Darling Rose Gold(73)

I call Gadget World, but no one answers the phone there. I’ll call again in the morning, if she hasn’t come home by then. It’ll be good to have a record of texts and calls, proof I was worried about and searching for my daughter. In case she doesn’t turn up.

    Me: I’m worried about you, honey. Please text me back



Of course she doesn’t.

I pace from the living room to the kitchen to the hallway to the living room. Around and around in circles I go, my phone clutched in my hand. This is what a Concerned Mother would do, wouldn’t she? That is the role I need to play.

In the hallway I pull strings off the grass cloth wallpaper, like I used to when I was young and eavesdropping on my parents’ arguments. I ball the string up into a little pile between my thumb and forefinger. These rooms are haunted with the spirits of all of them—Mom, Dad, David, and now Rose Gold.

I call my daughter’s cell phone another dozen times, leaving stressed voice mails, even stubbing my toe so I cry in the last one. At eleven, I give up and get ready for bed. I wash my face and brush my teeth.

I’ll deal with my missing darling in the morning.



* * *



? ? ?

I barely slept at all last night, between Adam’s nighttime feedings and my anxiety about Rose Gold. At six, I get out of bed.

She’s not coming home.

I check my phone, although I’d turned the ringer volume all the way up, in case she called in the middle of the night. No e-mails. No texts. No missed calls.

I feed Adam a bottle and weigh my options. A Concerned Mother would call the police, but they’re going to ask too many questions. Besides, Concerned Mother doesn’t know for sure Rose Gold is in any danger. For all I know, my daughter got fed up with Adam and me and decided to leave.

I like that explanation. If anyone tracks us down, I can say I left because Rose Gold left first. No one was keeping Adam and me in Deadwick. We wanted a fresh start.

As I burp Adam, I think about checking the news for information, but decide against it. It’s been five years and two months since I tuned in, and I’m not about to start now. Besides, the authorities would reach out to me before the reporters got wind of any “scoop.” They never get the story right anyway. I think back to an op-ed that ran in the Deadwick Daily right before my trial started: HOW THE PATTY WATTSES OF THE WORLD ENDANGER ALL OUR CHILDREN. Ridiculous. I put my grandson in his bassinet and promise I’ll be quick.

I call Rose Gold, shower, then call her again. I cross the hallway to my bedroom to get dressed and pause at Rose Gold’s door. What has she been hiding from me these past six weeks? Maybe Concerned Mother will find clues to her daughter’s whereabouts.

After dressing and checking on Adam, who’s fallen asleep, I return to the master bedroom. I try the door handle for the millionth time—still locked, of course. With a bobby pin from the bathroom, I try again to break the lock. Again the bobby pin snaps in half.

I walk outside and around the house to the exterior of Rose Gold’s bedroom. All the curtains are drawn, covering the windows, per usual. It doesn’t make sense to break a window when I can break down a door. Besides, my snooping neighbors can’t see what I’m doing if I’m inside. I head back into the house, picking up my pace.

I consider googling “how to break into a room,” but decide there’s no time. A Concerned Mother wouldn’t be so logical as to research steps for finding her missing daughter. She’d go ahead and break down the godforsaken door.

I approach the door again. First I try shoving my shoulder into it. It doesn’t budge, but I’m confident I’ve bruised my arm. I ram the door again and again, switching sides when my right shoulder begins to hurt. After five minutes, the door is starting to give but still hasn’t broken open.

Marching to my bedroom, I pull on a heavy pair of boots, lacing them tight. I return to the bedroom door, sigh, and start kicking it. On the fourth kick, the wood begins to splinter. On the sixth, a long crack forms. On the eighth, the door gives way altogether. It bangs back against the wall. I’ve done it.

I peer inside, almost afraid. The bedroom looks the same as the day I got out of prison, when Rose Gold gave me a tour of the house. The bed is made. The crib is in order. The windows are closed.

I drag my fingers along the dresser. I open all eight drawers: no clothes are missing. I search her jewelry box: all the cheap earrings and bracelets are in place. I move on to the closet, opening the sliding-mirror door. A cursory glance tells me nothing is missing from there either—the closet is as jam-packed with junk as before.

At her desk in the corner, I dig through the three drawers to the right of the chair. They are crammed with creased papers and old journals. I check the dates of the journals, but there’s nothing here from the past few months or even the last five years. I put the journals back in the drawers. I used to read them before I went to prison, so I already know what their pages contain.

Her computer is dead. I plug the charging cord into the laptop, then press the power button. The machine whirs to life. Concerned Mother taps her foot.

Instead of wasting time waiting, I tear the comforter, then the flat sheet, then the fitted sheet from the bed. All I find is the blankie I sewed for Rose Gold when she was a baby. I’m surprised she still sleeps with it. I toss the shredded blanket aside.

Grunting, I heave the mattress off the box spring, sure I’ll find something between them. Nothing. I get down on my stomach with a flashlight and check under the bed. There’s a stack of dusty Cosmopolitan and National Geographic magazines, the same publications Alex used to read. While I flip through each magazine’s pages, I imagine Rose Gold sitting here, alone and friendless, trying to copy the life of her cool older friend, Alex—buying the same groceries, using the same makeup, reading the same magazines. Pathetic.