mother’s basement too long.
His eyes flick from the screen to the bawling baby in my arms. Sympathy crosses his face. Then he glances up at me, and skepticism replaces sympathy.
“This is your child?” he asks.
I scoff. “Not unless he’s Benjamin Button. This is my grandson. He’s been vomiting for more than six hours. I can’t figure out what’s wrong, in spite of all my training. See, I’m a certified nursing—”
The receptionist cuts me off. “Is he a registered patient here?”
“Yes, he was born in this hospital,” I say.
“What’s his name?”
“Adam Watts.”
The receptionist types Adam’s name into the database and waits.
“He never throws up like this. I’m worried he somehow swallowed something when I wasn’t watching. Or maybe he has late-development pyloric stenosis. I read—”
The receptionist cuts me off again. “I don’t see an Adam Watts in the system.”
I lean over the counter, trying to see his screen. “Maybe you spelled it wrong. Watts is W-A-T-T-S.”
The receptionist bristles, but I don’t care.
“And Adam is A-D-A-M.”
