Darling Rose Gold, page 6
“Mom?” Rose Gold says, interrupting my reverie. “What are you thinking about? You have this look on your face.”
I glance at Adam. He’s fallen asleep again. I keep rocking my chair. “Just remembering,” I say.
Rose Gold considers me, but doesn’t say anything. We turn back to the TV, where Jack and Rose are dancing a jig belowdecks in third class.
“How did you and Grant meet again?” Rose Gold asks.
I whirl around in my chair, almost forgetting the infant in my arms. “Where did that come from?”
She gestures at her sleeping son. “I have a baby of my own now. Someday I want to be able to tell him where he comes from.”
He comes from a mother whose head was up her derriere and a father who was worse, I want to say.
Rose Gold has asked this question before, but I’ve always managed to put her off. I decide to be honest this time.
“I was visiting GCC, where I got my CNA certificate way back when. I was looking at CNA-to-RN bridge programs to become a nurse. I met him in the cafeteria.”
“How old were you?”
“Thirty-four.”
I had finished an appointment with the admissions office and headed to the cafeteria for lunch. The food at Gallatin Community College wasn’t fresh or healthy, but I’m a sucker for nostalgia, so I went anyway. I ordered and paid for a plate of mozzarella sticks. (Forget His only Son—mozzarella sticks are God’s greatest gift to mankind.)
I was making my way through the second mozzarella stick when a kid who looked to be in his early twenties sat at my bench. Not too close to me. In fact, I thought he’d chosen the perfect distance: not so close he’d be intruding, but not so far we couldn’t talk. He wasn’t sexy, but his shirt was pressed, body lanky.
“Hi,” I said, more to my mozzarella stick than to the boy with the blond crew cut.
He swiveled around. “Hi?”
He said it like it was a question. I should’ve known from the first syllable he wouldn’t be the kind to step up.
Rose Gold interrupts my reminiscing. “How long were you together?”
“A few months,” I say.
“Did you ever think about marrying him?”
I choke on my laughter. “Lord, no.”
“Why not?” she asks so seriously that I know I need to be careful.
“Because I was ready to grow up. He wasn’t.”
I tell my daughter that Grant Smith became my boyfriend too fast. I say I ignored the signs, as every smitten girl does: the dilated pupils, the heavy sweating, the shoving of objects under the couch cushion when I came over unannounced. It had been a long time since I’d had a boyfriend, an embarrassing number of months (fine, years) since I’d had sex. I never heard wedding bells with her father—a man twelve years my junior—but I thought he was a good way to pass the time until someone more appropriate came along. He could string several sentences together without sounding like a moron. I never said we were soul mates.
I was thinking about babies at that point. A lot. Not babies with him, but a baby for me. I spent countless nights dreaming of tiny toes and names for little girls. Sometimes I think I jinxed myself, dreaming about babies so often while I slept next to him. How else can you explain getting pregnant while on the Pill?
I thought about the predicament for a while before I told him. Was this a predicament at all? I’d wanted a baby for so long, and now I’d somehow found one in my belly. Maybe we could become a happy family. Maybe he would step up to the plate, hit the home run. (I’ve now exhausted my knowledge of sports metaphors.) Maybe he needed a baby to straighten out his life.
Right.
Her father was horrified in the way most young men would be. He didn’t want a baby; he had his whole life ahead of him. He couldn’t believe I’d “done this.” He was paranoid and irritable, and I told Rose Gold it became hard to discern whether Grant or the meth was talking. I couldn’t bring a baby into his world. I’d have to go it alone.
We wouldn’t be the Brady Bunch family I’d hoped for, but let’s face it: Mike Brady was a drag. I could raise a kid on my own. I’d raised myself, hadn’t I? And I turned out okay. I ended the relationship and started checking out town houses.
Rose Gold pipes up again. “And he died of a drug overdose?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“So you don’t know for sure?”
“I know.” I scowl at my daughter. “All I meant was we weren’t in touch by then. Someone from the neighborhood told me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember,” I say, irritated.
“Where is he buried?”
“How on God’s green earth should I know?”
“I thought you might have heard,” Rose Gold says. She’s being smart with me.
“I’m sorry if this comes off harsh,” I say, “but Grant didn’t want to be your father.”
“Tell me about it,” Rose Gold says, dripping with bitterness.
The movie’s end credits roll, and we watch the names scroll by. I turn the TV off, shrouding the room in silence. Rose Gold yawns and stretches in her baggy sweatshirt.
She takes Adam from me and curls him against her chest. She opens her mouth to speak, but her cell phone vibrates loudly on the coffee table in front of us, stopping her. I lean forward to see who’s calling, but she snatches the phone away before I catch a glimpse.
Rose Gold glances at the screen. The blood drains from her face. Her hands begin to shake. I worry for a second she’s going to drop Adam.
“Can you take him?” she mumbles as she thrusts the baby into my arms. She hurries down the hallway, clutching her ringing phone. A few seconds later, her bedroom door slams shut. The lock clicks into place.
I sit back in my chair and begin rocking Adam again, thinking about what I’ve just seen.
Someone wants to talk to my daughter.
