Darling Rose Gold, page 27
In the kitchen I checked the calendar on my refrigerator, cursing when I found “RESTRICTION TRAINING” written on today’s date. I’d been hoping to order a pizza tonight. But a plan was a plan, and I hadn’t tested myself in several weeks. I prepared my dinner—five saltines, two spoonfuls of Bush’s baked beans straight from the can, and one perfectly microwaved chicken nugget—and brought it to a tray table in the living room so I could eat in my recliner. I didn’t see the point of eating meals at the kitchen table anymore, not when I’d have to stare at the empty chair across from me.
I turned on the TV and let The Godfather play in the background. I’d already seen the movie a few times; Don Corleone’s voice soothed me. How far I had come—when I was a kid, Mom would only let me watch Disney movies and Blue’s Clues. The thought of watching Steve get the mail one more time made me want to choke myself with his green sweater.
I moved the can of beans away from me so I wouldn’t be tempted to eat anymore. I picked up my phone and scrolled through a handful of social media apps. I discovered Mrs. Stone had created a Facebook account and rolled my eyes.
“Another way for her to insert herself into other people’s business,” I said to Planty. I clicked my tongue and kept scrolling. Everyone’s lives were so boring, so diminished. All they did was change jobs and boyfriends and apartments.
I stopped scrolling when a name caught my eye.
“Well, look who it is,” I crowed to Planty.
Sophie Gillespie of the insufferable Gillespie clan. I hadn’t spoken to any of those imbeciles in a year and a half. They hadn’t tried to reach out to me, so why should I bother getting in touch with them? I refused to let myself dwell on how much I missed Anna. This was their loss, not mine.
I examined Sophie’s post: a family photo Kim had posted first. Sophie had reshared it.
All five of them stood in a field wearing matching outfits: white pants and blue shirts. They were laughing and glowing, happy as could be. They gazed at their matriarchal hag in the middle of the group. Kim was holding a blue balloon.
Printed on the balloon was a cartoon stork carrying a baby. Underneath the stork was shouty text: “IT’S A BOY!”
“No,” I said.
My eyes flicked to Kim’s photo caption: “Billy and I are so excited to welcome the newest member of the Gillespie family in September.”
“No,” I said again, taking in the dopey grin on Dad’s face.
I kept reading. “We have wanted a fourth child for years and years. Our prayers have been answered.”
“YOU. HAVE. A. FOURTH. CHILD!” I shrieked. I whipped my phone across the room. It hit the wall and crashed to the floor. I did not care. A violent sob jerked in my chest, stirring the long-dormant grief of all I had lost. But I would not let these people make me cry again. I refused to sit here and bawl until my stomach hurt. Anger was so much easier.
I kicked the legs out from under the tray table. Beans and crackers went flying. I punched my fist into the back of the recliner until a knuckle cracked. I screamed for so long and so loud my ears rang for several seconds after I stopped. I bit down as hard as I could on my fist until the pain of my teeth sinking into flesh made me scream again. When I pulled my hand away, it was bleeding.
I paced the living room, pulling at my hair in agitation. These assholes traipsed around the country acting like they were wholesome and wonderful, but nobody knew the way they tossed aside people they didn’t give a shit about. Nobody knew how awful they were.
I stopped moving for a minute and studied my shaking hands. I was holding several strands of blond hair—when had I ripped it out?
They had—have—a fourth child. They rejected me.
None of them deserved this baby, especially Dad and Kim. They couldn’t be allowed to keep doing whatever they wanted, getting the best of everything in life while the rest of us suffered. Someone had to punish them, to show them the pain they were inflicting on other people. To show them how it felt to have your family taken away against your will.
I sat, stewing long after the sun had set and all my neighbors’ lights had turned off. I could see nothing but my father’s dopey smile in that photo. I vowed not to leave my chair until I’d thought of a way to wipe that grin off his face.
Around two a.m., as I sat on the floor picking crusty beans and crushed crackers off the carpet, I realized that, once again, I’d been thinking too small. I was not a natural strategist, but if you gave me enough time, I could come up with an idea. And now I had a good one.
