Darling Rose Gold, page 28
“Let’s go, ma’am,” he says, pushing her toward the door. I can still hear her shrieks once the door has closed.
Tomalewicz addresses the other officer. “Get Dr. Soukup or a nurse for the baby.”
The officer nods and leaves. Thirty seconds later, Janet—our original nurse—rushes through the door.
Tomalewicz nods at Janet. “We suspect the baby has been poisoned with ipecac syrup. I’m not sure what testing or treatments should be done—”
Janet interrupts, smooth and confident. “We’ll take care of him.”
She strides to the cot. When she tucks Adam—Luke—into her arms, my stomach heaves. She whispers to him as she heads for the door, trying to calm his tired cries. Shifting him to one arm, she opens the door. Before she takes my baby away from me forever, she gives me an evil look, one full of hatred and disgust. Then she is gone, and so is Adam—I mean Luke.
The room is silent.
I am numb.
Tomalewicz and I don’t wait long before the two officers reenter. I spot the handcuffs right away. I put my hands behind my back while the officers cuff me.
“I’m innocent,” I protest. “I’m telling you the truth!”
Tomalewicz begins reading me my rights, but I don’t listen. The accused don’t have any rights. Innocent until proven guilty? What a load of horse hockey.
Tomalewicz keeps talking. “These officers will escort you to the station. I’d love to take you myself, but I have an important call to make to the Fairfield Police Department. I think we’re about to make an entire town very happy.”
But Rose Gold visited me while pregnant. She pumped all that milk. She thought her father was dead, that his name was Grant. I never used my bottle of ipecac. None of this makes any sense.
“You need to find my daughter,” I say. “She has the answers you want.”
Tomalewicz pierces me again with those vulture eyes. “Trust me, we’ll find her.”
She nods at the other officers and leaves.
The officers escort me out of the patient’s room and into the hallway. I keep my eyes glued to the tile floor, hoping Tom is either on a lunch break or fell through the earth’s crust and is boiling somewhere in its inner core. We shuffle toward the exit. I see the stares but am too shocked to be humiliated.
Adam’s name is Luke. My grandson is Billy’s son. I don’t have a grandson.
The police car has already been pulled up to the front doors of the hospital. One of the officers guides me into the backseat while the other gets behind the wheel. Their faces are a blur. Their words are a blur. This car is a blur. All of it, this whole town, is one big whirly blur. I try to reason my way out of this, try to string a coherent thought together. I have only one.
The little bitch set me up.
28
Rose Gold
Of course I set her up.
You’ve wanted to do the same. You have lain in bed at night thinking of all the exquisite ways you could punish the person who wronged you. You know the one—even now, their face hovers in your mind. If only, you think, not daring to finish the thought.
The difference between you and me is follow-through. I made it happen.
When Ursula was about to destroy Ariel, Prince Eric didn’t make a peace offering. He didn’t divvy up sides of the ocean, settle for living amicably with a sea witch. He drove a ship’s mast straight into her gut and killed her. I’m my own Prince Eric. I saved myself.
A week has passed since my mother was arrested again. It still tickles me pink to say that, although maybe I’m sunburned. Every day here has been blue skies and seventy degrees.
I wait in line at the bakery to pay for my sweet bread. The shop’s walls are covered with colorful murals of local historical landmarks. The customers chat and gesticulate, ignoring me. I keep returning to this shop, mostly because the cashier here is nice to me. When it’s my turn, I hand him my money. He smiles, and for a second, I feel less alone.
I leave the bakery and stop to gawk again at the beautiful brick church across the street. For the third morning in a row, I admire its bell tower, topped with a wrought iron crown hoisted by angels. I soon become aware of how exposed I am, standing here slack-jawed. I keep moving, taking a bite of the sweet bread while I walk the bustling streets.
A few minutes later, I reach the side street where I parked my car, a beat-up white sedan by a well-known automaker I’d like to keep anonymous. Google says it’s the most popular car on the roads here. I blend right in. I could be anyone. I don’t want to be found.
