Darling Rose Gold, page 7
“What?” he yelled.
“How much?” I repeated, louder this time.
“Five,” he said.
I found my wallet and handed him a five-dollar bill. He accepted it without a word.
Moose Shirt walked around the circle and back to his spot between Alex and one of the other guys. They stepped aside to make room for him. I admired the ease of this group, how in sync they all were with one another’s bodies and movements. They took their friendships for granted. This was their average Friday night.
I guzzled the vodka cranberry. It made my head spin. I didn’t have anything else to drink that night—I’d been through enough dizziness for one lifetime.
Instead, as the night went on, I watched Alex and her friends get tipsy, then drunk. The drunker they got, the more they rambled.
“Do you think I could get the photographer to take my photo?” Alex asked the group.
“For sure,” said Freckles, swaying. “You’re so pretty.”
“And so photogenic,” Whitney agreed.
“In case I need headshots one day,” Alex explained to the boys.
“You’re a graphic design major,” Moose Shirt said.
“Maybe I’ll be an actress on the side.” Alex threw her arms up with dramatic flair. Everyone laughed. The way Alex said it, it didn’t sound far-fetched. I pressed my lips together and smiled at her. She winked, ponytail bouncing and flirting.
I’d wanted to pee for forty-five minutes, but I’d been holding it in fear of missing anything: a funny joke, a compliment from one of the guys or Alex. But I couldn’t hold it any longer. “Be right back,” I said to Freckles. She didn’t respond, too busy ruffling one of the guys’ hair.
I pushed my way through the crowd to the women’s bathroom and found a long line of girls already waiting. I joined the end of it and wondered why the men’s bathroom was empty. Three girls in front of me giggled and tiptoed toward the men’s room, pretending they were sneaky. They were breaking the rules so obviously. Weren’t they afraid of getting in trouble?
They went into the single stall together. I wondered if they peed in front of one another. By the time they came out, I’d reached the front of the women’s line. I locked the bathroom door and checked my face in the mirror while I peed. So far, the night had gone unbelievably well. No one was paying attention to me, but no one had asked any intrusive questions either. Maybe Alex would let me come back and go out with them again. I just had to follow their cues.
I wound my way back toward the group. Moose Shirt had slung his arm around Alex. He whispered in her ear. Alex chuckled and intertwined her fingers through his, but kept chattering to the group. Freckles kept stealing glances at Moose Shirt. I bet she had a crush on him, but he liked Alex. I was prouder of having figured out this puzzle than of any social studies quiz Mom ever gave me.
I imagined Phil and me at a bar, maybe a lodge in Breckenridge. We’d sink into a big brown leather couch by a cozy fireplace, exhausted after a day of snowboarding. He’d sling his arm around me without asking, my shoulders an extension of his body. I’d intertwine my fingers with his, and he’d kiss me on the forehead. Someone to take care of me again.
Alex didn’t know about Phil because I kept him a secret. She would think an online boyfriend was weird. How can you be sure this guy is who he says he is? she would ask. Or Why don’t you get a real boyfriend? As if we all had guys lining up to woo us.
I had reached the group, but they were all too absorbed with Alex to note my return.
“She’s so tragic,” Alex shouted over the roar of the crowd. “Really struggling.”
“Isn’t her mom, like, in jail now?” Freckles yelled, laughing.
“I was the one who called the cops,” Alex bragged.
My face grew hot and my hands shook. I balled them into fists. I was about to spin around so they wouldn’t see me, but then Whitney called out, “Rose Gold, there you are!” A few months ago, I would have thought she was excited to see me. Now I knew she was clueing in the rest of the group to stop talking about me.
They were all either too drunk to notice or didn’t care that my eyes were wet. I wiped them with the back of my hand and watched Alex, waiting for her to mouth a subtle Sorry or wink at me again. But she was too busy laughing at Moose Shirt to acknowledge me.
