Darling Rose Gold(64)
A knock sounds on the door.
“Mom, are you okay?” Rose Gold calls.
I keep my face in the bowl. Only bile is coming out of me by now. “I think the lettuce was bad.”
“I feel fine,” she says, borderline chipper.
You want a medal? I want to yell.
“Can you get me a Seven Up?” I ask.
She pads down the hallway and returns a minute later with a glass and a can of 7 Up. She empties the soda into the glass, then taps the glass on the counter to get rid of all the bubbles—the same way I used to when she was sick.
“Put it on the counter,” I say, head still in the bowl, waiting for the next round of nausea.
“Oof,” Rose Gold groans. “Smells awful in here. I don’t know how you stood it all those years.”
I say nothing, willing her to shut up and get out.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” she says, skipping down the hall.
How is it possible that I, with my hardy stomach, got sick, but Rose Gold’s wimpy digestive system is fine?
When I haven’t puked in five minutes, I pull my head from the bowl and sink to the tile floor, too exhausted to reach for the glass of 7 Up or brush my teeth or even sit. I pray this nightmare is over. I lie as still as possible, not wanting to provoke any of my organs.
Rose Gold checks on me a few more times and offers little tips that irritate me. They’re the same things I told her when she was young: small sips of 7 Up, a cool washcloth on the forehead, deep breaths.
I don’t know how much time has passed, but eventually she pops her head in and says, “Adam and I are going to bed. Hope you feel better in the morning.”
The baby wriggles in her arms, making my daughter smile.
I say nothing.
She watches me on the floor, her voice flat now. “I don’t know how you did it all those years.”
Didn’t she already say that? I think with impatience. I lift a hand. “Night, honey.”
The master bedroom door closes. The lock clicks. The house is silent. I am left alone with my thoughts.
I pull myself to my feet and stagger to the living room. My recliner reaches for my body. I sink into it. My eyes close.
No, earlier she said, I don’t know how you stood it. Just now she said, I don’t know how you did it. My body, dehydrated and exhausted, says, So what? But something nags at my brain.
By “did it,” did she mean take care of her all those times she vomited? Or something more accusatory?
My eyes open.
Rose Gold made dinner. Rose Gold ate dinner. Rose Gold didn’t get sick.
But I did.
This line of thinking is preposterous—but is it? Did my own daughter poison my food?
Maybe Arnie or Mary or Tom got to her. Maybe she believes the media, the judge, and the jury. Maybe this is the lesson she wants to teach me, the reason she let me stay with her. She wants my attention. Well, sweet girl, you have it.
No one in this town wants me here, not even my own daughter. Scare tactics and bullying are one thing, but harming me is another. The treadmill accident, the yard fire, the poisoned food: some of the people in this town are deranged, and my daughter is one of them. Am I supposed to wait for them to burn me at the stake?
My mind reels, drawing conclusions and making decisions faster than I’m prepared for. How could I be so naive to think she took me in with honest intentions, out of the goodness of her heart? Forget trying to fix Rose Gold. Forget figuring out her plans. This has become more serious than a power struggle.
I can’t stay here. I have to leave. If my daughter is unstable, she could also be dangerous. Has proven she is dangerous, in fact. Meaning I can’t leave Adam here either.
He’s going to have to come with me.
18
Rose Gold
November 2015
I hadn’t seen my father in four months. He paced the sidelines of the soccer field, shouting encouragement to his team. Five little girls sat behind him on the bench, watching the match unfold.
On the field, Anna went to kick the ball, but missed. I noticed her hair was in a ponytail and beamed. A girl on the other team ran past Anna, taking the ball with her. She was halfway across the field before Anna realized the ball had gotten away from her.
Dad was trying very hard to look patient with his daughter. Maybe he assumed she would have Sophie’s athletic prowess or at least Billy Jr.’s adequate handling skills. Anna had neither—she was more Billy than Kim, more me than Sophie. Her unenthusiastic trudge down the field made me love her more.
Kim sat in the stands with the other parents, cheering for Anna’s team and laughing with her friends. She seemed years younger when she was grinning. She had never smiled at me like that.
Four months ago, Dad had asked me for space, and I gave it to him. But I thought “space” meant fewer texts and visits, not cutting off communication altogether. He’d texted me back, alarmed, when he saw my comments about Phil. But after I reassured him I was okay, he went quiet again. Since the Yellowstone trip, he’d responded to half of my messages, and the responses were one word or a sentence at most. He wouldn’t pick up when I called. We hadn’t seen each other since the morning the Gillespies had left for their trip. I’d tried to be patient. I focused on work and saving the money I needed for my teeth—I was halfway there—but I was still lonely. I was afraid if I stopped initiating contact, I might never hear from my father again.