Darling Rose Gold(53)

“Rose Gold is right,” Kim said, winking at me. “Ham is my favorite.” She took a big bite of her sandwich and chewed, smiling.

A minute later, Kim began to cough. The cough turned into choking. She clutched her throat, motioning to Dad for his bottle of water, but he’d started choking too. Dad and Kim, red-faced and eyes bulging, stared at their four children.

We kids glared back.

“Let’s get going,” I said to the others, “if we want to get there in time to catch lightning bugs.”

The kids nodded, rubbing their hands together with glee. Kim and Dad fell to the floor, writhing. Their faces turned purple. Sophie and I helped Anna hop over them on our way out the door.

I checked my watch: my bus would leave in twenty minutes. Standing, I threw away my sandwich wrapper and went back to the van. I left most of the stuff I’d packed in the car, except for the small suitcase and the jumbo marshmallows.

Walking down the long row of parked buses, I stopped at bus 942 and scanned the list of stops for my destination: Bozeman, Montana. There it was. I clutched my bag of marshmallows tighter, handed the driver my ticket, and climbed onboard.

I’d catch up to them in no time.





15





Patty


I flick on my turn signal and switch lanes. It feels good to be behind the wheel again. Just Adam and me on the open road.

I glance at the baby in my rearview mirror. “Where to?” I ask him.

“Gadget World, Jeeves,” I respond in a squeaky baby voice.

Adam stares, but grins when I turn on the radio. He shares my love of eighties music. I begin a rousing rendition of “Didn’t We Almost Have It All.” I was distraught last week when I found out that Whitney Houston had died. Adam munches on his fist.

After over a month of being on my absolute best behavior, I’ve finally earned Rose Gold’s trust and convinced her to let me watch the baby while she’s at work. No more Mary Stone whispering nasty lies about me in my grandson’s ear. I’m sure Mary threw a fit when Rose Gold told her, but Adam isn’t Mary’s child, now is he? About time she stopped trying to take what’s rightfully mine.

“You’ll spoil your appetite,” I warn the baby. He keeps sucking on his fingers.

I’ve also convinced Rose Gold to let me drive her to work so I can have the van. She balked at first, but there’s no sense in leaving the car in a parking lot all day when I can use it to take Adam to the doctor or to buy groceries. I suggested she jog home after work since she loves exercise so much all of a sudden. I’m not going to cart the little liar to and from work every day. I have better things to do with my time. Besides, the run takes only forty-five minutes.

Since Thanksgiving, Rose Gold has been even more attentive toward Adam, so my pep talk must have worked. With the increase in time spent with the baby, she has ceded bits and pieces of her life back to me. To be honest, I think she’s relieved not to have to make every decision for herself. Adulthood can be exhausting. Being cared for is much easier. I’m all too glad to provide my services.

Proof of Rose Gold’s need for help: she forgot her lunch today. She’s lucky to have a mother willing to drive it to her workplace for her. She didn’t even ask—I saw the brown paper bag on the kitchen counter, bundled Adam up, and got into the van. Though I’m not sure why I bother: inside are a handful of carrot sticks and an apple. She still isn’t eating.

I lift my foot from the brake to the gas pedal. The skin on my shins pulls taut. I wince. The wounds on both legs have scabbed over. The more I think about it, it’s ludicrous to believe Rose Gold had something to do with my treadmill accident. You can’t rig an old piece of machinery to work only when you want it to. I’m pretty sure you can’t anyway.

I expect to find Rose Gold at one of the registers, but don’t see her. She told me she’s a cashier here, but, come to think of it, I’ve never visited her during a shift. I wonder, for a second, if she’s lying about this job.

I stop at register two, where a kid—six feet tall, college-aged, and a dead ringer for a young Bill Nye—is playing imaginary drums on the counter with his eyes closed. He doesn’t see me approach.

“Arnie?” I say, glancing at his name tag.

Arnie’s eyes fly open. His set ends. I hope he got a standing ovation.

“Is Rose Gold working today?” I ask.

“Yes,” Arnie stammers. He blushes. “She’s in the break room. Ever since she got back from maternity leave, our manager lets her take a couple extra breaks during her shift.”

I sigh with relief. One household can only take so many lies.

“She forgot her lunch,” I say, holding up the brown bag. “I brought it for her.”

An all-too-familiar curiosity crosses Arnie’s face. “Are you her mom?” he asks.

Warily, I say yes. I thought I loved any spotlight, but being the town scapegoat has gotten old. It’d be nice to run an errand without getting the stink eye.

“Is that her baby?” he asks.

I nod. “His name is Adam.” Adam gurgles, as if to confirm.

Arnie smiles at Adam, but the baby doesn’t interest him as much as the woman holding him does.

“How long have you been out of prison?” he blurts.

The bar for manners is low these days. “Five weeks.”