Darling Rose Gold(22)

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.