Sean takes a sip from a travel coffee mug. “I think the whole town would like to forget you were ever a part of it.”
His drink could use more than a few drops from the small brown bottle with the white cap in my purse.
“Tom, be reasonable,” I say under my breath.
Tom takes a step toward me. “Reasonable?” he chokes. “This coming from the woman who starved her little girl?” He raises his eyebrows at Sean. Tom is putting on a show, but I recognize the pain in his voice. I know how upset he is. If it were just the two of us, I’d give him a bear hug, like I did the day he failed his first certification exam. I was the one who convinced him to try again. If I hugged him right now, in front of Sean Walsh and the rest of the customers, he might slap me.
“Don’t talk to us about reasonable,” Sean says, taking another step forward. He’s close enough to reach out and touch. “The reasonable thing for you to do right now is walk out of this store before I remove you myself.”
Someone, a few feet away, starts to clap. Heat rushes to my cheeks. “But—” I gesture to my cart full of food.
“My brother doesn’t need your business,” Sean says, pointing to the door. Bill Walsh owns the grocery store. “Buy your food elsewhere.”
Tom and Sean form a semicircle around me. The only way out is toward the store exit. Outside, the bare branches lean forward with the wind, reaching for me.
I imagine a tree for every citizen of Deadwick. The long arms of timber lift the people up higher, higher, higher still. Then, when every Tom and Sean and even the little Timmys are fifty feet in the air, the trees release their catches, all at once, in harmony. I am their conductor. The bodies crash to the ground, the opposite of rose petals. They land on the tops of their heads and the backs of their necks and the flats on their spines. Their bodies are my carpet, painted red. I wipe my shoes on their faces.
I stand my ground for a second, chin out, fists clenched. I try to meet Tom’s eyes, to plead for mercy, but he won’t look at me anymore. His facial expression suggests he just stepped in a pile of dog doo.
They’ve left me no choice. I shuffle toward the door, head down, leaving my full shopping cart where it is. I think of the empty fridge at home, of Tom Behan’s misty eyes.
I walk out the door.
Behind me, the crowd erupts in applause.
10
Rose Gold
November 2014
I had been on the road for four hours, driving east along I-74 and then north on I-69. Today was the big day: I was going to meet Dad’s family and stay the night in Indiana. Over the past four months, he and I had texted a lot and talked on the phone several times. All I had to do was listen during these conversations; Dad was chatty enough for both of us. I pointed this out once, and he conceded that with age, he’d started to talk to strangers everywhere, whether he was in a checkout line or stopped at a tollbooth.
I’d friended him, Kim, and the two older kids on social media. I had hoped the family would grow to love me before they’d even met me in person. Dad and Kim weren’t as active online, but the kids were, especially thirteen-year-old Sophie. I liked every single status update she posted; there were a lot, and they were random.
My second toes are longer than my firsts. As a kid, someone told me that means I’m a genius. Even then, I knew it just meant I have hideous feet.
I’m calling it now: I suspect cancer will be my eventual demise. All four of my grandparents died from breast, throat, skin, and/or prostate cancers. The only mystery is which of these I will succumb to, the last being unlikely.
I suspected people would call Sophie a “character.”
Last summer was a long one, but now, in November, the weather was cooling down. My mother had been in prison for two years. The closer I got to Dad, the angrier I got at her. He was such a loving, kind man, and she’d kept him from me. All this time I’d thought she cared most about me. Even when I testified against her, I wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing—I only went through with it because Mrs. Stone and the police said I should. I’d doubted myself the whole way through. But the reporters were right: she was a monster; she was poisonous. My mother was a selfish woman. She loved herself more than anyone else.
Since Dad had walked into Gadget World last August, I’d been erasing all traces of Mom from my life. I’d looked into changing my last name, although “Rose Gold Gillespie” felt like a mouthful. I’d distanced myself from Mrs. Stone, because she reminded me of memories tied to Mom. I’d stopped using Mom’s stupid sayings—no more “Christmas eyes” or “puppy jumps.” No more wondering what she would do every time I needed to make a decision. I was done being her doormat, done with her altogether. I had a new family now. I hoped they would leave me in one piece.
I’d gotten so caught up in the reunion with my dad that I had to put the visit to Phil on hold. The five-hour drive to Fairfield was more important than the trip to Colorado. I could—and would—do both, but for now, Phil would have to wait. When I told him about my dad, he’d been supportive and sweet. Phil understood I loved him but wouldn’t be as available as usual. I had to make up for lost time with my dad.
The last hour of the drive flew by, and I found myself in a tidy suburb faster than expected. This town was a polished version of Deadwick—the houses were bigger, the grass was greener, and even the dogs looked happier. I pulled into the driveway of 305 Sherman Street. How fitting my TV dad had a TV house: a two-story brick structure that was sturdy and well-kept but not flashy. Outward appearances suggested the Gillespie family was comfortable, not rich. I couldn’t wait to get inside.
I pulled my brown paper bag of sleepover stuff out of the backseat of the van and walked up the driveway. Dad opened the front door.
“Welcome!” he said.
I hugged Dad and held onto him tight, relieved he still smelled like woodsy aftershave and McDonald’s.
“Come in, come in,” Dad said, ushering me inside. Waiting in the hallway was a woman I’d guess was in her late thirties, but the fake tan made her look older. I opened my arms to give Kim a hug, but she extended a hand full of acrylic nails instead. She had a French manicure, chipped on one nail. She was different than I’d expected.
“Kim,” she said, watching me. “Nice to meet you.”
I took her hand and smiled, mouth closed. “Nice to meet you too.” I’d try again for a hug before I left tomorrow.
“Let me give you the grand tour,” Dad said with a wink. He set my paper bag to the side of the foyer.
We walked through the living room first. Two shabby beige couches and a TV took up most of the space. A bin of thick blankets sat next to one of the couches. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with framed black-and-white family photos—trips to Six Flags, first communions, birthday parties, the kids running through sprinklers, the kids waiting in line for the ice cream truck, the kids holding up their first lost teeth. Look at us, they shouted. See all the places we’ve been, the things we’ve done, how adorable we are. My chest tightened as I saw all I’d missed.