And boy, are the cops searching for me. I bet Vinny King from Chit Chat would get down on his knees to interview me now.
I unlock my car door and climb into the driver’s seat, smoothing the bangs of my wig in the visor mirror. Short jet-black hair wasn’t my first choice, but the color disguises me well. I bring another piece of sweet bread to my mouth. A rank smell invades my nostrils: body odor. I sniff my armpits—I stink. I’ll need to shower soon or at least take a dip in the ocean. It’s a few streets away.
I’ve traveled farther in the past seven days than in my entire life put together. This is all part of the new me. I wanted a fresh start, which meant I needed a clean break.
* * *
• • •
On that Monday morning last week, I got ready for work, like any other day. My mother dropped me off at Gadget World around eight fifty, like any other day. But unlike every other day, I turned around and walked back home instead of going into work. I hid in the unlocked abandoned house across the street for a few hours, until Mom left to take Luke to the park. Once she was gone, I was a busy little bee.
I had to clean out my closet, add ipecac syrup to the milk, then bury my phone and the small brown bottle in the diaper bag. After dropping a letter in the mail, I was on my merry way.
I had planned to mail the letter to the cops in Fairfield, but I realized putting Mom’s destiny in Mary Stone’s hands would really piss her off.
Bonus point.
Fourteen hours later, I made a pit stop at a PO box in Denver to pick up my new identity documents, courtesy of my former boyfriend. I wasn’t worried about him turning on me when my name hit the papers; forging passports gets you up to ten years behind bars.
Then I headed south.
* * *
• • •
I walk around to the backseat of the car and fold my blanket (an old beach towel) and pillow (my purple hoodie). The floor is littered with fast-food wrappers and dirty underwear. Maybe I’ll wash my clothes while I shower.
I start the car, not sure where to go. I don’t know my way around this city. I’m not used to cobblestone roads, to telephone wires everywhere, to being surrounded by mountains. I’ve never seen so many palm trees—I had never seen a palm tree in real life before this week! I want to go everywhere, but I’m scared of taking a wrong turn. I have to keep reminding myself there are no wrong turns, that I don’t have a destination in mind.
I’ve been thinking about getting a job cleaning rooms or working the reception desk at a resort here. I could speak English with the guests—it’d be nice to have a conversation, even with a stranger. I haven’t spoken to anyone in seven days. I don’t want to leave this place, but I have a constant nagging feeling that I should go.
Is it easier to stay lost in a big city or a small town? The biggest big city is eleven hours east. The presence of millions and millions of people on the streets would keep my face from standing out. Then again, there are probably way more cops around. If I pick a small, dusty town instead, I bet I won’t see many police officers. But I’ll stick out like a sore thumb. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, not making eye contact with any passersby. Any of them could be hunting me.
I’d thought once I’d pulled this off, I’d be scot-free. I didn’t realize the strategizing would have to continue for who knows how long. Backing the car out of the parking spot, I decide to head for the highway. I can always come back. For now I don’t stay anywhere long.
* * *
• • •
It seems like all anyone cares about is the baby. Luke is fine. He’s been reunited with Dad and Kim. I made sure to only put a few drops of ipecac in each bottle. The effects won’t be any longer lasting than a bad stomach bug. I wouldn’t kill my own brother. I’m not crazy.
Taking him wasn’t even that hard. I pored over Sophie’s social media accounts come September. Then one day, boom, there he was, out in the world. All the Gillespies shared photos of him in the hospital; he was healthy, Mom was healthy, blah blah blah. I waited a few weeks, then drove to Indiana on my day off and parked the van at the bus station. After walking a mile or so to the Gillespies’ house, I waited for Dad to take the kids to school and himself to work, and then I listened.
So much can be achieved by listening.
