Darling Rose Gold(86)

I examined Sophie’s post: a family photo Kim had posted first. Sophie had reshared it.

All five of them stood in a field wearing matching outfits: white pants and blue shirts. They were laughing and glowing, happy as could be. They gazed at their matriarchal hag in the middle of the group. Kim was holding a blue balloon.

Printed on the balloon was a cartoon stork carrying a baby. Underneath the stork was shouty text: “IT’S A BOY!”

“No,” I said.

My eyes flicked to Kim’s photo caption: “Billy and I are so excited to welcome the newest member of the Gillespie family in September.”

“No,” I said again, taking in the dopey grin on Dad’s face.

I kept reading. “We have wanted a fourth child for years and years. Our prayers have been answered.”

“YOU. HAVE. A. FOURTH. CHILD!” I shrieked. I whipped my phone across the room. It hit the wall and crashed to the floor. I did not care. A violent sob jerked in my chest, stirring the long-dormant grief of all I had lost. But I would not let these people make me cry again. I refused to sit here and bawl until my stomach hurt. Anger was so much easier.

I kicked the legs out from under the tray table. Beans and crackers went flying. I punched my fist into the back of the recliner until a knuckle cracked. I screamed for so long and so loud my ears rang for several seconds after I stopped. I bit down as hard as I could on my fist until the pain of my teeth sinking into flesh made me scream again. When I pulled my hand away, it was bleeding.

I paced the living room, pulling at my hair in agitation. These assholes traipsed around the country acting like they were wholesome and wonderful, but nobody knew the way they tossed aside people they didn’t give a shit about. Nobody knew how awful they were.

I stopped moving for a minute and studied my shaking hands. I was holding several strands of blond hair—when had I ripped it out?

They had—have—a fourth child. They rejected me.

None of them deserved this baby, especially Dad and Kim. They couldn’t be allowed to keep doing whatever they wanted, getting the best of everything in life while the rest of us suffered. Someone had to punish them, to show them the pain they were inflicting on other people. To show them how it felt to have your family taken away against your will.

I sat, stewing long after the sun had set and all my neighbors’ lights had turned off. I could see nothing but my father’s dopey smile in that photo. I vowed not to leave my chair until I’d thought of a way to wipe that grin off his face.

Around two a.m., as I sat on the floor picking crusty beans and crushed crackers off the carpet, I realized that, once again, I’d been thinking too small. I was not a natural strategist, but if you gave me enough time, I could come up with an idea. And now I had a good one.

“A really good one,” I said, turning to Planty. I saw Planty had been hurled at the wall, her pot broken into a million small pieces, dirt scattered across the carpet. I shrugged—I’d clean her up later. Sometimes you accidentally hurt the ones you loved.

Grinning, I scooped a few beans off the floor and held them between my thumb and forefinger before slipping them in my mouth. This once, I’d break my own rule and eat a little extra. We were celebrating, after all.

I was so happy and proud of myself, I could have burst into song. A classic nursery rhyme popped into my head—a perfect choice, very maternal of me. I sang along and picked up more beans.

And down will come baby, cradle and all.





27





Patty


One of the overhead fluorescent lightbulbs flickers on and off, interrupting the quiet with irritating buzzing noises. I stop pacing to give the ceiling a dirty look. I should tell one of the nurses to get a repairman in here.

I check on Adam, who has fallen asleep on the cot. I’ve aged twenty years in a day and a half. With real longing, I think of the twin bed waiting for me on Apple Street. If I wanted to, I could even sleep in the queen bed, now that Rose Gold is gone.

Adam and I have been in this hospital for hours without anyone coming to see us. These four walls have become a holding cell. I usually love the smell of hospitals; there’s something so comforting about their sterile, clean odors—a constant reminder that help is around the corner. Now the smell is making me gag a little, suffocating me.

Maybe I should sneak Adam out of here and treat him myself.

I start to gather the contents of the diaper bag when a knock sounds at the door. I drop the bag and step back, as if it’s a crime to take care of a baby.

I turn toward the door, expecting Dr. Soukup or Janet the nurse. I can handle anyone but Tom.

What I do not expect is two police officers in uniform. I can handle anyone but Tom or the police.

The first officer is tall and thin like an exclamation point. The glint in her eye suggests she’s partial to corporal punishment. She steps into the room, the other officer trailing behind her.

“I’m Sergeant Tomalewicz with the Deadwick Police. Are you Patricia Watts?”

“Patty,” I say. My father called me Patricia. “Is this about Adam?” I ask. “He really is sick.”

“We’ll get to the baby in a minute,” Tomalewicz says. She points to her lackey. He barely looks old enough to drive. “This is Officer Potts.”

Officer Potts waves at me, as if we’re meeting at a beach party. Tomalewicz frowns, then turns back to me.