The real question is, why doesn’t she want to talk to them?
6
Rose Gold
When the interview was over, I picked up the paper grocery bag holding all my sleepover stuff and left the café. I got back in the van and typed Alex’s Lakeview address into the map on my phone.
I drove north on Western Avenue and took a right on Fullerton, thinking about the lies I’d told Vinny. Of course I felt bad for Mom. On more than one night in my apartment, I’d gazed at the recliner to my right and wished she were sitting in it. She used to draw the alphabet on my back and braid my wigs. She made up wild vacations, without us ever leaving the house. She gave hugs that squeezed the air from my lungs. She fought for me. In spite of all her sins, I knew how much she loved me.
But no one wanted to hear about the redeeming qualities of a child abuser. I was beginning to understand people needed to put one another in buckets: good or bad. No room for the in-between, even if that was where most of us belonged. Anyone who knew our story imagined Mom was evil. The jury must have slept well the night of the verdict, picturing themselves as my white knights. But they took my mother away from me. Some days I was thrilled. Others I felt like a vital organ was missing.
I mulled over all of this while searching for parking on Belmont. A Patty pity party was not how I wanted to spend my weekend. I had looked up Stockholm syndrome at a stoplight. Vinny was wrong—I wasn’t a captive, and I didn’t trust Mom anymore. Nothing she did to me was justifiable. I locked the van and walked toward Alex’s apartment.
My pocket vibrated.
Phil: Do you have anything fun planned today?
Me: Nope, just working
Phil: I’ve been stuck at my desk all day too
I paused. I thought Phil worked as an instructor at a ski resort? That was what he’d told me anyway.
Me: New job?
Phil: Oh, yeah, the lodge has me doing back office work once or twice a week
The key safe was bolted to the fence. I took the spare key out of it and let myself into the building, like Alex had instructed. By the time I’d climbed three flights of creaky stairs, I was huffing and puffing at the apartment door. Shortness of breath—I knew this pattern from childhood. Soon I would get dizzy. Fuzzy spiders would creep into my vision. If I couldn’t stop them, I’d faint. I would lie unconscious on this dirty carpet until someone found me. What if Alex or Whitney didn’t come home for hours? I could slip into a coma. I’d have to go to the hospital. They’d stick thick needles in me. They might perform surgeries I didn’t need. I knocked on the wooden doorframe, trying to unjinx all the thoughts I’d had. I heard panting and realized the gasps were coming from me.
I braced myself against the door, waiting. The fuzzy spiders never came. I didn’t get dizzy.
“Quit being a freak,” I said, unlocking the apartment door. No one was home.
Alex and Whitney’s decorations almost disguised the cheap furniture and old appliances. Colorful swirly paintings hung over the couch. A big white canvas leaned against one wall. The words “NO SHIT” had been sprayed onto the canvas with red paint, but the words were upside down. I didn’t get it, which made it even cooler. I sat on the blue couch and pulled out my phone to text Alex.
Me: I’m back from my Chit Chat interview. I can hang out whenever
I hadn’t told Alex about the interview until now. Half of me had been worried she’d want to come with me. The other half had been saving the news for a moment I wanted to get her attention.
Thirty seconds later, my phone rang. Alex was calling. I tried to remember the last time she’d called.
“What interview?” she said in place of a greeting.
“Hi, Alex,” I said.
“You had an interview with Chit Chat?” she shouted, loud enough so anyone near her would have heard. I wondered who she was with.
“The reporter even bought me these incredible muffins and a Nutella latte.” I tried to steady my voice.
“I want to hear everything. I’ll be back at the apartment in ten minutes.”
We hung up.
Eight minutes later, a key turned in the lock. Alex—long, lean, and wearing her trademark high blond ponytail—marched through the door with a backpack slung over one shoulder. She wore designer workout clothes, purchased at a 40 percent discount from the athletics store where she worked part-time. She tossed the bag onto the floor and sat across from me on the couch. Sometimes I couldn’t believe how little she resembled Mrs. Stone. Alex used to sneak me candy when my mother wasn’t looking.
She grabbed me by the knees, something she hadn’t done since I’d told her about Mom. I resisted the urge to reach out and stroke her ponytail.
“Tell me everything,” she commanded.
I spent the next hour describing each painstaking detail of the interview. Alex hung on my every word. I decided to forgive her for ignoring me the past few months. I could tell she cared—she had even silenced her phone.
“That must have been so hard for you,” she said when I was finished, twirling her ponytail, deep in thought. “I’m so proud of you for putting yourself out there.” She squeezed my knee. I wished I was wearing shorts—I had shaved my legs that morning, and they were silky smooth. I thought back to Mrs. Stone’s bathroom ten months ago, when I’d applied shaving cream for the first time.
I gave her a closemouthed smile, though I was grinning inside. “I was tired of being the victim,” I said, borrowing Vinny’s words.
“So when does the issue come out?” Alex hopped off the couch and walked to the kitchen. “Smoothie?”
I’d never tried a smoothie before. “Sure. And in a month or two, I think.”
Alex looked disappointed.
