Lies We Bury(49)
Rosemary’s face lights up, then drops like a sheet. Lily didn’t tell her—that she was returning home or that she was already here. I’ll bet she doesn’t know that Lily is pregnant, either. My heart actually hurts for Rosemary a moment, watching her alternate between joy and sadness as she processes what this news might mean. Then a corduroy jacket brushes my cheek, a reminder that Rosemary loved her things, her comforting possessions, more than us—more than providing us with a clean home where clothing was put away and boxes didn’t fall on kids when they were studying on the floor. The feeling of pity goes away.
“Yeah, she is. Just a week ago or something. Recently. You haven’t spoken to her?”
Rosemary purses thin lips. “Not yet. She’s a good girl, though. She’ll call.”
Lily—my free spirit of a sister—call, because it’s the right thing to do? Not likely. She’s always lived by her own rules. While the rest of us have felt encumbered by our history, Lily seemed liberated by it. We already lived the worst there is in this world, she’d say. What are the odds of something like that happening to us again?
The rustling in the kitchen resumes, and I take a moment to admire the number of storage bins Rosemary has managed to fit in the rectangular space. The couch and love seat that have occupied this room since forever haven’t moved, only now they come with a blanket on the cushions—presumably to cover the wear and tear of twenty years.
“Do you think it’s time for new furniture? This couch is ancient.” A spring digs into my left cheek, as if protesting my critique.
Rosemary returns with two glasses of swirling opaque liquid. Thunder growls outside in the distance. “Too expensive. These are perfectly fine. Besides, there are good memories on them.” She goes to place our lemonade on the wooden table, but finding no space available, she nods to me. “Can you?”
I move the closest box to the floor, and she puts down our cups. Her hands free, she moves another carton from the couch to the floor beside her, then props her feet up on it.
“It’s gotten pretty bad, hasn’t it?” She looks around the room. Beneath the cardboard boxes are plastic containers. Through the side of one, the spines of binders I used in the fifth grade are visible: SCIENCE, READING, and SOCIAL STUDIES. Adjacent boxes are labeled in Rosemary’s square handwriting—BAKING WARE, BROKEN DISHES, LILY’S TRAINING BRAS, MARISSA’S DENTAL EQUIPMENT. During middle school, I had to wear a head guard while I slept. In my defense, everyone grinds their teeth at that age—twelve years old is a stressful time, especially if you’re called Pissy Missy.
Rosemary heaves a deep sigh. “I should probably get rid of some stuff. You want any of it?” She waves a flat palm like she’s on a game show, showcasing product.
“Afraid not.”
“No, I get it. I probably wouldn’t give it to you, even if you said yes.” She laughs, a hard sound. “Difficult to part with things you’ve grown used to seeing. Once you’ve had them taken away at one point, that is.”
I don’t know whether she’s referencing being imprisoned by Chet or the furniture company that came a few years ago to repossess a dresser she’d bought online after she failed to make the final payment. I sip my lemonade instead of commenting. My mouth automatically sours as the drink’s sugar lights up my tongue.
“Oh! Do you want to see the changes I made to your bedroom?”
I follow her down the hall. A thin layer of dust crests the framed photos of Lily and me decorating the walls. We pass Lily’s room, still swathed in baby-pink everything. By the time she got old enough to find she preferred other colors—bright creams and sunny yellows—Rosemary had given up trying to find a job in between her intermittent bouts of depression; she didn’t have the money to buy us new bedroom decor. However, when Lily and I each turned eighteen, we did receive the money set aside for us from the settlement: $40,000. We could have decorated our rooms in crushed velvet if we wanted, but by that point we were ready to move out.
I turn in to the last door on the left, opposite Rosemary’s master bedroom, and face the scene of my adolescence. Stark white was always my style from the time I was allowed to choose things for myself. White bedspread, white drawers, white binders. The only color visible is the blue marker I used to decorate the binders, still stacked on the pale wooden desk, and black circles where I accidentally dropped cigarettes while blowing rings out my bedroom window. My arm tingles, and I absentmindedly touch my scars.
Looking back, I was fascinated with fire as a child. The first time I saw a live, flickering candle, I was almost eight. A flame seemed so powerful, potent in its capacity to destroy. Which is exactly how I viewed myself.
“What do you think?” Rosemary beams at me from the doorway. I touch the desk with a finger and it comes up clean.
“What am I looking at, exactly?”
She makes a face. “There are no boxes? Hello? I cleared them out for you so you could stay the night. What do you think?” she says again.
That’s why there’s no dust. The desk used to be a holding pad for whatever supplies she carried for baby announcement T-shirts or embroidery items reading HOME SWEET [Insert City]. “That’s very nice, Mom. Where’d you put all of it?”
“Oh, I know you’ll say I should put things away more fully and organize them properly and all that, but I just threw them on my bed for now. I’ll sleep around them.”