I watched Kim head upstairs with Luke, then snuck into the house through the back door and hid in the tiny seasonal closet Dad said no one ever goes in. Once I heard the shower running, I slipped into the guest room—what should’ve been my room. It had been turned back into a nursery. Those stupid ducklings still lined the walls, like they had when I visited. And there he was, one month old, sound asleep in his crib. I picked him up carefully so as not to disturb any sweet dreams he might be having of puppies or fire trucks. He nestled his little body into mine, and every fiber of my being ached with love. “I’m your big sister,” I whispered. “I promise to keep you safe.”
Sure, I could have framed my mother with a baby from any maternity ward or park. But this baby killed two birds with one stone. Both of my parents deserved to pay for their cruelty.
I didn’t have it easy during those months. After I brought Luke home, I nearly drove myself crazy with fear that I’d slipped up and the Gillespies would catch me. True, two years had passed since Dad had thrown me out of his life, and I’d given him no reason to suspect I harbored ill will toward his family. Never once did I contact any of them, and I did nothing but stammer pathetic apologies that day on the soccer field. Still, I worried I’d left a shoe print in the house or some other piece of evidence that could be traced to me.
When Dad called me on the night I picked Mom up from prison, I nearly passed out in panic. I needn’t have. He was calling everyone in his phone book, asking them to keep their eyes and ears open for news of his missing child. He awkwardly blundered his way through our phone call, and that was when I knew he had no idea. I sank to the floor with relief and said the right things at the right times. I even offered to drive up and help him look for the baby. Of course he immediately said no—even in his time of need, he wanted to keep me far away from his family. The next morning, when Mom asked if Adam’s father had been the caller, I nodded. I wasn’t lying.
Do you know how hard it is to fake being a new mother? The pregnancy suit—you can buy anything on Amazon these days—was a cakewalk by comparison. I had to keep an enormous supply of formula locked up in my room; I even poured it through a breast pump three times a day so the pump would look used. I didn’t start adding the ipecac until the very end. Other than that small deviation, I was a model mother. Luke got off easy, compared to me.
I miss that little nugget so much. He was my best friend, the one person in my life who never left me. In some ways, I knew how my mother felt. Giving him up was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
I knew I would only be forgiven for my role in the kidnapping if I died for the baby. The police are looking for me, but I doubt they expect to find me alive. If they do, the public will crucify me. They’ll judge me and call me evil. But I needed a child for the abuse to look authentic. A grown woman being poisoned by her mother is a fool. But a helpless infant? Nothing enrages the masses—or juries—like hurt children. I would know. Good luck worming your way out of this one, Mommy.
* * *
• • •
I drive for a couple hours, marveling at how green this place is, even from the highway. The mountains are a constant presence, always looming large in some direction. They are infinitely prettier than cornfields. I turn on the radio. Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams” is playing. My mother loves this song.
I wonder where she is right now. I turn off the radio.
Eventually I notice I’m low on gas and get off the highway. I need a pick-me-up. While stopped at a light, I grab my burner phone and rewatch the clip of Mary Stone talking to the press. I fast-forward to the forty-second mark and press play. There she is, standing at a podium, shouting into a bouquet of microphones with tears streaming down her face. Her flair for drama makes her the perfect unwitting accomplice.
“I heard Patty Watts say, with my own two ears,” Mary cries, “that she poisoned and starved Rose Gold.”
I press pause and sit back in my seat. I watch this video at least a dozen times a day. The light turns green. I step on the gas.
You brought this on yourself.
All my mother had to do was take responsibility for ruining my life, to tell the truth for once in her miserable existence. She blew her chance. And underestimated me every step of the way. Mom thought I couldn’t—wouldn’t dare—put one over on her. She refused to let go of the image of the little Rose Gold she’d raised: weak, spineless, and dependent on Mommy. She assumed her dolt of a daughter was no match for a brain like her. Don’t make me laugh.
Oh, she’s trying to make up for it now—telling every reporter who will listen that she’s been framed, that I set her up and am in hiding somewhere.
But nobody wants to hear the truth from a liar.