“A really good one,” I said, turning to Planty. I saw Planty had been hurled at the wall, her pot broken into a million small pieces, dirt scattered across the carpet. I shrugged—I’d clean her up later. Sometimes you accidentally hurt the ones you loved.
Grinning, I scooped a few beans off the floor and held them between my thumb and forefinger before slipping them in my mouth. This once, I’d break my own rule and eat a little extra. We were celebrating, after all.
I was so happy and proud of myself, I could have burst into song. A classic nursery rhyme popped into my head—a perfect choice, very maternal of me. I sang along and picked up more beans.
And down will come baby, cradle and all.
27
Patty
One of the overhead fluorescent lightbulbs flickers on and off, interrupting the quiet with irritating buzzing noises. I stop pacing to give the ceiling a dirty look. I should tell one of the nurses to get a repairman in here.
I check on Adam, who has fallen asleep on the cot. I’ve aged twenty years in a day and a half. With real longing, I think of the twin bed waiting for me on Apple Street. If I wanted to, I could even sleep in the queen bed, now that Rose Gold is gone.
Adam and I have been in this hospital for hours without anyone coming to see us. These four walls have become a holding cell. I usually love the smell of hospitals; there’s something so comforting about their sterile, clean odors—a constant reminder that help is around the corner. Now the smell is making me gag a little, suffocating me.
Maybe I should sneak Adam out of here and treat him myself.
I start to gather the contents of the diaper bag when a knock sounds at the door. I drop the bag and step back, as if it’s a crime to take care of a baby.
I turn toward the door, expecting Dr. Soukup or Janet the nurse. I can handle anyone but Tom.
What I do not expect is two police officers in uniform. I can handle anyone but Tom or the police.
The first officer is tall and thin like an exclamation point. The glint in her eye suggests she’s partial to corporal punishment. She steps into the room, the other officer trailing behind her.
“I’m Sergeant Tomalewicz with the Deadwick Police. Are you Patricia Watts?”
“Patty,” I say. My father called me Patricia. “Is this about Adam?” I ask. “He really is sick.”
“We’ll get to the baby in a minute,” Tomalewicz says. She points to her lackey. He barely looks old enough to drive. “This is Officer Potts.”
Officer Potts waves at me, as if we’re meeting at a beach party. Tomalewicz frowns, then turns back to me.
“Where’s Rose Gold, Patricia?” she asks, piercing me with dark eyes. She reminds me of a vulture.
“Patty,” I correct her again. “And I don’t know.” My hands are starting to shake, so I cross my arms against my body.
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“I dropped her off at work yesterday morning. She said she would jog home at the end of her shift. She did that sometimes. But then she never showed.” My hands have somehow escaped their hold and are wringing themselves at my waist. I tuck them into my back pockets, then take them out again, worried the stance is too flippant. I need to look innocent.
Tomalewicz continues. “Why didn’t you call the police or report her missing?”
Careful now, Patty.
“It hasn’t been much longer than twenty-four hours,” I say. “I thought she might be blowing off steam somewhere.”
“Is that like Rose Gold, to ‘blow off steam’?” Tomalewicz asks, using air quotes.
No, I think. “Yes,” I say. “Sometimes.” I realize I don’t sound very concerned about my daughter’s whereabouts, so I add, “Being a new mom is hard. I wanted to give Rose Gold a little space.”
“I see,” Tomalewicz says. I don’t like her tone. “I have an officer at Gadget World talking to the store manager. He says Rose Gold never showed up to work yesterday—or today. He says the last time anyone saw her was five p.m. on Saturday. That was fifty-two hours ago, if math isn’t your strong suit.”
I need a drink of water. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed four pounds of sand. I gulp. “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know where she is.”
Tomalewicz appears unconcerned. She saunters to a chair across from the hospital bed and lowers herself into it, her long grasshopper legs bent at sharp angles. I sit on the bed, relieved to have support, some way to hide my trembling legs.
