Darling Rose Gold(15)

“No need,” I say. “Has it been remodeled?”

“No, but I put a treadmill down there. Mr. Opal gave it to me. He bought a new one and had left this at the end of his driveway. I happened to drive by one day and saw it and knocked on Mr. Opal’s door and asked how much and he said, ‘For you, dear? You’ve been through so much. Take it for free.’”

Rose Gold grins, and I get a very unmotherly urge to knock the smirk off her face. (See? I’m honest about my shortcomings.) I don’t care if a full Thanksgiving feast is down there—I’m not going into the basement.

I lower myself into the recliner and settle in. “I’ll look at it later. I’ve had a long day.”

Rose Gold nods. “Of course. I didn’t mean to overwhelm you.”

My attention turns to the TV, and my heart rate spikes again. “You aren’t watching the news on this thing, are you? Those good-for-nothing reporters ruined our lives. You realize that, right?” My voice is shriller than I want it to be, but I can’t help myself. “If you believe any of their lies, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Mom, calm down,” Rose Gold says patiently. “I don’t have cable or even an antenna for basic channels. I use the TV to watch movies and Netflix.”

I nod, unsure how all of this works or what I’ve missed while in prison. When Rose Gold was little, she was only allowed to watch a few Disney movies and Blue’s Clues. I didn’t want the boob tube to rot her brain. “I’m sorry. This is a lot to take in. I think I might take a nap.”

“Then I’ll go pump.” Rose Gold has not put Adam down since we entered the house. She heads down the hallway with the baby in her arms, singing “Pat-a-Cake, Pat-a-Cake, Baker’s Man” as she goes.

“I don’t mind if you want to do it out here,” I call after her.

“That’s okay,” she calls back. The door to my parents’ bedroom shuts, and then, ever so quietly, the lock clicks.

I find it hard not to be irritated by the locked door, but try to understand. Maybe pumping breast milk embarrasses her. Maybe she’s still getting used to motherhood. Maybe she wants privacy. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

I must have dozed off, because when I next open my eyes, Rose Gold is sitting in the other recliner, rocking Adam and watching me. I startle, reminded of the eyes on my bedroom ceiling. Rose Gold keeps staring, so I heave myself out of my chair. “Why don’t I start dinner?”

Rose Gold shrugs. “Sure. I have the ingredients for tortellini soup.”

I used to make tortellini soup when she was a child—for myself, of course. She would have gotten sick eating it.

In the kitchen, I pull the prepackaged tortellini, Italian sausage, and herb cream cheese from the refrigerator. I rummage around the pantry for tomato soup, diced tomatoes, and chicken broth. After a few minutes, the sausage is sizzling in the pan, and all the liquids have been added to my old stockpot. Of all the things I missed while imprisoned, cooking was not one of them. But it has its advantages: brainless grunt work requires just enough concentration so your mind can’t stray.

After an hour, I’ve melted the cream cheese in the broth and cooked the pasta and sausage. I ladle the soup into bowls, marveling at my first productive deed as a free citizen. I know I’m being silly, but I’m proud of myself. “Dinner’s ready!”

Rose Gold joins me at the dining table, and we sit across from each other. I push her bowl toward her, then pick up my spoon. I have been dreaming of my first meal for months. In my dreams, I savored each bite, relished each sip. In reality, I slurp the soup as fast as my hand can bring it to my mouth.

“Guess I’m hungry,” I say sheepishly, looking up from my soup. Rose Gold’s bowl is still filled to the brim. “What’s wrong? Do you not like the soup? Did I make it wrong?”

Rose Gold shakes her head. “I’m not hungry. I had a late lunch before I picked you up. Are you mad?” She sounds truly sorry, so I decide to forgive her.

“Of course not. We’ll have plenty of leftovers. You can have some tomorrow.”

I sit down with my second bowl. Rose Gold scoops and drops a spoonful of soup six times in as many minutes. A less patient mother would tell her not to play with her food. But I have always been a patient mother.



* * *



? ? ?

After we (I) finish dinner, Adam begins to cry in the bedroom. “You go get him,” I say. “I’ll clean up here.”

I load the dishwasher and clean the stockpot to the sounds of my daughter soothing my grandson. She coos and shushes, and the baby quiets down. I’m surprised by my daughter’s maternal instinct, but then I haven’t known her since she was a teenager. I have to keep reminding myself she’s a grown woman now. Still, there will be something she’s ill-equipped to do, and that’s when I’ll swoop in.

Rose Gold brings Adam to the kitchen, nuzzling her face against his. He smiles back at her, wrapping his tiny fingers around one of hers. I make goofy faces at him and wipe the table. He is still so tiny.

Once the kitchen is clean, we move to the living room, each taking a recliner. Rose Gold situates Adam in her lap, then grabs the remote and scrolls through a list of films. I notice she doesn’t seem to own any DVDs—all the movies are on her TV. When did that happen?