Darling Rose Gold(50)

When I get back, I pace the house, nervous energy burning me up. Rose Gold won’t be home for a while. She took Adam to the pediatrician for his vaccines.

I sit in my recliner, but my legs won’t stop trembling. I stand and pace the house some more. I need to shake off that visit to Mary—I can’t strategize until I calm down. Maybe Rose Gold has the right idea with exercise.

In my bedroom, I change into sweatpants and a ratty old T-shirt under the gaze of the watery blue eyes on the ceiling. I tie the laces of a pair of gym shoes. My legs are leaden, but I walk to the kitchen and fill a water bottle under the faucet. I screw on the bottle top. I search the living room and kitchen to see if Rose Gold has one of those iPods for listening to music, but I don’t see one anywhere. Finally, I head toward the basement. Jogging outside, with all those evil eyes watching me, is out of the question. That leaves me with one option.

I breathe in, breathe out, then twist the basement door handle. I descend the stairs, keeping my eyes on the floor. The rafters are all I can think about, but that doesn’t mean I have to look at them. I scurry to the treadmill. Stay focused on the task at hand.

Rose Gold has tucked it into a corner so the right and back sides of the machine are nearly flush with the walls. I climb on and press the start button.

The machine’s screen illuminates, but the digits in the speed section are gibberish. I sigh, pressing the button to increase speed. This is what Rose Gold gets for picking up someone else’s trash. There’s a reason our neighbor was about to throw this old thing away.

The treadmill belt still isn’t moving. I press the buttons harder. The list of people who have humiliated me in this town is getting long. Someday they’ll regret the way they’ve treated me. I jab the ^ button, pretending it’s Mary Stone’s face. The nerve of that—

The treadmill belt rips to life under my feet. The garbled numbers on the screen straighten themselves. I recognize a speed of 16.5. The force of the machine flings me backward. I flail my arms, try to lean forward, but the belt throws me off.

My back hits the wall with a thud, knocking the breath out of me. A burning pain screams from my lower shins. I glance down and see my feet are wedged between the wall and the treadmill belt. It peels layer after layer of bloody skin from my shins.

I am screaming. Watching my own legs get shaved like gyros on a spit. The treadmill belt has blood stuck to it. I might pass out. I flail. I fall to my left. My palms smash into the concrete. I pull my legs toward me. They’re still burning. I glance at my shins—free now, but a bloody wreck.

The treadmill is plugged into the wall outlet beside me. From my position on the floor, I rip the cord from the wall. The belt stops. The machine is silent. I’m still screaming. My throat is dry. I close my mouth.

I can’t tell if the ringing in my ears is from shock or pain or all the yelling. I lie on the floor for another minute, eyes closed. The concrete is cool against my cheek. My shins throb. I examine them. They’ll be a mess to clean, but nothing Neosporin and bandages can’t fix. I will be okay. Someday this will be a funny story, maybe.

Overhead: footsteps. Someone is whistling a song from The Little Mermaid. The one Ursula sings in her lair.

Rose Gold.

Has she been home the whole time? Was she up there, listening to me scream in pain? Or am I being paranoid? Maybe I’m still a little woozy from the accident.

“Rose Gold?” I call out.

The whistling stops. The basement door opens.

My daughter chirps, “Coming, Mom!”





14





Rose Gold


July 2015

It was not the greeting I’d been hoping for.

“Rose, what are you doing here?”

Dad jogged across the street, away from the blue SUV he was packing in his driveway. I opened my van door and jumped down from the driver’s seat.

“Hi, Dad,” I said.

The door to the Gillespies’ house opened. Sophie came out first, carrying thick sleeping bags under each arm. Billy Jr. carried two paper bags of groceries. Kim followed them, but spotted me before either of the kids did. She frowned. I hadn’t seen that frown since my first dinner at the Gillespies’ house. She’d been much nicer to me since she found out about my cancer.

I’d seen the Gillespies at least once a month since our first dinner eight months ago. Since Anna’s ear piercing outing, even Sophie and Billy Jr. were being nice to me. Dad and Kim had been especially hospitable. Sometimes I felt like an actual member of their family.

Dad stopped next to the van, letting the duffel bag on his shoulder slide to the ground. Out of breath, he said, “We talked about this on the phone. You can’t come with us to Yellowstone.”

Actually, he had said it wasn’t a good idea, given my condition. But he’d never said no. I’d come prepared.

I pulled the folded note from my pocket and pushed it into Dad’s hand. “My doctor says I’m fine to travel.”

Dad glanced down at the note, squinting while he read.

I’d made up some mysterious postexercise chest pains to get a doctor’s appointment. After the nurse took my vitals and left, I locked the door and dug through the cabinets until I found Dr. Stanton’s prescription pad. I took two pages from the pad—one for practice—and tucked them into my purse. I unlocked the door and was back on the exam table before Dr. Stanton knocked. He and I agreed we’d keep an eye on the chest pain.