Darling Rose Gold(24)
“I’ve missed you so much, Mary,” I gush. “I thought about you all the time while I was away.”
Mary grips the doorframe, face purple and knuckles white. How hard would you have to slam a door to cleave a finger from a hand? She snatches the carrier from me and peers inside, as though I might have gobbled Adam whole for breakfast. I need a pointy black hat.
Mary turns to Rose Gold. “Why don’t you come by my house after work? We can catch up.”
Rose Gold shrugs her shoulders to her ears, eyes cast toward the floor. This submissive version of my daughter almost makes me miss the maniac screaming at me in the backyard half an hour ago.
“I’d love to join you,” I butt in. “You and I have a lot of catching up to do as well.”
“You are not welcome in my home,” Mary says. “Ever again.”
She grips the baby carrier and rushes down the driveway to her car. I guess it’s safe to assume I’m no longer the Mister Rogers of the neighborhood.
I step outside the house into a morning cloudy and full of fog. Mary buckles Adam into the backseat of her car. A movement across the street catches my eye. Standing at the darkened window of the abandoned house, watching me, are three shadowy figures. They don’t move when they realize I see them. One of them crosses their arms. I cross mine back, though the hair on my forearms is on end. I glance at the driveway. Mary is gone. When I squint at the abandoned house, the shadows are too. I shake my head and go inside, locking the door behind me.
My daughter studies me, waiting.
“Reporters did a number on this town.” I shrug.
“People might forgive you if you were a little less chipper,” Rose Gold points out.
“Honey, when you spend five years in prison for a crime you didn’t commit, you’ve got to make up for lost time when you get out,” I say. “I’m not going to pretend to be something I’m not.”
Rose Gold’s jaw stiffens for a second. Then she conjures up a smile. Maybe she fools Mary Stone with this act, but she can’t hide her anger from her own mother.
“I have to get to work,” she says. “I’ll be home around six.”
Rose Gold slams the door behind her and walks toward the detached garage. From the living room window, I watch the garage door open. She begins to back the van down the driveway, but then sits there for a moment, staring at me as I stare at her. Her lip curls in contempt, an expression I’d seen on her once before.
August 22, 2012: the day she took the witness stand.
* * *
? ? ?
The courtroom sweltered on that Wednesday. The gallery was crowded. Most of Deadwick’s residents had shown up to stick their noses in our business. Plenty of reporters had come as well; they couldn’t resist weaving a few more scandalous lies into their stories. My lawyer—an incompetent public defender who would have been more at home behind the counter of a medical marijuana dispensary—fanned himself and fidgeted in his baggy suit. The day I met him, I knew I was doomed.
The prosecutor had just finished questioning one of Rose Gold’s former pediatricians. This imbecile of a doctor claimed I’d acted “fishy” during office visits. Funny, he’d never said a word about my behavior ten years ago. He never reported this supposed fishiness to any superiors or state CPS agencies. If you asked me, all the prosecutor had established was that this key witness was a key moron, another seeker of the limelight armed with tall tales. The doctor returned to his seat.
The prosecutor, chin raised and shoulders back, looked the part of the justice-seeking hero. He glanced at the notes on his table before turning to face the judge. “Your Honor, at this time I’d like to call Rose Gold Watts to the stand.”
My stomach churned. My lawyer had said Rose Gold would testify against me, but I’d hoped she would back out before this day came. I turned to peek at my daughter, in her usual spot in the gallery, sandwiched between Alex and Mary Stone. Rose Gold had been living at the Stones’ town house for six months, since the day I was arrested. I wasn’t allowed to contact her.
Alex squeezed her arm around Rose Gold’s shoulders. The little con artist—Alex might have fooled the reporters with her concerned-best-friend shtick, but I knew all she wanted was fifteen minutes of fame. She hadn’t given two hoots about Rose Gold until my trial.
Rose Gold stood, bony shoulders propping up the sleeves of her cardigan. Eyes wide, she swayed a little, as though she might faint. Her skin was even paler than usual. She looked much younger than eighteen.
My daughter was terrified.
Sit back down, I wanted to tell her. Let’s call this whole thing off. I’ll drive you home and tuck you into bed, and we’ll make up stories about princesses and magic spells in faraway lands.
Rose Gold took a shaky step forward, one after another, until she was close enough for me to reach out and touch. I had to stop her. I couldn’t let her put herself through any more of this agony.
“You don’t have to do this,” I whispered.
Rose Gold turned to me. Her eyes were sad, begging me to take her home.
“Ms. Watts,” Judge Sullivan—who resembled a walrus—barked, “if you try to communicate with the witness again, I’ll hold you in contempt of court.”
At the sound of the judge’s voice, Rose Gold turned away and continued shuffling toward the stand. Was everyone in the courtroom blind? Could none of them see how much my little girl hated being there? They must have realized she was being forced to testify against her will.