Darling Rose Gold(44)

I will myself to relax. “What kind of Thanksgiving dinner doesn’t have pie?” I scoff. “You’re getting the real deal today, kiddo.” I dish a piece of chess and apple pie each onto my plate. I top them with a scoop of ice cream.

“I’ll just have a bite of yours,” she says, lifting a little chess pie off my plate and into her mouth. I scoot my plate closer to her in case she wants more, and watch my daughter. Maybe she’s ready to talk.

I muster as much nonchalance as I can manage. “So,” I begin, “why did you really buy my parents’ old house?”

Rose Gold glances up, taken aback—or pretends to be anyway. “I told you: as a surprise for you. To help you move on.”

“And I told you about my dad’s abuse,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth. “Not to mention my brother’s suicide in the basement. You thought it was a good idea to force me to relive those memories?”

Rose Gold cocks her head, studying me. “Don’t you think it’s time to stop letting your dead dad control your life?”

“He does not control my life,” I start to protest before I realize what she’s doing. She’s forcing me on the defensive, putting me back on trial at my own kitchen table. This is an interrogation of her, not me.

“Then why are you still afraid of this house?” Rose Gold continues. “Your dad’s been dead for decades. He’s not going to pop out of the wall and hit you.”

Time to change tack. I twirl my fork in my hand and gaze at Adam, who is awake in his bassinet and watching me. “You know,” I say casually, “by two months old, most babies recognize their mother’s voice and face. Have you ever noticed Adam doesn’t turn his head when you talk?”

Rose Gold winces, as if she’s been stabbed through the heart. “That’s not true.”

I shrug. “He doesn’t seem very bonded to you.” I let Adam wrap his fingers around mine.

Panic fills Rose Gold’s face. She scoops Adam out of his bassinet and holds him close, searching his face for clues. “He’s a good baby,” she says, more to herself than to me.

“He is,” I agree. “He doesn’t cry at all when you’re gone.”

She jerks her head up and stares at me. I smile warmly at her. She bites her lip—doubt piles on top of fear. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head. She’s wondering if I’m telling the truth, if I’m right about Adam. Maybe this conversation will make her realize she needs to focus on taking care of her family instead of pushing us away. Maybe she’ll start worrying more about the future and less about the past.

We finish our dessert in silence. I offer Rose Gold another bite, but she shakes her head no. Her eyes are glued to Adam’s face as she rocks him.

As soon as my plate is empty, Rose Gold stands up and hands Adam to me. “You go relax in your chair,” she says, patting me on the back. “If you don’t mind keeping an eye on Adam while I clean?”

“Of course not,” I say, shuffling to my BarcaLounger with the baby in my arms.

This is more like it. I hate to make my daughter doubt her mothering capabilities, but I’m not going to be terrorized or condescended to in my own house. I’ll restore Rose Gold’s confidence as soon as she falls in line. I need to know for sure that she’s moved past this childish desire to get back at me.

An hour later, Rose Gold joins me, plopping down in the other chair. “All clean,” she announces. She turns to me. “This was the best Thanksgiving I’ve had in a long time.”

“Me too.” I smile, remembering the last five Thanksgivings of freeze-dried turkey and watery mashed potatoes served on cafeteria trays with plastic utensils. Every time I think of the grocery store debacle, I’ll replay this compliment. I decide to forgive my daughter for her earlier mistreatment.

Rose Gold turns on the TV. I wait to make sure she isn’t watching the news, then doze off.

I wake up to Rose Gold patting my arm. “We’re going to bed,” she whispers. “Night, Mom.”

She carries Adam down the hall. “Are you ready for sleep?” she asks him. “Will you dream of puppies? Or maybe kitties?” She closes the door behind her and begins to sing to him.

I stretch, long and lazy, then pull myself out of the chair. Yawning, I amble through the kitchen on my way to bed. I open the fridge. A dozen plastic containers of food are stacked neatly. The countertops and kitchen table are spotless. Rose Gold’s done a thorough job of cleaning up my mess. Then I spot a forgotten Ziploc bag, filled with bacon grease, on top of the refrigerator. I pick it up and carry it out the side door, remembering how delicious the stuffing was.

The floodlights turn on. I step outside into the freezing night. I open the garbage can and toss the bag of grease into it. I’m about to replace the lid when I notice a bit of loose food underneath a black garbage bag. I make tsk-tsk noises with my mouth—if there’s a hole in the bag, Rose Gold should know better than to leave the garbage spilling out. Forget the plundering raccoons; the garbage men have strict rules. Everything has to be bagged.

I pull the bag of trash out of the can, expecting its contents to spill everywhere. Instead, the bag holds its shape. I lift it to eye level, examining for tears. There aren’t any. I peer into the can. Inside are turkey, mashed potatoes, candied yams, broccoli casserole, cranberry sauce, and butternut squash—about one plate’s worth. I think back to Rose Gold’s empty plate when I came back from the bathroom.