“Oh, yeah? What kind of things?” I ask, indifferent. I’m sure this twerp is the last person my daughter would confide in.
“Well, that you’re controlling.” He watches for my reaction.
I yawn. Not exactly a secret Patty Watts craves control.
Arnie keeps at me. “And she can’t eat any of your food.”
Now he has my attention. Has Rose Gold told him about her supposed eating disorder? I have to tread lightly here. If I act too interested, he’ll clam up.
“And why is that?” I say, examining my nail beds.
Arnie is silent for so long, I’m forced to look away from my cuticles and study his face. Some internal struggle is taking place. He mumbles something I can’t make out.
“Speak up, Tiny Tim,” I snap.
A little louder, he mutters, “She said you’re trying to poison her.”
So I was right—she is trying to make everyone think I’m guilty. But why? Is this a ploy for sympathy from our neighbors, or is she after something more serious? Does she really believe I want to hurt her?
I stare at this punk, unsure what my response should be. He could be lying. Maybe the whole town is baiting me, trying once again to get me to confess to a crime I didn’t commit. For all I know, he could be recording this conversation. When you’re not sure if you’re on firm ground, it’s best to move softly.
I smile. “I see why she likes you—same weird sense of humor. I don’t find jokes about poison funny, but to each their own, I guess.”
Arnie says nothing, just watches me. I give him a casual wave and make my best attempt at a mosey toward the DVD aisle.
I pretend to browse the selection. Clumps of staff members congregate nearby. Arnie has sounded the alarm, and now a dozen or so hoodlums want their turn to ogle me. Two older employees, disheveled and breathtakingly hideous, whisper to each other and jerk their heads in my direction. A teenage girl takes out her phone and starts filming me. A goateed man grimaces as he twists an extension power cord in his hands. The employees inch closer, none of them smiling. I hate their bold stares, their entitlement.
“Mom?”
I swivel on my heel and spot Rose Gold at the end of the aisle. I have never been so relieved to see her ugly mug. The surprise is plain on her face. She looks so young, so innocent, standing there. Maybe she really is sick, and I’m the only one who can see it.
I stride toward her and hold up her lunch bag. “You forgot this,” I say, conscious of her coworkers watching us. I hand it to her.
“You didn’t have to bring that,” she says, taking Adam from me, brushing his wispy hair with her fingertips. “I would’ve bought my lunch.”
Then she too becomes aware of the number of people hanging on our conversation. I watch my daughter transform. Her eyes move from my face to the floor. She hunches over, shoulders inching toward neck, like a turtle retreating into its shell. When she speaks again, her voice is a whisper.
“Thank you,” she says.
I lift a hand to tuck a messy strand of hair behind her ear, determined to demonstrate my maternal instinct to these people. Rose Gold flinches when my hand gets near her face. If I were a stranger watching this interaction, I would think she’s afraid of me.
Arnie’s claim runs through my mind again. Maybe he’s telling the truth.
I smile at my daughter, let my hand fall to her shoulder, and give it a soft squeeze. “I’ll see you at home,” I murmur.
Rose Gold nods, still staring at the floor. I take Adam from her and stride out of the store. Adam clutches one of my fingers the whole way. I speak silly gibberish to him. He grins when I talk; he recognizes my voice now.
In the car, I run through the possible scenarios in my head. Arnie could be lying, though it’s unlikely. Or he could be telling the truth: Rose Gold is sullying my name to him, Mary, and anyone else who will listen. But why? Does Rose Gold have an eating disorder, or is she trying to fool everyone into thinking she does? If the latter, why lie about it? Maybe she got used to being the center of attention while I was gone. Maybe she likes playing the victim. Maybe she found the small brown bottle with the white cap in my purse and is paranoid. I reach into my bag, through a small tear in the lining, and root around until my fingers find it. I stroke the cool glass. My chest tightens. I start the car.
Maybe this is nothing more than a power play. It could be her way of getting back at me after I made that jab about her bond with Adam. I knocked her down a peg, so perhaps she’s knocking me down one to even the score. Silly girl. A rookie doesn’t challenge a master. This is not a game she can win.
I’m reminded of the summer when she was ten years old. We were bored out of our gourds on one of those boiling, muggy days when you had to sit so one fold of skin didn’t overlap any others, or they’d suction-cup together, then rip apart when you shifted. Without air-conditioning in the town house, we were miserable. We took turns sticking our faces in front of the floor fan, making E.T. sounds into the blades.
Weekend activities required imagination. Options were limited with little money or mobility because of Rose Gold’s chronic fatigue. She was the one who suggested the lemonade stand.
She’d seen other kids’ stands over the years. The concept delighted her: kids running a legitimate business, handling money, talking to customers. It all sounded very grown-up to her.
We had a few pieces of scrap cardboard lying around, so I figured, what the heck? And I let her go to town. She lettered the cardboard first with pencil, then colored in the business name with scented markers: Rose Gold’s Lemonade Stand. (She must have inherited her father’s creativity.) When she finished the sign, we made lemonade: a packet of Kool-Aid mixed with water. We didn’t have the means for fresh squeezed lemonade or whatever exotic berries kids are putting in their juice these days. Our neighbors wouldn’t know the difference anyway.
After stacking the supplies in the backseat of the van, my daughter and I got in the car, excited for an adventure to break up the monotony of her illness. We set up the table and chairs in an empty strip mall parking lot, affixed the cardboard sign to the front of the table, and unloaded the lemonade and cups. A quarter was Rose Gold’s asking price.
She was ecstatic at first, calling out singsong but questionable rhymes, like: “It’s a hot day, so get your lemonade” and “Twenty-five cents makes a lot of sense.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her the latter made no sense. Without a customer in sight, it didn’t take long for her enthusiasm to waver. After an hour with zero takers, she was using the cardboard sign to fan herself, head lolling on the back of her chair.
“Where is everyone?” she whined. “Four people have walked by. We’ve been here for hours.”
Rather than deliver dual-pointed lectures on whining and patience—my natural instinct—I went around to the other side of the table.