Alex didn’t want to be my best friend. She wanted a few minutes of fame, to see her name or face in a magazine, to say she used to live next door to a total freak. I was nothing but the butt of a joke to her friends when they’d run out of things to talk about. Alex Stone had betrayed me, just like the other person I’d most trusted.
I told you that little hussy never had your best interest at heart, Mom whispered.
Shut up, I hissed.
Alex tipped her head back to laugh at Moose Shirt’s latest witty remark. I watched that perky blond ponytail cascade down her back and imagined ripping it off her head, this time with my bare hands instead of scissors. Now she was just a baldhead running around the bar, crying for help. But no one would help the charming Alex Stone, because they were too busy laughing at her—doubled over, tears running down their cheeks, clutching-their-stomachs-in-pain kind of laughter. How humiliated she would be, how alone she would feel. She’d find me in a corner of the room and fall to her knees, eyes pleading, hands clutched. Sorry, I’d yawn. You’re just a little tragic.
I stood in the wicked circle, watching the ponytail swing back and forth like a pendulum. I counted the seconds until I could wrap my hands around it.
But what good would it do me to confront Alex here? She had a group of friends to back her up, to defend and protect her. What point was there in me yelling at her when they’d all burst out laughing as soon as I stomped away? And where would I sleep tonight if not at Alex’s apartment?
Tonight was not the night for teaching a lesson. Alex and I had been friends for a long time, and the least I could do was give her a chance to apologize when she was sober again. I owed her that much—no, I didn’t owe her anything—but I would grant her another chance.
She and her ponytail would remain attached. For now.
But I needed to be more careful about people. I was too quick to trust. My mom had fooled me and Alex had too. I had to quit letting people walk all over me. Quit letting people like Phil call the shots.
Why couldn’t I go see him the same way I had come to see Alex? Soon I would get the interview money. I didn’t have to wait for him to invite me. Phil was shy and would never take charge. I could catch a bus so I didn’t have to drive across the country on my own. I sent him a text.
Me: I wish we were together tonight
I made a resolution among the group of friends. Sometime in the next year, I would visit my boyfriend and get my first kiss. I was long past overdue in finding out who was on the other side of the screen.
When Moose Shirt went to the bar to buy more drinks, Alex finally made eye contact with me across the circle. She blew me a kiss, oblivious or cruel or maybe both. I smiled at her, teeth exposed. About time I let her see the ugly side of Rose Gold.
7
Patty
I spend my first night out of prison tossing and turning in the twin bed. The eyes on the ceiling watch me. I listen to Adam’s piercing screams in the next room. Whenever he stops crying, I’m convinced I hear the snap of a belt outside my bedroom door. I plug my ears and chide myself for being such a wimp. During my five years in prison, I snored soundly every night, give or take the first month of adjusting. Even after some of the women found out what I’d been convicted of, I had never lain awake all night, never seriously worried for my safety.
I like to think my time in prison was made easier not because of my size, but my charisma. The key—inside prison and out—is befriending the people in power. Once I had the guards and the warden in my pocket, the inmates fell in line too. They began to see me as more than an obnoxiously jolly doppelgänger of the Kool-Aid Man. I became useful.
A new round of wailing interrupts my six a.m. musings. I forgot how shrill babies can be.
My parents’ bedroom door opens. I cannot hear Rose Gold’s footsteps over the shrieks of the baby. The cries move farther away—the kitchen or the living room. I swing my legs off the mattress and sit up. I need to get away from these watery blue eyes.
I make my way to the living room, where Rose Gold is giving Adam a bottle.
“Good morning,” I say.
I notice the door to the basement is open. I rush to close it.
She glances at me, hair sticking up in several directions. The dark rings under her eyes are pronounced. “Morning. Did he keep you up all night? I’m sorry.”
Those two little words ring in my ears. So she can apologize for her crying son, but not for sending me to prison.
“Slept like the dead,” I chirp. “Have you eaten? I’ll make us eggs.”
In the kitchen I turn on the radio. When I realize “Every Breath You Take” by the Police is playing, I turn up the volume and smile. I pull a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator.
