Darling Rose Gold(6)

On my phone I opened the conversation with Alex. “I think I might come visit!” I typed. I tapped the little blue arrow and chewed my lip.

I scrolled through our chat. Alex hadn’t responded to the last three texts I’d sent her. I would have been worried if she wasn’t posting on social media sites every day, detailing how much fun she was having with her city friends. Over the past few months, I had been studying some of these sites to figure out how they worked. I even mustered the nerve to create my own account on one, but I still hadn’t posted anything. I couldn’t decide on a profile picture.

I glanced at the movie rentals again, but instead inserted my copy of The Little Mermaid—the one movie I owned—into the DVD player.

Thirty minutes in, Alex still hadn’t responded. For once, Scuttle and Sebastian couldn’t distract me. I kept imagining the word “DISGUSTING” as a neon sign floating over my head, with two blinking arrows pointing at me. The word tattooed itself across my forehead and cheeks, inside my mouth. I pulled my zebra-striped fleece tie blanket—the one Mom had made for me—up to my chin. The word followed me there, pounding in my ears. I imagined it drifting along the blood in my veins and shook my head to fling the thoughts away. I should have ignored Brandon or kept flipping through that magazine.

The magazine. I grabbed my phone again and scrolled through old e-mails. I found the one from Vinny King, the writer for Chit Chat who had sent me multiple interview requests in exchange for a couple hundred bucks. I scanned it again.


All the media has done is paint you as a weak, victimized little girl—isn’t it time you set the record straight?



Back then I believed in fate. I thought everything happened for a reason.

When Vinny King had first contacted me, I’d still had the feeding tube. I’d just moved out of our town house to Mrs. Stone’s place. Social services had assigned me a therapist. Reporters were camped outside of every building where they thought I might be hiding. By the time I testified against Mom, I was barely holding it together. I wanted to publicly separate the facts from the lies, but an interview with the old Rose Gold would have been a disaster. I could see the headlines laughing that the daughter was as crazy as her mother. They were bad enough as it was: MOTHER SHOWS NO REMORSE FOR STARVING DAUGHTER.

But that was then.

Now I was stable. Nothing was perfect, of course. Like, I was maybe a little too fixated on my weight. I still couldn’t eat certain foods without feeling nauseated, although I was pretty sure the sickness was in my head. I was bad at talking to kids my own age. Jerks like Brandon still brought me to my knees.

Maybe I wasn’t ready to talk about the memories I’d done such a good job bottling up over the last year. But I could either keep taking abuse from people who knew nothing about me, or I could tell my side of the story. The media were no longer interested in Mom and me; I hadn’t heard from Vinny in months. But maybe I could convince him to hear me out. Then I could use the money from the interview for my teeth. Or to visit Phil in Colorado.

Alex still hadn’t responded to my text. On the TV, Ariel agreed to give up her voice.

I dialed Vinny King’s number before I could change my mind. The phone rang. I gazed at my shoes. The laces had come untied.

She was thinking of me.





3





Patty


I stride across the parking lot toward my daughter. Rose Gold jumps down from the driver’s seat, her five-foot frame dwarfed by the big van. A woman of twenty-three has replaced the gangly teenager I raised. Her hair is straight and limp, a dull shade somewhere between blond and brown. Her small upturned nose gives her the appearance of a mouse. She wears baggy jeans and a huge crewneck sweatshirt. She darts toward me with that same tiptoe gait she’s always had, as if the concrete is covered with hot coals. She looks healthy, normal.

Except for those teeth.

Her teeth protrude from her gums every which way, like old tombstones in a cemetery. They are a range of yellows, from eggnog to Dijon mustard. At the roots some are the color of mud; at the tops they are uneven, jagged. She is smiling—nay, grinning—at me, and I’m reminded of a jack-o’-lantern. To others, her teeth may be hideous. To me, they tell a story. They remind me of the decades of stomach acid corroding the enamel. Her teeth are a testament to her courage.

We meet in the middle of the parking lot. She reaches for me first.

“You’re free,” she says.

“You’re a mother,” I say.

We hold each other for a few moments. I count to five, not wanting to seem overeager or arouse suspicion. “Can I meet the little guy?”

Rose Gold pulls back from the embrace. She eyes me brightly but wariness slips through. “Of course,” she says. I follow her to the van. She yanks open the back door.

There he is, waiting in his car seat. Eyes darting, legs kicking: our little Adam. Just two months old.

On impulse, I reach for his stockinged foot and coo at him. He gurgles at me, then sticks his tongue out. I laugh, delighted.

I reach for the buckle to his car seat, then remember my place. I turn to Rose Gold. “May I?”

She nods. Her eyes match her son’s, dashing back and forth between his body and my face. I unbuckle the seat belt and lift him out of his chair.

I cradle him in my arms, drop my nose to his head, and inhale. Nothing beats that new-baby smell. For a second, it’s Rose Gold in my arms again. We’re back in the town house, and for a few minutes, she’s not crying or wheezing or coughing.