Darling Rose Gold(61)
I allowed myself these fantasies, although I already knew where I’d go when I reached the counter. I’d book the next flight to Indianapolis. From there it would be a two-hour drive to the bus station to pick up my van, and then a five-hour drive home.
I couldn’t give up on my dad or the life I was rebuilding. I had a job, a car, a savings account with actual money in it. In a few years, I would be able to pay for the dental procedure. I was not yet done with Deadwick. I couldn’t up and run away like Phil had, as tempting as it might have been.
Phil pulled his truck over to the departures drop-off area. From his wallet, he drew four crisp hundred-dollar bills.
He grinned and handed me the cash. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself?”
I beamed. “I promise. Thank you so, so much.”
Overcome with gratitude, I kissed his cheek. We both flinched, but pretended not to notice. I got out of the pickup, waved once, and watched the truck drive away.
17
Patty
Christmas in Deadwick is a pathetic affair. We have no town square, so the “festivities” are set up in the parking lot of our strip mall. Fabric and hardware stores, a nail salon, a pizza place, and a Hallmark—I thought they’d gone the way of Blockbuster—all stand as sad witnesses to the holiday spectacle.
Thousands of cotton balls have been scattered across the pavement. That still isn’t enough to offer a passing likeness to snow, and more blacktop is poking through than white clumps. In one corner of the parking lot is a row of gingerbread houses—I have to assume their decorators were blindfolded. The reindeer are garden deer statues, made of flimsy plastic and antlerless. Someone has drawn a grin on each of their mouths with red paint, so they bear a striking likeness to Heath Ledger’s Joker. (Rose Gold and I watched The Dark Knight the other evening; my, her movie tastes have gotten sinister.) At the center of it all is a five-foot, Charlie Brown–ish Christmas tree. The ornaments are scratched, the garland is balding, and the angel on top looks embarrassed for all of us. A homemade countdown sign reads: 9 days until Christmas.
Kitty-corner from the gingerbread houses is the reason we’re here: Santa. Though it’s ten a.m., a line has already formed, all the kids dressed in red and green. Some are jumping in excitement; others look like they’re waiting for sentencing. (I would know.) One little girl is bawling. I wish I could join her.
I wanted to take Adam to the mall Santa two towns over, but Rose Gold begged me to come with her to Deadwick’s “Christmaspalooza.” She wants everyone to see we’re three peas in a pod—and also Adam’s adorable reindeer outfit (this one complete with antlers). I glance over at her pointing things out to Adam, like he has a clue what’s going on. Her excitement is somewhat endearing. I’m glad I came.
The day after our property was set on fire, I confronted Rose Gold about her odd behavior the night before. She admitted she’d thought I was exaggerating. In her sleeping-pill-induced state, she hadn’t realized the gravity of the situation. Of course, she had nothing to do with it, she insisted, insulted I would insinuate as much. She suspected Arnie was involved. He had a crush on her and had said something about teaching me a lesson a few weeks back. She promised to do a little digging.
A couple days later, she came home from work with an update: Arnie said he didn’t start the fire, but she had a feeling he knew who did. She thought his younger brother, Noah, and his friends were to blame.
“But why would they come after me?” I asked.
Rose Gold shrugged. “A lot of folks in Deadwick have grudges against you—even people you don’t know.”
My eyebrows reached for my hairline. “We should call the police.”
Rose Gold shook her head. “Don’t be silly. They’re harmless.”
“I wouldn’t call juvenile delinquents with a penchant for arson harmless.” I chewed my lip.
Rose Gold sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mom. People in town think it’s their job to keep me safe, and they believe the best way to do that is by getting you away from me. Listen, why don’t we go to Christmaspalooza next weekend, and we can prove to everyone how close we are?”
Which is why we are now standing in a ramshackle parking lot, her arm hooked through mine, waiting to stick my grandson on a strange man’s lap. I’m not completely satisfied with Rose Gold’s explanation—I’ve seen Arnie, Noah, and their gawky friends around town. They seem incapable of operating flyswatters, let alone vandalizing someone’s property.
I’ve decided to leave it be for now. I don’t want to spook Rose Gold by making accusations or asking pointed questions. I need to keep her close so I can figure out what she’s up to. Once I have more answers, I can regain control of this family.
I pat my daughter’s arm. She beams at me.
Five families wait in line ahead of us. Blessedly, I don’t recognize any of them, and they don’t recognize me. Santa is also an unfamiliar face, a fortysomething guy, if I had to guess. Bob McIntyre always used to play the town Santa. Maybe he couldn’t find his dentures in time this year.
Two little boys hop off Santa’s lap after their parents take four million pictures. What happened to one and done? They’re not going in National Geographic, for Pete’s sake. Santa “ho-ho-hos” and “Meeeeeeerry Christmases” them away. While the next parents in line straighten their children’s Sunday best, Santa’s gaze skims the parking lot and lands on me. His eyes squint, then widen in recognition. I may not know him, but he knows me.