Rose Gold sets the empty baby bottle on the kitchen table. She begins to burp Adam. “That’s okay. I’ll have a granola bar or toast.”
“Toast? That’s not enough to fill you up.”
Rose Gold shrugs. “I’m not a big breakfast person.” She keeps patting the baby.
“Have at least one egg,” I protest. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised she’s not a huge fan of my cooking.
“Not everybody eats as much as you,” she snaps.
Wounded, I shut my mouth. I put two pieces of bread in the toaster and pull three eggs from the carton. A blue flame crackles when I turn on the burner.
Even as a girl, I was on the cusp of too big. My body was square before it turned round, and I winced at the words people used to describe it. Stocky. Big-boned. Thick. They were all unsubtle ways of reminding me I looked more like a boy than a girl. I took up too much space. I finished every brown-bagged lunch. Jimmy Barnett used to joke, “You eat the napkin too?” But no one bullied me over my weight. Their matter-of-factness was almost worse. Everyone knew Patty was the burly one, like they knew the Earth circled the sun and never to order the chili dog from Dirty Doug’s unless you were ready to butt-trumpet your way through the following twenty-four hours.
Imagine showing up to the Dress Barn at ten years old and being told dresses weren’t “for you.” “None of them?” I managed to squeak. I glanced at the hundreds of styles in every color and shape. The saleswoman’s grimace was answer enough. It’s hard to be a little girl when you’re not little.
I used to have dreams of getting in shape, of going on some bonkers pepper juice diet and hiring a trainer to shriek at me on the treadmill like they do in those reality shows. But Oreos and Diet Coke were easier to scarf down between Rose Gold’s feedings and schooling and doctors’ visits. Not until prison did I realize how powerful I am, how useful my body can be. The more space I take up, the less people push me around.
I scramble the eggs, butter Rose Gold’s toast, and tuck my hurt feelings aside. I glance at my daughter, now glued to her phone. “Whatcha looking at?”
“Instagram,” she says.
My silence gives me away.
“It’s a social media platform,” she adds.
“Like Facebook?” I ask, hoping the question isn’t absurd.
“Yeah, but better.”
I don’t care to learn the finer points of Facebook versus Instagram, so I move on to what I really want to know. “So who called last night?”
Rose Gold’s zombielike expression sharpens. “No one.”
“Didn’t look like no one,” I say casually. “Looked like you saw a ghost.”
Rose Gold doesn’t say anything. We stare at each other across the kitchen. I wait for her to budge and am surprised when she doesn’t.
“Was it Adam’s father?” I guess.
Rose Gold hesitates, then nods slowly. “All of a sudden he wants to get back together. After nine months of wanting nothing to do with me. I told him to leave me alone.”
“Why didn’t things work out between you two?” I ask, keeping my tone soft.
“When he found out I was pregnant, he bailed.” Rose Gold’s voice shakes, but she lifts her chin in defiance. “I’d rather do this alone than with a flake.”
I can’t fault that logic.
Rose Gold looks ready to cry, so I change the subject. “What’s on the docket today?”
“Work,” she says.
“Do you need me to watch Adam?” I erase any trace of hope from my voice.
Rose Gold gives me a once-over. “Mrs. Stone has been watching him since I went back to work last week.”
This is news to me. Rose Gold said during one of our visits that she doesn’t talk to Mary Stone much anymore. I haven’t seen my former neighbor and best friend since the trial.
I set the plate of toast in front of Rose Gold. “Do you drop him off or does Mary pick him up?”
“She picks him up. You might want to make yourself scarce when she comes by.”
“Why?”
“You’re no longer one of her favorite people.” Rose Gold smirks.
“Oh, that.” I wave my daughter’s comment away. “Mary and I have a lot of catching up to do. Set some things straight.”
Rose Gold looks skeptical. She pushes away her plate of toast, one slice uneaten.
“Why don’t I watch Adam while you shower?” I offer.