“Dr. Soukup says you told her Rose Gold was at a work conference.” Tomalewicz watches me, waiting for my response, but I can’t think of one, so I stay quiet. “I’ll take your silence as a yes. Why did you tell her that if you just told me you don’t know where Rose Gold is?”
I clear my throat. “I needed to deal with one problem at a time. Adam was—is—so sick. I couldn’t take care of him and find my daughter.”
“That’s what the police are for,” Tomalewicz cuts in, eyes narrowed. “Officer Potts here is going to take a look through your things.”
I nod my permission, though she didn’t ask for it. To illustrate how cooperative I am, that I have nothing to hide, I hand over my purse and the diaper bag.
Potts begins with the diaper bag. The bag weighs at least ten pounds and has dozens of little compartments, zippered pockets, and snap pouches. Potts begins removing each item one at a time and placing them in a pile on the side table—diapers, wipes, pacifier, portable changing mat, diaper rash cream, hand sanitizer, backup onesie, pacifier clip, hat, burp cloth. From the side pockets, he pulls two bottles of milk and examines them before placing them on the floor, separate from the rest of the stuff.
He keeps digging farther into the bag, pulling out tissues and Rose Gold’s hair ties, all the junk that gets us through the day. My heart jackhammers in my chest.
By now, Potts is elbows deep into the diaper bag, unzipping small side pockets we never use. From one he pulls a small rectangle—an iPhone. I had no idea it was in there.
I think I might throw up.
“Is this yours?” Potts asks me. This is the first time he’s spoken. His voice is much deeper than I would have guessed. He touches a button on the phone, but the screen remains black—it’s dead. Potts rummages through his own bag and pulls out a charger. He searches the wall for an outlet, then plugs in the phone. Satisfied, he glances up at me, waiting for the device to power up.
I could lie. I could say it’s mine. I could say I don’t know whose it is. But I bet there’s an easy way to tell whom the phone belongs to, and I don’t know enough about technology to outsmart the police on this one. Potts looks like he was born with an iPhone in hand.
“It’s Rose Gold’s,” I mutter. Both officers’ eyebrows rocket skyward in surprise. Tomalewicz’s lips are starting to curl up at the corners.
“I’ve been calling her and leaving frantic messages for days,” I protest. “Check the call log.”
“Days? I thought you said it’s been twenty-four hours,” Tomalewicz says.
“Hours, then,” I say. “Maybe it just feels like days. I’m so worried,” I say, which is now true. “I’m so worried about both of them.”
By now the iPhone is back up and running. Potts starts scrolling, tapping, hunting. I can’t see the screen, so I don’t know what he’s searching for.
“The thing is, Patricia,” Tomalewicz says, “we got a call today from a concerned resident. Someone who received an alarming letter from Rose Gold.”
Who? I think, then glance up, hoping I haven’t said it aloud.
Tomalewicz crosses her legs, resting her right ankle on her left knee. “Rose Gold sounded very frightened by you in the letter. It sounds to us like you were back to abusing her.”
That accusation again. This town will never let it go.
Potts puts down Rose Gold’s phone and picks up the diaper bag, continuing his search anew. He hunts through every compartment, runs his hands along every inch of liner. He makes no comment, doesn’t even glance our way. Tomalewicz keeps talking.
“She said you made her take the baby.”
“What?” My eyes flit from Potts back to Tomalewicz.
“You made her pretend the baby was hers and threatened to hurt her if she didn’t. You told her it was time for revenge, that no one ditched Patty or Rose Gold Watts and got away with it. Rose Gold said she went along with your plan at first. But then she got worried you were starting to hurt Luke the way you hurt her. She said when she confronted you—told you this had to end—you threatened to hurt both of them before that ever happened.”
My head spins. “Luke?”
Tomalewicz’s jaw tightens. She stares at Adam. “Luke Gillespie.”
At the sound of that name, a rush of nausea hits me. I see stars. The room starts to darken.
I gaze at the baby sleeping on the cot and ask, “Are you saying this baby isn’t my grandson?”
