“Excuse me, miss,” I said. “I’d like to buy a lemonade, please.”
Rose Gold rolled her eyes. She peered around to ensure no one was witnessing this embarrassing scene with her mother.
“Is the lemonade still for sale?” I prompted again.
Rose Gold narrowed her eyes at me. “You have twenty-five cents?”
“Sure,” I said, grabbing my purse from under the table and opening the pouch of coins.
Rose Gold reached for the filled-to-the-brim pitcher, using both hands to fill the red Solo cup, trying to pretend this task wasn’t important to her. I did my best to keep a straight face to maintain the decorum required of the occasion. She handed me the cup. “Here you go.”
I handed her the quarter. “And here you go.”
Lifting the cup to my lips, I took a long drink. “What did you put in here? Pixie dust? Sparkles? What’s your secret ingredient?”
In spite of herself, she laughed. “Mom, you’re blocking the cardboard sign.” She swatted me out of the way.
From whom? I wanted to say, but bit my lip. I sat back in my chair, letting the lemonade’s tartness tickle my taste buds. I offered my cup to Rose Gold. She guzzled the drink. Lemonade was one of the beverages her stomach tolerated. Sometimes.
After another half hour, a total of ten cars had driven past us. Seven sped by, two slowed to read the sign before speeding away, and one dotty senior—that fossil must have been old when the Dead Sea was still sick—pulled up and tried to haggle over the price. He argued the lemonade wasn’t worth more than ten cents. (And it probably wasn’t, back in 1720 when he was born.) My daughter refused to grant him the discount. He left beverage-less. Served him right, cheapo.
Two hours of effort, with one sale to a blood relative, did not a happy girl make.
“Let’s go home,” Rose Gold said. “No one wants my dumb lemonade.”
I suggested we move the stand to Main Street, an area with more foot traffic. Nothing but stale air and leftover fish sticks awaited us at home, and it was not yet noon. I’d run out of ideas to entertain her and was set on milking this one for at least another hour. She shrugged and agreed to the location change, indifferent by now.
I packed the table and chairs into the van. Rose Gold’s eyes lit up.
“Why don’t we get my wheelchair?” she said.
“Why?” I asked. My daughter never volunteered to get in the wheelchair.
She shrugged. “My butt hurts from the metal chair.”
I agreed to her request and headed home, lugging the cumbersome wheelchair into the trunk, then drove to our new stand location, starting the entire setup process again while Rose Gold sat in her chair.
True, the new area had more foot traffic than our previous spot. And it’s much harder for people on foot to ignore a child’s lemonade stand. But I’ve always wondered how many people stopped that afternoon because they saw a little girl in a wheelchair trying her hardest to sell some lemonade. More important, I keep returning to the question of whether Rose Gold was shrewd enough, at ten years old, to understand how to win sympathy. To use her disadvantages to her advantage, shall we say?
She sold two pitchers of lemonade in twenty minutes, for a total of six dollars and forty cents. She bought a Beanie Baby with the money—Nuts the Squirrel, if I remember correctly.
I am not the only manipulator in my family.
* * *
• • •
Later that night, I wake to the sound of glass breaking outside. I swat at the clock face: three thirty-five a.m. Yawning, I sit up in bed and shuffle to the window. I rub my eyes and let my vision come into focus. When it does, I yelp.
Something on our lawn is on fire.
The blaze is closer to the sidewalk than to our front door, but big enough to be a legitimate concern. I run to Rose Gold’s bedroom and try to open the door. Like always, the door is locked.
I knock. “Rose Gold.”
Stepping back, I expect the click of the lock, the door to swing open any second. But nothing happens.
“Rose Gold!” I pound my open palm against the door.
I put my ear to the door and hear Adam start to whimper. No sign or sound of my daughter.
I run back to my bedroom and gawk out the window. The fire has gotten bigger. Panicked, I pound on her door one more time before running down the hallway and outside. A freezing gust bites my bare feet and arms. I reach for the side door to the detached garage. I throw it open and flip on the light, eyes scanning until they find a fire extinguisher in the back corner. Tossing junk out of my way, I scoop up the extinguisher and run back out the door toward the driveway.
The sensor floodlights come on and illuminate the front yard. Now I can see it’s our trash can that’s on fire. On my way to the flames, I notice a big chalk drawing on the driveway’s blacktop. The pink lines cover the entire surface. I step around it, trying to interpret the meaning. Then I see it: a skull and crossbones.
The universal symbol for poison.
The heat on my back reminds me of the flames. I turn and pull the pin from the extinguisher’s handle. Aiming the nozzle at the base of the fire, I squeeze the lever. Liquid shoots out and douses some of the flames. I keep at it, sweeping from side to side for what feels like hours, but couldn’t be more than thirty seconds. When the last flame is gone, I sink to my knees in the grass, staring at the charred can and listening to my shaky breath.
The smell of gasoline lifts me from my stupor. Someone started this fire, I think stupidly. I squint into the darkness toward my neighbors’ houses, searching for the culprits. There’s no sign of life out here except my own. I shiver, my brain registering how cold my body is.
I find a flashlight in the garage and sweep it along the sidewalk and up the trees. I’m too scared to leave our property. Maybe in the morning I’ll do a more thorough search for evidence. For now I want to get back inside, safe behind a locked door.
I hurry into the house, closing the door behind me. I stand there for a few seconds, soaking in the strength of the door at my back, then take another unsteady breath.
At the end of the hallway, I pound on Rose Gold’s bedroom door again. This time, the door opens right away.
Rose Gold stands there, blinking with bed head. “What time is it?” she asks, groggy.
“How did you not wake up?” I cry.
“I took a sleeping pill.” She yawns. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone set our trash can on fire,” I say. My voice sounds hysterical, unfamiliar to me.
Rose Gold raises her eyebrows, starting to wake up. “What are you talking about?”