* * *
• • •
I pull into a run-down gas station and park my car next to a pump. When the tank is full, I head inside and pay the clerk in cash. Then I walk to the back of the store and lock myself in the bathroom. I take off my wig and wet my face in the sink, trying not to get any water in my mouth.
When my face stops dripping, I splash some water on my armpits. I turn my clothes inside out so no one can see any stains, and stand there for a minute, fanning myself.
My eyes drift to the mirror and settle on my hair, finally long like I’ve always dreamed of, the ends resting on my chest. I toss it over my shoulder and realize whom I look like. A few years ago, I wanted nothing more than to be her carbon copy—to become Alex Stone. But I don’t want to be that person anymore. I’m not a woman who loses her shit over some missing hair. I’m much, much stronger than Alex.
I leave the gas station and park at a small general store. It only takes a few minutes to find what I need.
With my new purchase in hand, I head back to the gas station bathroom. If the attendant recognizes me or is surprised to see me again, he doesn’t show it. With the door locked, I pull the clippers from the bag and set to work.
Long strands of dark blond hair fall to the floor.
I work my way around my head. The buzz of the clippers brings me back to the small bathroom in the town house. I’m six years old again, sitting cross-legged in a tutu on the counter while Mom shaves my head, reminding me my hair will fall out in clumps if we don’t keep it short. She promises me I’ll look better this way.
For the first time, I’ve made the decision.
I shave and shave and shave until it’s gone—all of it. My feet have disappeared under my hair. Bye-bye, Alex.
Running my hands over my downy head, I grin. My face is filling out now that I’m eating again. My eyes are less sunken. Two rows of rotten teeth gleam back at me from the mirror. I haven’t tried to cover them in months. I can’t remember now why they bothered me in the first place. They’re not so bad. They may look brittle, but they’re sturdy enough to feed me, to keep my secrets, to contain my rage.
Most people don’t like holding on to anger. They feel it crushing and consuming them, so they let it go. They try to forget the ways they’ve been wronged.
But some of us cannot forget and will never forgive. We keep our axes sharp, ready to grind. We hold pleas for mercy between our teeth like jawbreakers.
They say a grudge is a heavy thing to carry.
Good thing we’re extra strong.
Acknowledgments
Thank you—
To my dazzling agent, Maddy Milburn, who plucked this manuscript from her query pile and took a chance on me. Working with you is the best decision I have ever made for my career. I will never stop thanking you. To the rest of the MMLA team—Anna Hogarty, Georgia McVeigh, Giles Milburn, Chloe Seager, Georgina Simmonds, Liane-Louise Smith, Hayley Steed, and Alice Sutherland-Hawes—thank you for helping me keep my head on straight. You are all total stars.
To my brilliant editors, Amanda Bergeron in the US and Maxine Hitchcock in the UK. Your insights and ideas have strengthened both this book, and me as a writer, in countless ways. Thank you for making me sound smarter than I am and for sharing (or at least tolerating) my love of spreadsheets. Every single day, I am so happy my books and I have found homes with the two of you.
To the Berkley team: Loren Jaggers and Danielle Kier, the best publicists in town; Bridget O’Toole, the newsletter ninja; and Jin Yu, master of all things marketing. I wish we lived in the same city so we could get together all the time. Emily Osborne and Anthony Ramondo, your cover design is perfection. Thank you too to the rest of the Berkley team: Craig Burke, Stacy Edwards, Grace House, Jean-Marie Hudson, Claire Zion, and everyone else at Penguin Random House in the US.
To the Michael Joseph team: Emma Henderson, Rebecca Hilsdon, and Hazel Orme, the superb editorial squad; Ellie Hughes and Gaby Young, my magnificent publicists; Vicky Photiou, Jen Porter, and Elizabeth Smith, the marketing dream team; and the unbelievably talented designers Lee Motley and Lauren Wakefield. A million thanks to everyone else at MJ, including: Louise Blakemore, Anna Curvis, Christina Ellicott, James Keyte, Catherine Le Lievre, and the broader team at Penguin Random House UK.
