Darling Rose Gold(48)

Whitney followed me to the living room, like a lost puppy in her own apartment. For the first time, I felt a swell of power. I had the ability to make those girls behave the way I wanted. Maybe I couldn’t force them to like me, but I could punish them if they didn’t.

I picked up my paper bag of sleepover items, ensuring I had everything with me. I was never coming back. Whitney walked me to the door, crestfallen.

“Thanks for letting me stay over,” I said. “Sorry it ended on such a crummy note.”

Whitney nodded, in a trance.

I couldn’t help myself. Before I left, I lowered my voice. “She’s just so tragic.”





13





Patty


I raise my knuckles to the familiar door and knock with more confidence than I feel. For weeks I’ve been trying to work up an excuse to pay Mary Stone a visit. The discovery of my daughter’s eating disorder is as good a reason as any. Mary might be able to abandon me, but she won’t leave poor Rose Gold to the Big Bad Wolf.

I found the discarded Thanksgiving food a week ago. Since then I can’t decide what to do with my daughter. Reasoning hasn’t worked. Leaving her to her own devices is not an option. I’ve never been above seeking outside help, particularly if it involves a good and petty “told you so.”

Someone pads down the hallway. The door will swing open in a few seconds. Mary doesn’t peek through the peephole before she opens her door. How many times have I told her she’s too trusting? She’s going to wind up in the trunk of someone’s car.

The door opens, and the expression on Mary’s face is warm. Then she recognizes who’s standing on her doorstep. By now I’m used to people’s smiles turning into frowns when they see me.

“I told you you’re not welcome here,” Mary says. She starts to close the door.

“Wait,” I say, pushing back against it. “It’s Rose Gold. I think she’s in trouble.”

Mary hesitates, watching me. Then she sighs and opens the door wide. “Come in,” she says.

Bingo.

The house is just as I remember it, painted and carpeted in Easter pastels. Mary’s collection of angel statues in the living room has somehow grown—there must be more than fifty now, fashioned from ceramic, concrete, glass, wood, and marble. I wonder if she’s ever driven past a yard sale without stopping.

I sit on the couch. Two glass bowls are on the coffee table: one full of potpourri, the other of M&M’s. I’m already concocting a slapstick routine that involves pretending to eat a handful of the dried petals, but remind myself this is supposed to be a somber visit. I am here to play the role of Concerned Mother. I grab a handful of M&M’s. Concerned Mothers still need to eat.

“What do you want, Patty?” Mary says.

I toss the M&M’s into my mouth. “I think Rose Gold is sick.”

Mary’s face softens. “Sick how? Is this an emergency?” She reaches for her phone.

“No, no,” I reassure her. I stare at my folded hands in my lap, like this is hard for me to say. Timing is key before a big reveal. You want your audience on the edge of their seats, hanging on your every word.

Mary leans forward, as if she can read my mind. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with her?”

I take a deep breath. “I think Rose Gold has an eating disorder.”

I’ve played Mary’s reaction a hundred times in my head, but never did I imagine it would be a laugh of disbelief. She crosses her arms. “Funny, she never had any trouble with food while you were in prison.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

“She used to come over here for dinner all the time,” Mary says, gazing at the cherubs dancing on her fireplace mantel. “She usually had multiple helpings.”

“How do you know she didn’t make herself throw up afterward?”

Mary’s expression darkens. “I know.”

“How?” I prod.

She sighs. “I would have known if she went to the bathroom every time we finished dinner. She didn’t. She helped me clear the table, and then we’d come in here. I never heard her get sick—not while she was pregnant, and certainly not before.”

“She could have waited until she got home,” I insist, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together.

“Patty, she was over here for hours after dinner sometimes. We’d watch a movie or just talk.”

I try not to picture Mary Stone serving as Rose Gold’s surrogate mother. The image makes me feel like tiny spiders are crawling all over my body.

Mary crosses her arms. “You’re doing it again.”

I study her, questioning.

“Creating an illness where there isn’t one,” she says, lips forming a tight line.

If Rose Gold doesn’t have an eating disorder, why have I never seen her eat? I turn the question over and over in my mind. She doesn’t eat my meals, but she doesn’t make her own either. I haven’t seen her eat more than a few pieces of toast and granola bars since I moved in with her. My silence continues for a beat too long.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“Here’s what I know,” she says. “The only time Rose Gold has looked healthy in her entire life was during the five years you were locked up.”