Darling Rose Gold(23)

“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.

I listen at the door for another minute, but Rose Gold doesn’t speak again. The bedroom floor stops creaking, so I tiptoe back down the hall and into the living room. I settle into my recliner, thinking. When I got out of prison, I extended an olive branch to Rose Gold, ready to start fresh. This is her response? Not only does she refuse to take responsibility for her actions, but she thinks she’s going to teach me a lesson. A weaker woman might run off, tail tucked between her legs. But I’m not going to desert my daughter when she needs me most. Underneath all that anger and scheming is a woman in need of her mother. Let her think she has the upper hand for now. She’s not the only Watts capable of forming a plan.

Like I said, now I know her weak spot: Adam.

I wait for my daughter to reemerge.

Half an hour later the master bedroom door unlocks. Rose Gold walks to the kitchen, places a bottle of milk in the freezer, and pulls two others out of the fridge. She washes her pumping supplies in the sink, then puts them in a backpack.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, joining me in the living room. She wears khakis and a royal blue shirt with a small Gadget World logo embroidered on the chest, plus her pump bag. She sets down a baby carrier with Adam bundled inside. “I overreacted.”

“Being a new mom is hard,” I say, forcing sincerity into my voice.

Rose Gold doesn’t say anything.

“I’m here for you, darling.”

I scan her up and down, searching for clues. Even in long sleeves and pants, I can tell she’s lost weight. When we were in the yard, she looked gaunt in that bath towel. I think back to her weekly visits during my last year in prison. She’d seemed a normal size until her bump started to show, and she only got bigger from there. Of course some mothers lose pregnancy weight fast while nursing, but I didn’t expect Rose Gold’s new body to resemble the old one. She hasn’t been this thin since she was sixteen.

The teenager I raised was all elbows and knees, a hunched skeleton. She stopped growing at five feet and was excruciatingly self-conscious about her body. Back then I tried to reassure her that thinness was in vogue. I told her that millions of girls would die for her shape, but her body always embarrassed her. It didn’t help her chest was roadkill flat. She was stuck in a kid’s frame.

That was before her food allergies went away. Before her feeding tube was removed. She had a reason to be skeletal back then: she was sick. Now she is healthy. At least that’s what she’s told me.

The doorbell chimes. I stand at once, but Rose Gold rushes past me. She opens the door a tiny bit. Mary Stone’s warm voice floods the house.

“How are you doing, sweetie? Are you getting any sleep?” I miss this concern, the genuine care I know is etched on Mary’s face. She used to reserve that kindness for me. When she knew I was having a tough day with Rose Gold, she’d bring over a plate of brownies or a pitcher of iced tea. We’d sit and talk for hours.

“I’m okay,” Rose Gold murmurs.

I pick up the baby carrier and walk to the door. “Little Adam is a spirited one,” I say, forcing the door open wider.

Mary Stone hasn’t changed a bit in five years: sensible-mom haircut, dull but trustworthy face, wearing too much pink. God bless her.

Mary’s eyes bug out, and her jaw drops at the sight of me. She’s such a cliché sometimes.

“Hello, Mary,” I say warmly. “It’s been far too long.”

I lean forward to give her a hug, but she shrinks away from me.

She stares at Rose Gold, fingering the rhinestone butterfly brooch pinned to her blouse. “Whose idea was this?”

Rose Gold doesn’t meet Mary’s eyes. “Mine. Mom had nowhere else to go.”

Mary’s eyes narrow. “I know somewhere she can go.”

This is, without question, the most aggressive statement the lamb-hearted Mary Stone has ever made. Apparently distance does not always make the heart grow fonder.