“That would be awesome.” This is the nicest thing my daughter has said to me since we got up this morning. Her relief is palpable. We both know how hard it is to raise a child alone. I watch her watch him, eyes drowning in love for her son. With the slightest of hesitations, she hands Adam to me. My plan is starting to work.
Rose Gold closes the bathroom door behind her. The shower turns on. I consider the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, but decide to take care of them later. Who knows how long I’ll be allowed to play with my grandson?
I set Adam on the living room carpet, belly down. His head wobbles as he tries to lift it. I clap for him and his blossoming neck strength. He sticks his tongue out at me. Cheeky imp.
From our spot on the floor, I can see a worn plastic high chair in a corner of the kitchen. Adam is too young to need it anytime soon. I wonder if this is another of Rose Gold’s neighborhood finds. My mother used to keep my wooden high chair in the same corner.
Adam watches me with big hazel eyes. I babble at him. His bottom lip quivers, and he opens his mouth to wail. I scoop him up, grab his hat and a thick blanket, and rush him through the side door into my parents’ backyard. I can at least give Rose Gold twenty minutes of peace.
The baby starts to cry, and I pull out all my old tricks. I rock him from side to side in big swooping motions. I stick his pacifier in his mouth. I try to burp him some more. Nothing works—Adam keeps screaming.
“Who pooped in your Cheerios?” I ask the baby. He’s not amused.
After a while, I get him to quiet down. He’s still not silent, but his wails have calmed to a whimper. He was so relaxed yesterday—I’d pegged him as an easy baby. I keep rocking back and forth.
The yard is in sore need of attention. My father used to keep the grass trimmed like his buzz cut, nary a stray blade in sight. Now it’s both overgrown and dying in places, like something you’d find near a haunted house. The oak tree with thick arms still holds our homemade swing, but the red seat has faded to pink. Dad fashioned the swing when I was a kid. He tested it a dozen times before David and I were allowed to give it a whirl.
The side door flies open. Rose Gold bolts through it, wrapped in a towel with dripping wet hair. “What did you do to him?” she screams, her eyes darting around the yard until they land on Adam in my arms.
“We’ve been out here the whole time,” I say calmly. “Adam started fussing, and I didn’t want you to worry while you were in the shower. He’s just quieted down.”
Rose Gold keeps yelling. “I thought you left!” Her eyes are open as wide as they go, like a terrified horse. I half expect her to start foaming at the mouth.
I shush her, hoping to rein in the hysterics. At Rose Gold’s screeching, Adam starts to cry again. To my surprise, Rose Gold begins to cry too. She rips the baby from me and holds him so tight, I worry she might break him.
“I was just trying to help,” I say, shocked. She must know if I wanted to steal her baby, I’d do a cleaner job of it than this. Wattses are nothing if not meticulous.
Rose Gold turns on her bare heel, baby in arms, and marches back toward the house. Her sharp shoulder blades protrude above the towel as she flees. They remind me of a younger Rose Gold—a sick Rose Gold. She slams the door behind her. The yard is quiet again.
I feel a little guilty for upsetting her, but realize what I’ve learned. Since she picked me up yesterday, Rose Gold has had a certain swagger, a confidence she didn’t possess before I went to prison. She brought me back to this house, knowing full well I hate it here. She wants to go for my jugular? That’s fine. None of us is without weak spots.
Now I know hers.
Walking to the side door, I head back inside and tiptoe down the hallway. Rose Gold’s bedroom door is closed. I put my ear against it, straining to listen.
Rose Gold’s footsteps creak on the wooden floor as she paces the room. She soothes Adam with little shushing sounds. He quiets down. I can’t make out the first part, which she whispers.
“—soon. I promise.” Her voice breaks. “I’m sorry.”
Soon what—what’s going to happen? She must have something planned. Is she going to terrorize me in this house? Kick me out and leave me homeless? Physically hurt me? She isn’t strong enough to overpower me, and I can’t imagine her resorting to violence, but I suppose anything is possible.