“Rose Gold’s story checks out,” Tomalewicz says. “We called the Fairfield police. Billy Gillespie—Rose Gold’s father and your ex-lover—reported a child missing two and a half months ago. They’ve been searching for him round the clock in Indiana.”
Potts pulls a Swiss Army knife from his pocket and cuts a small hole in the diaper bag’s lining. He pulls out a small brown bottle with a white cap. “Found it,” he says with triumph.
Tomalewicz and Potts turn to me, watching. They want me to say something, I realize. They think that bottle of ipecac syrup is mine.
But it isn’t mine. I drove mine to the next town over this morning and smashed it to pieces behind a Subway. Then I swept up the pieces and threw them in a dumpster. I couldn’t take any chances if I was bringing Adam to the hospital.
“Why would I bring a baby I poisoned to the hospital?” I ask.
Tomalewicz shrugs. “Excellent question. You used to do it all the time.”
I ignore her comment. “Why would I bring the poison with me?”
Tomalewicz fixes me with a withering stare.
“If I had something to hide, why wouldn’t I go to a different hospital where no one knows me?”
Tomalewicz turns to Potts, gesturing at the bottles full of Rose Gold’s breast milk. “Let’s pack these up and get them tested.”
At her command, Potts repacks the diaper bag. He drifts out of the room with the bottles and Rose Gold’s iPhone. I watch him go in disbelief.
“I haven’t spoken to Billy Gillespie in twenty-five years,” I protest. “I didn’t even know Rose Gold knew his real name. I didn’t know about any of this.”
Tomalewicz uncrosses her legs and leans forward, elbows on knees, chin in hand. “Yes, we know all about your long record of claiming innocence. You’re never guilty of anything,” she says. “It’s always everyone else’s fault. Funny, the justice system didn’t agree.”
I have a decision to make, but not a lot of time to make it. My instinct is—always has been—to deny, deny, deny. But I realize the gravity of the charges I could be facing: kidnapping, aggravated child abuse a second time, and I don’t know what else. I’m backed into a corner. I take a deep breath.
The words tumble out. “Okay, I admit I sometimes mistreated Rose Gold when she was a child,” I say.
I expect a flood of relief in finally saying the words out loud. I’ve been holding this in for so long, pretending I’m innocent, acting like I didn’t know any better. But all I feel is empty, defeated, a loser. No one would ever smile at me or pat me on the back again, tell me I was good enough, even great once in a while. Superhuman mother is the one role I know how to play. Without it, I am nobody.
I swallow hard. “But I have never, ever abused Adam—I mean, Luke. I had no idea he was kidnapped.”
The door to the room swings open. Mary Stone barges in, irate. “I knew you were guilty!” she shrieks. “We all did. We knew you hurt Rose Gold then, and now you’ve done it again. What did you do with her, you monster?”
Tomalewicz jumps to her feet, alarmed by the intrusion. She puts a hand on Mary’s arm. “Mrs. Stone, I told you to wait in the lobby,” she says calmly. “Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Mary rips her arm from Tomalewicz’s grip and keeps raving, jabbing a finger at me. “You poisoned them both and then killed Rose Gold. You wanted her out of the way so you could ruin that poor baby’s life the same way you ruined hers. She told me all about you in her letter. And when she started standing up to you, you destroyed her.”
Mary bursts into tears.
Tomalewicz speaks into her radio, “Welch and Mitchell to room sixteen.”
“I didn’t see Rose Gold for a month after the baby was born,” Mary cried. “She told me she had to go to a hospital in Springfield because of pregnancy complications. Where is she?”
Mary’s rants have woken Adam. He starts to cry too.
“The baby,” she shouts, reaching for him with red-rimmed eyes and snot running down her face. Tomalewicz plants herself in front of Adam, blocking both of us from him.
“That poor, poor baby,” Mary wails, folding herself in half with sobs.
Two more officers enter the room. Their eyes go straight to Mary. One of them turns to Tomalewicz for confirmation. She gives a short nod. The officer holds Mary by the arm, helping her stand upright.
