Darling Rose Gold(79)

I press on the gas pedal. Perhaps little Adam needs a feeding tube too.





24





Rose Gold


December 2016

I examined the three TV dinners on the folding table in front of me: Salisbury steak, lasagna, and a stuffed green pepper. I decided to start with the lasagna and pulled it closer to me. I couldn’t be bothered to cook for myself anymore—what was the point of making elaborate meals if I was just going to eat them alone in front of the TV? I refilled my cup with more Sutter Home White Zinfandel.

I scarfed down the food and flipped through show after show on Netflix. The new live-action Beauty and the Beast film had just come out—Mom’s favorite Disney movie. I stabbed at the remote, pausing on a documentary about weasels, but they reminded me of her too. I kept scrolling. After I’d been through every option, I turned off the TV and finished my dinners in silence.

For two weeks, a constant cry had run through my head: Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar!

It was like a car alarm with no deactivation button, and I couldn’t turn it off. I’d cracked a plate last night thinking about it.

After clearing away the plastic cartons, I flopped onto the recliner, drumming my fingers on the armrest. I’d already watched The Little Mermaid four times this week. I spotted Planty in the corner. By the time I found a pair of scissors, I realized I’d already trimmed her dead leaves yesterday. I stuck my finger in the soil: already watered.

I wandered the house. Opening the fridge, I stared at the alphabetically organized condiments. This was the way she’d stored them, I remembered. I swiped at the bottles, messing up the neat rows until I had three shelves of chaos. My elbow caught on a jar and sent it flying to the ground, glass breaking and dill pickles flying everywhere.

I squeezed my hands into fists and screamed.

Screaming felt good. I’d been doing a lot of it. Normally I screamed into pillows so my neighbors wouldn’t hear and call the police.

I left the pickles on the floor and stomped to my bedroom. The first thing I spotted was the pillow on my bed. I picked it up and pulled one end as hard as I could, arms shaking from the effort or rage. The satisfying rip of the cotton made me shiver. The stuffing tumbled out, landing in piles at my feet. I was standing on a cloud.

A knock at the front door broke my trance. I blinked, then tossed what was left of the pillow back on my bed and ran to the door.

When was the last time someone besides me had been in this apartment? I’d had an Amazon package delivered six months ago. . . .

I swung open the door. Mrs. Stone stood in the hallway. How had she gotten into the building? I thought about closing my door in her face. Then again, a little human interaction with someone not affiliated with Gadget World would be all right. I might need her down the road.

“Hi, dear,” she said, scanning me up and down, like I might have a bomb strapped to my chest. I wondered what she saw. I hadn’t looked in a mirror today or showered. Why bother on my day off?

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked, pasting a smile on my face.

“You haven’t been over in a while. I thought I’d visit. Can I come in?” Mrs. Stone gestured inside my apartment.

I opened the door wider and let her enter, taking her coat and draping it over a chair. She walked past me, eyes sweeping the living room. I didn’t know what she was searching for. This woman deserved a plaque for annoying people in record time—she couldn’t have been here more than thirty seconds.

“How’s work been?” she asked, moving onto the kitchen. She stopped short at the refrigerator. “What’s this?”

I remembered the pickles on the floor. “I was just cleaning those up,” I said, bending down to pick up the soggy vegetables. “Had a little accident.”

Mrs. Stone brought her hands to her face, a gross overreaction. “Oh, honey, are you all right?”

If I never heard that question again, it would be too soon. I was beginning to think there were worse things than loneliness—like unwanted company.

I tossed the pickles and dragged the trash can over to the fridge. Kneeling on the floor, I picked up the shards of glass.

“Oh, honey, don’t use your bare hands. You’re going to cut yourself. Be careful.”

I closed my eyes, fingering one of the shards, thinking of not very nice things the glass could do to some very important veins in Mrs. Stone’s neck. I picked up piece after piece of glass and tossed them into the trash, ignoring her warning. I glanced at her when I spoke.

“Everything okay, Mrs. Stone?”

She hemmed and hawed a bit. Then: “I heard you’ve been visiting your mother in prison. That you lifted the restraining order.”

Jesus Christ, would it kill her to mind her own fucking business?

I tossed the last big piece of glass in the bin, then began wiping up the pickle juice with a towel. I glanced at Mrs. Stone, but didn’t say anything.

“So it’s true, then?” she asked, playing with a button on her fuchsia cardigan.

I walked to the hallway closet, yanked out the broom and dustpan, then returned to the kitchen. “Yes, it’s true.” I swept the smaller shards of glass into a little pile. Mrs. Stone watched, then hurried to grab the dustpan and held it next to the pile. I swept the debris onto it, and she dumped the remnants into the trash can. Taking the dustpan from her, I returned it and the broom to the hall closet. Mrs. Stone followed me into the living room. I sat in my recliner. She remained standing and kept fidgeting.