Darling Rose Gold(68)

“Everyone but you, huh?” Rose Gold sneers. “Everyone in the whole town has gone crazy, with the exception of Patty Watts. Always someone else’s fault, isn’t it? You’re never, ever to blame.”

I can feel the soft flesh of the neck oozing between my fingers. My thumbs silence the voice box. The spinal cord bends to my will.

How dare she? I think over and over.

I will not stand for this abuse.



* * *



? ? ?

    Adam and I watch the frozen pond, searching for signs of life in the park. But the animals have all moved south for the winter. The wind picks up. I zip Adam’s snowsuit all the way to his chin.

The weather is a bit nippy for a day at the park, but I needed to get out of that house. We drove forty minutes south to find a playground where nobody knows us. No Mary Stones or Tom Behans or Arnie Dixons to try to hurt us. No one at all—the park is empty today.

I pull Adam out of his stroller and bounce him on my knee. Already he is growing his own little personality: smiling when he farts, chewing on his hands, drooling all over every piece of clothing I’ve laundered. He’s used to me now, spending more time in my care than Rose Gold’s these past few weeks. At least he won’t be leaving with a stranger.

Because we do have to leave. I realize that now. Neither of us is safe with his mother.

My daughter has turned this town against me, flaunting her skin and bones during neighborhood runs. Mary and the rest of them think I’m poisoning her. Her coworkers believe I’m torturing her. All this time, I blamed Tom or Arnie or maybe a few neighbors teaming up to destroy me.

But Rose Gold has always excelled at playing the victim.

Never mind all the attention she got while she was sick. Never mind the free toys and extra lollipops from the nurses and the total adoration of every citizen in Deadwick. She had them eating from the palm of her hand—she chose to throw it all away. And now she wants it back.

I have tried to be the doting mommy I thought my daughter wanted. But I didn’t suffer through five years of prison to be turned into a villain again. She wants to drive me away? Fine, I’ll go.

I study the baby in my arms. “You look like your mother when she was your age,” I say. Same hazel eyes, same petite nose. I hope he’s stronger when he grows up.

I toss Adam in the air and catch him, swinging him down through my legs and back up. He giggles with delight, watching me with those wide, curious eyes.

So far he has been a healthy baby.

That won’t last long.

After all, Rose Gold’s digestion issues began around Adam’s age. He’s shown no signs of apnea or pneumonia like she did, but there must be something sinister lurking beneath those rosy cheeks. No baby is perfect.

I set Adam down on his stomach in the frosty grass. A little exposure to the elements will make him stronger. He stretches his legs and kicks his feet, facedown in the cold.

“Adam,” I whisper. “Adam, look at Grandma.”

As if he understands me, the baby raises his head. He balls his hands into fists, kicking his legs harder. His mouth opens. I wonder whether I should let him cry.

At the last second, I swoop down and scoop him up, tossing him in the air again. That’s enough for one day. His whine turns into a laugh. I laugh too and palm his forehead. His cheeks are pink—or are they green? Could he have a cold or the flu? I think a trip to the doctor is in our future. Better safe than sorry.

I put Adam back in his stroller and walk him to the van. Starting it, I head toward Deadwick.

Odd how you adjust to life’s new circumstances. I’ve already become used to pulling into the driveway of my childhood home. My stomach tightens at the sight of the house for a different reason now.

In the kitchen, I move two bags of Rose Gold’s frozen milk from the freezer to the refrigerator, then take out a bottle of chilled milk. We have our routines down pat: Rose Gold pumps breast milk and puts it into the freezer; then I thaw it to feed Adam. I may have to switch him to formula, but that’s not the end of the world. I grew up on formula and did fine.

Adam sucks at the bottle. He has a big appetite and rarely throws up his food. His weight and height won’t convince any doctor he’s having digestion issues. He is not his mother’s son in that regard. He gazes at me, the essence of goodness, while he drinks. What I love most about babies: their dependence. They need us in order to survive.

All I’ve ever wanted, as a mother, is to be needed. The first few years of your child’s life, no one is more important to her than you, not even her father. That biological imperative demands to be satisfied, over and over and over. And then your child turns ten or twelve or eighteen, and suddenly you’re no longer critical. How are we supposed to cope? We mothers give up everything for our children, until they decide they don’t want our everything anymore.

Isn’t it just like a daughter to blame all her shortcomings on her mother? Whether it’s limp hair or a penchant for lying, every character flaw is our fault, not theirs. Naturally, all our daughters’ best traits have nothing to do with us. What other traps does she have waiting for me behind closed doors? She has this wretched house rigged for my demise.

I put Adam in his bassinet, leaving him in his snowsuit. It couldn’t hurt to get his body temperature up, for his cheeks to look a little redder than normal. The baby begins to whimper. Maybe he needs a diaper change.