Darling Rose Gold(55)

I’m reminded of the summer when she was ten years old. We were bored out of our gourds on one of those boiling, muggy days when you had to sit so one fold of skin didn’t overlap any others, or they’d suction-cup together, then rip apart when you shifted. Without air-conditioning in the town house, we were miserable. We took turns sticking our faces in front of the floor fan, making E.T. sounds into the blades.

Weekend activities required imagination. Options were limited with little money or mobility because of Rose Gold’s chronic fatigue. She was the one who suggested the lemonade stand.

She’d seen other kids’ stands over the years. The concept delighted her: kids running a legitimate business, handling money, talking to customers. It all sounded very grown-up to her.

We had a few pieces of scrap cardboard lying around, so I figured, what the heck? And I let her go to town. She lettered the cardboard first with pencil, then colored in the business name with scented markers: Rose Gold’s Lemonade Stand. (She must have inherited her father’s creativity.) When she finished the sign, we made lemonade: a packet of Kool-Aid mixed with water. We didn’t have the means for fresh squeezed lemonade or whatever exotic berries kids are putting in their juice these days. Our neighbors wouldn’t know the difference anyway.

After stacking the supplies in the backseat of the van, my daughter and I got in the car, excited for an adventure to break up the monotony of her illness. We set up the table and chairs in an empty strip mall parking lot, affixed the cardboard sign to the front of the table, and unloaded the lemonade and cups. A quarter was Rose Gold’s asking price.

She was ecstatic at first, calling out singsong but questionable rhymes, like: “It’s a hot day, so get your lemonade” and “Twenty-five cents makes a lot of sense.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her the latter made no sense. Without a customer in sight, it didn’t take long for her enthusiasm to waver. After an hour with zero takers, she was using the cardboard sign to fan herself, head lolling on the back of her chair.

“Where is everyone?” she whined. “Four people have walked by. We’ve been here for hours.”

Rather than deliver dual-pointed lectures on whining and patience—my natural instinct—I went around to the other side of the table.

“Excuse me, miss,” I said. “I’d like to buy a lemonade, please.”

Rose Gold rolled her eyes. She peered around to ensure no one was witnessing this embarrassing scene with her mother.

“Is the lemonade still for sale?” I prompted again.

Rose Gold narrowed her eyes at me. “You have twenty-five cents?”

“Sure,” I said, grabbing my purse from under the table and opening the pouch of coins.

Rose Gold reached for the filled-to-the-brim pitcher, using both hands to fill the red Solo cup, trying to pretend this task wasn’t important to her. I did my best to keep a straight face to maintain the decorum required of the occasion. She handed me the cup. “Here you go.”

I handed her the quarter. “And here you go.”

Lifting the cup to my lips, I took a long drink. “What did you put in here? Pixie dust? Sparkles? What’s your secret ingredient?”

In spite of herself, she laughed. “Mom, you’re blocking the cardboard sign.” She swatted me out of the way.

From whom? I wanted to say, but bit my lip. I sat back in my chair, letting the lemonade’s tartness tickle my taste buds. I offered my cup to Rose Gold. She guzzled the drink. Lemonade was one of the beverages her stomach tolerated. Sometimes.

After another half hour, a total of ten cars had driven past us. Seven sped by, two slowed to read the sign before speeding away, and one dotty senior—that fossil must have been old when the Dead Sea was still sick—pulled up and tried to haggle over the price. He argued the lemonade wasn’t worth more than ten cents. (And it probably wasn’t, back in 1720 when he was born.) My daughter refused to grant him the discount. He left beverage-less. Served him right, cheapo.

Two hours of effort, with one sale to a blood relative, did not a happy girl make.

“Let’s go home,” Rose Gold said. “No one wants my dumb lemonade.”

I suggested we move the stand to Main Street, an area with more foot traffic. Nothing but stale air and leftover fish sticks awaited us at home, and it was not yet noon. I’d run out of ideas to entertain her and was set on milking this one for at least another hour. She shrugged and agreed to the location change, indifferent by now.

I packed the table and chairs into the van. Rose Gold’s eyes lit up.

“Why don’t we get my wheelchair?” she said.

“Why?” I asked. My daughter never volunteered to get in the wheelchair.

She shrugged. “My butt hurts from the metal chair.”

I agreed to her request and headed home, lugging the cumbersome wheelchair into the trunk, then drove to our new stand location, starting the entire setup process again while Rose Gold sat in her chair.

True, the new area had more foot traffic than our previous spot. And it’s much harder for people on foot to ignore a child’s lemonade stand. But I’ve always wondered how many people stopped that afternoon because they saw a little girl in a wheelchair trying her hardest to sell some lemonade. More important, I keep returning to the question of whether Rose Gold was shrewd enough, at ten years old, to understand how to win sympathy. To use her disadvantages to her advantage, shall we say?