Darling Rose Gold(91)

Do you know how hard it is to fake being a new mother? The pregnancy suit—you can buy anything on Amazon these days—was a cakewalk by comparison. I had to keep an enormous supply of formula locked up in my room; I even poured it through a breast pump three times a day so the pump would look used. I didn’t start adding the ipecac until the very end. Other than that small deviation, I was a model mother. Luke got off easy, compared to me.

I miss that little nugget so much. He was my best friend, the one person in my life who never left me. In some ways, I knew how my mother felt. Giving him up was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

I knew I would only be forgiven for my role in the kidnapping if I died for the baby. The police are looking for me, but I doubt they expect to find me alive. If they do, the public will crucify me. They’ll judge me and call me evil. But I needed a child for the abuse to look authentic. A grown woman being poisoned by her mother is a fool. But a helpless infant? Nothing enrages the masses—or juries—like hurt children. I would know. Good luck worming your way out of this one, Mommy.



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? ? ?

I drive for a couple hours, marveling at how green this place is, even from the highway. The mountains are a constant presence, always looming large in some direction. They are infinitely prettier than cornfields. I turn on the radio. Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams” is playing. My mother loves this song.

I wonder where she is right now. I turn off the radio.

Eventually I notice I’m low on gas and get off the highway. I need a pick-me-up. While stopped at a light, I grab my burner phone and rewatch the clip of Mary Stone talking to the press. I fast-forward to the forty-second mark and press play. There she is, standing at a podium, shouting into a bouquet of microphones with tears streaming down her face. Her flair for drama makes her the perfect unwitting accomplice.

“I heard Patty Watts say, with my own two ears,” Mary cries, “that she poisoned and starved Rose Gold.”

I press pause and sit back in my seat. I watch this video at least a dozen times a day. The light turns green. I step on the gas.

You brought this on yourself.

All my mother had to do was take responsibility for ruining my life, to tell the truth for once in her miserable existence. She blew her chance. And underestimated me every step of the way. Mom thought I couldn’t—wouldn’t dare—put one over on her. She refused to let go of the image of the little Rose Gold she’d raised: weak, spineless, and dependent on Mommy. She assumed her dolt of a daughter was no match for a brain like her. Don’t make me laugh.

Oh, she’s trying to make up for it now—telling every reporter who will listen that she’s been framed, that I set her up and am in hiding somewhere.

But nobody wants to hear the truth from a liar.



* * *



? ? ?

I pull into a run-down gas station and park my car next to a pump. When the tank is full, I head inside and pay the clerk in cash. Then I walk to the back of the store and lock myself in the bathroom. I take off my wig and wet my face in the sink, trying not to get any water in my mouth.

When my face stops dripping, I splash some water on my armpits. I turn my clothes inside out so no one can see any stains, and stand there for a minute, fanning myself.

My eyes drift to the mirror and settle on my hair, finally long like I’ve always dreamed of, the ends resting on my chest. I toss it over my shoulder and realize whom I look like. A few years ago, I wanted nothing more than to be her carbon copy—to become Alex Stone. But I don’t want to be that person anymore. I’m not a woman who loses her shit over some missing hair. I’m much, much stronger than Alex.

I leave the gas station and park at a small general store. It only takes a few minutes to find what I need.

With my new purchase in hand, I head back to the gas station bathroom. If the attendant recognizes me or is surprised to see me again, he doesn’t show it. With the door locked, I pull the clippers from the bag and set to work.

Long strands of dark blond hair fall to the floor.

I work my way around my head. The buzz of the clippers brings me back to the small bathroom in the town house. I’m six years old again, sitting cross-legged in a tutu on the counter while Mom shaves my head, reminding me my hair will fall out in clumps if we don’t keep it short. She promises me I’ll look better this way.

For the first time, I’ve made the decision.

I shave and shave and shave until it’s gone—all of it. My feet have disappeared under my hair. Bye-bye, Alex.

Running my hands over my downy head, I grin. My face is filling out now that I’m eating again. My eyes are less sunken. Two rows of rotten teeth gleam back at me from the mirror. I haven’t tried to cover them in months. I can’t remember now why they bothered me in the first place. They’re not so bad. They may look brittle, but they’re sturdy enough to feed me, to keep my secrets, to contain my rage.

Most people don’t like holding on to anger. They feel it crushing and consuming them, so they let it go. They try to forget the ways they’ve been wronged.

But some of us cannot forget and will never forgive. We keep our axes sharp, ready to grind. We hold pleas for mercy between our teeth like jawbreakers.

They say a grudge is a heavy thing to carry.

Good thing we’re extra strong.