“But I get to do a photo shoot soon,” I lied. Vinny had made clear they’d use one of the photos they already had of us. “Nothing with my face,” I added. “Maybe my profile or something.”
Alex nodded. “You don’t need people hounding you more than they already do.”
“Or for the entire country to see how ugly I am.”
Alex didn’t say anything. I took notes on my phone as she added half a bag of frozen strawberries, one banana, ten ice cubes, and a splash of milk to the blender. Now I could try the recipe at home. I watched the long blond ponytail bob while she worked, imagined cutting it off and gluing it to my own head.
She brought two pink smoothies back to the couch and handed me one. “Your face is not ugly,” she said. “It’s unique and it’s yours.”
I stared at Alex, wondering if anyone had ever told her that she had a “unique” face. Probably not, or she wouldn’t have thought it a compliment. I sighed and took a sip of the smoothie, surprised by how refreshing and creamy it was.
“When is the photo shoot?” she asked.
“In a week or so. Vinny said the photographer would call me.” For the second time that day, I marveled at how effortlessly the untruths flowed from my mouth. If I wasn’t careful, this could become a habit.
“Can I come?”
Alex was so excited, so eager. She had never beamed at me this way before, as if I had something to offer her. My stomach clenched at the thought of disappointing her.
“I don’t know, Alex.” I hesitated. “The more people there, the more awkward I think I’ll feel.”
“Oh, come on,” she said. “I can help advise on hair and makeup stuff. That way you won’t end up looking like a total stranger. I mean, you want to look like yourself.”
Sometimes I wondered whether Alex and I had anything besides a hometown in common anymore. We had been so compatible when we were little: making roller-coaster rides out of odd stuff around the house, pretending the living room carpet was lava, hosting dog pageants with Alex’s Puppy in My Pocket toys. Friendships were easier when you were a kid.
She was waiting for an answer, and it wouldn’t be no. I could make up some reason they’d canceled on me later. “If you really want to,” I said.
“Yes.” Alex clapped her hands together. “Oh my God, this is so exciting. Chit Chat!”
I smiled, hiding my teeth behind the smoothie glass. I owed Alex this, after everything she had done for me.
She picked at an imaginary split end in her ponytail. “How’s my mom?”
I realized I hadn’t been to Mrs. Stone’s in at least a month. I vowed to visit once I got back to Deadwick. She had helped me through so much.
“She misses you,” I said. “You should come home more often.”
“Why?” she said to the strand of hair she was examining. “Now that she has you, there’s no time for me.”
I was stunned for a moment—Alex had never said anything like that before.
“That’s not true,” I protested.
“She used to call me every day until your mom went away.” Alex glanced at me and shrugged. “I mean, no big deal. I get it.”
I didn’t know what to say. “You should go home and see her.”
“I will,” Alex said.
No eye contact, bowed head: I was starting to learn how to read body language. I wasn’t the only liar in the room.
* * *
• • •
Later that night, Alex and I met her friends at a bar. Alex had told me on the ride over that she knew the bouncer, so I wouldn’t have any trouble getting in, even though I was only eighteen. Sure enough, he was too busy flirting with her to check either of our IDs. We walked inside. The floors were sticky, the crowd was loud, and the bartenders were unimpressed.
I was nervous because we’d seen four white cars on the ride over—a bad omen. Plus I had stepped on a crack when I got out of the cab.
We stood in a tight circle by the door, taking turns getting jostled. Alex introduced me to the group: three guys and two girls, one of them Whitney. “This is my friend from childhood, Rose Gold. She’s going to be on the cover of Chit Chat.” That wasn’t even close to true—I’d be a two-page interview at the back of the magazine—but I didn’t correct her. My heart pounded when they all turned to look at me. I gave a small wave and remembered not to smile.
The five of them stared in my direction, so I assumed Alex had told them about me. They all sipped their drinks—beer, except for Whitney’s vodka cranberry. Were none of them going to tell me their names?
Whitney caught me staring at her drink. “You want some?” She handed it to me.
I took a sip and tried not to make a face. The cranberry juice was fine, but the liquor was gross, like Windex or something. Still, I’d done it: my first sip of alcohol. My nineteenth birthday was a month away. I handed the drink back to her.
Alex tapped one of the guys on the shoulder. He was wearing a track jacket with a moose stitched onto the left side of the chest. “Can you grab Rose Gold a drink? Vodka cranberry.”
Moose Shirt wandered off. Alex, satisfied, turned back to the group. “I get to go on the photo shoot with her,” she said, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder.
The girls both got Christmas eyes.
“So cool,” said Whitney.
“Amazing,” agreed the other. She had freckles all over her face.
Alex nodded. “Rose Gold used to let me do her makeup when we were younger.” She turned to me and smiled. “Remember that huge Caboodle case I had? You always wanted the sparkly purple eye shadow.”
I gave her a small smile back and nodded. I would still let Alex do my makeup if she offered. At least now I wouldn’t have to worry about Mom scrubbing my face clean when she saw Alex’s handiwork.
Moose Shirt pushed through the crowd and handed me the red drink in a plastic cup. I turned away from the group and opened my purse. “How much?” I asked.
