Darling Rose Gold(77)

“Oh, good. You know, a vitamin deficiency can lead to hair loss. And you’ve always been so sensitive about your hair—”

“Tell me about your day,” I said, relaxing my jaw. “Anything newsworthy?”

“Oh, not really,” she said. Mrs. Stone was the office administrator at Deadwick Elementary, so I didn’t doubt she was telling the truth. “Actually, you know Karen? Ms. Peabody?” she added. Karen Peabody was my old neighbor and school principal before I started homeschooling.

When I nodded, Mrs. Stone continued. “Her parents are thinking about selling their house on Apple Street. Gerald’s cancer is back. Things don’t look good, bless his heart. Mabel doesn’t think she can manage the house anymore. Such a shame.”

I had no idea why Mrs. Stone thought this story was interesting to the average person. Lucky for me, it was.

“Two-oh-one Apple Street?” I asked, in what I hoped was a neutral tone.

“That’s right,” Mrs. Stone said. She paused a moment. “I think that was your mom’s childhood house, come to think of it.”

I nodded, mind whirling.

She gave me a haughty smile and patted my arm. “You must sleep well at night knowing she’s finally where she belongs.” She had no idea I’d started visiting my mother in prison. As I’d learned recently, there were a lot of other things busybody Mrs. Stone didn’t know about her former best friend.

I said good night and whistled on my way to the produce section. Maybe I’d buy a few mangoes or something, really live it up.

Two weeks ago Mom had told me—zipped-lips Rose Gold, her sweet little confidant—exactly what had gone on at 201 Apple Street. She said she’d never told anyone the horrific details before. Patty Watts had told me her secrets because she trusted me and me alone. Or maybe she didn’t trust me. Maybe she just never thought I’d use her weaknesses against her.

Maybe she had underestimated me.





23





Patty


I pull Adam from his bassinet, cradling him in one arm and feeling his forehead with the back of my hand. He isn’t burning up—no fever. I rock him back and forth a few times, but he keeps on wailing. The stench of vomit reaches my nostrils. I can’t leave it pooled there in his bassinet.

I place my grandson in his crib in Rose Gold’s bedroom.

“Just for a few minutes, sweetheart,” I call over his shrieks.

Running to the kitchen, I grab a roll of paper towels and antibacterial spray. Adam’s cries haven’t subsided, but they’re harder to hear now. I could walk out the side door and pace the yard for a while until he quiets down. Of course I won’t. Overbearing? Maybe. But I have never been neglectful.

I square my shoulders and walk back to my bedroom, cleaning products plus trash bag in hand. I scoop the puke out of the crib and whistle the Mary Poppins song “A Spoonful of Sugar,” struggling to drown out the baby’s cries.

When the bassinet is clean, I return to Rose Gold’s room, lean over the crib, and watch Adam. He’s still crying, but losing steam.

I pick him up. “We’re a team now,” I tell him. “You have to be good for Grandma.”

Adam’s lower lip trembles, breaking my heart a little. His cries sound pitiful.

“What’s wrong, sweet pea? Are you hungry?”

I carry him to the kitchen and pull a bottle from the refrigerator. A couple days ago, she was still here, pumping breast milk and feeding her child. Now she’s left me alone.

When I bring the bottle to Adam’s lips, he sucks hungrily, which means—oh, thank baby Jesus—he stops crying. I slump into a chair and try to feed him the bottle slowly, delighting in every second of quiet. That old maxim is true: children are better seen and not heard.

With the baby calmed down, I can think again. I need to make a plan, figure out where my daughter is.

When the bottle is empty, I return Adam to his clean bassinet in my room. He whimpers a little, but nothing that can be heard through a closed door. I leave the door open a crack when I leave.

I have been searching the living room for clues for no more than four minutes when he starts bawling again. I bite my lip. This is the last thing I need in the middle of a crisis. I head down the hallway to check on him.

He’s vomited again, more this time. I rack my brain for answers: the flu? Reflux? A stomach bug? I sniff his diaper and wince, carrying him to the changing table in Rose Gold’s room. He has diarrhea because of course he does. I put a new diaper on him before he makes a mess in two rooms.

His howling is giving me a headache. I put him in his crib and set to work cleaning the bassinet for the second time this morning. I’ve almost finished scrubbing when I hear the sound of spit up. I run over to the crib to catch him throwing up in there too.

“Panicking won’t solve anything,” I say aloud. The tremor in my voice is unmistakable. My heart is thumping in my chest. I should be used to this—I dealt with a sick child for years and years. But it’s been a while, and I am out of practice.

I clean off Adam’s face, then rush to the bathroom. Yanking open drawers and pulling on cabinet doors, I toss bottle after bottle on the floor next to me. There has to be some Pedialyte here somewhere. Is that even the recommended treatment for vomiting children anymore? I don’t know. I haven’t been a medical professional in a long time. Adam’s cries get louder.