I approach the door again. First I try shoving my shoulder into it. It doesn’t budge, but I’m confident I’ve bruised my arm. I ram the door again and again, switching sides when my right shoulder begins to hurt. After five minutes, the door is starting to give but still hasn’t broken open.
Marching to my bedroom, I pull on a heavy pair of boots, lacing them tight. I return to the bedroom door, sigh, and start kicking it. On the fourth kick, the wood begins to splinter. On the sixth, a long crack forms. On the eighth, the door gives way altogether. It bangs back against the wall. I’ve done it.
I peer inside, almost afraid. The bedroom looks the same as the day I got out of prison, when Rose Gold gave me a tour of the house. The bed is made. The crib is in order. The windows are closed.
I drag my fingers along the dresser. I open all eight drawers: no clothes are missing. I search her jewelry box: all the cheap earrings and bracelets are in place. I move on to the closet, opening the sliding-mirror door. A cursory glance tells me nothing is missing from there either—the closet is as jam-packed with junk as before.
At her desk in the corner, I dig through the three drawers to the right of the chair. They are crammed with creased papers and old journals. I check the dates of the journals, but there’s nothing here from the past few months or even the last five years. I put the journals back in the drawers. I used to read them before I went to prison, so I already know what their pages contain.
Her computer is dead. I plug the charging cord into the laptop, then press the power button. The machine whirs to life. Concerned Mother taps her foot.
Instead of wasting time waiting, I tear the comforter, then the flat sheet, then the fitted sheet from the bed. All I find is the blankie I sewed for Rose Gold when she was a baby. I’m surprised she still sleeps with it. I toss the shredded blanket aside.
Grunting, I heave the mattress off the box spring, sure I’ll find something between them. Nothing. I get down on my stomach with a flashlight and check under the bed. There’s a stack of dusty Cosmopolitan and National Geographic magazines, the same publications Alex used to read. While I flip through each magazine’s pages, I imagine Rose Gold sitting here, alone and friendless, trying to copy the life of her cool older friend, Alex—buying the same groceries, using the same makeup, reading the same magazines. Pathetic.
Nothing falls out of any of them. Nothing odd is written on any of their pages. I turn back to the laptop. It’s password-protected.
I try different combinations of Rose Gold’s and Adam’s names, their birthdays, even my own name, though I know the last one is unlikely. After the sixth failed attempt, the computer locks me out. I pound my fist on the desk. Concerned Mother is past desperate by this point. I wipe my forehead. My hand comes away damp.
Sitting in my daughter’s desk chair, I peer around her bedroom— a mess now, thanks to me, but nothing unusual or suspicious. No secrets to uncover.
Why has this door been locked all these weeks?
I check my watch—nine a.m. Gadget World should be open now.
I redial the number from last night and wait. The phone rings. On the third ring, someone picks up.
“Gadget World, Zach speaking. How can I help you?” says a chipper young voice.
“Hi, Zach. Is Rose Gold there?” I ask.
“She’s not, but we just opened, so she could be running a few minutes late.” Zach sounds like he doesn’t have a care in the world, the little prick.
I debate how best to word my next question without sounding any alarm bells.
“Did she come in yesterday?” I say as breezily as possible.
“I’m not sure. I didn’t work yesterday. Hang on. I’ll transfer you to my manager’s office.”
Zach puts me on hold. The phone rings twice.
A miserable voice fakes enthusiasm. “Scott Coolidge, Gadget World manager, speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m calling about Rose Gold Watts,” I say.
“What about her?” Scott says after a beat.
I hesitate. “This is her mother, Patty.”
Scott doesn’t say anything.
“I was wondering if she came into work yesterday?” I close my eyes, trying to sound natural.
“No, she didn’t,” Scott says, annoyed. Bingo.
I make a clucking noise that could mean anything.
“Didn’t even bother to call and tell me,” Scott grumbled. “I called her phone three times. No answer.”
“I’m sure she’s sorry about that, Scott,” I say. “I’m having trouble getting ahold of her too.”
“So she’s not coming in today either?” Scott says, not at all concerned about Rose Gold’s well-being. “Listen, she knows I run a tight ship around here. You give one of them some slack, and the rest think you’re a pushover. That’s strike one for her.”
“That seems fair. I know she respects your authority,” I say, trying to wrap up the call. “I’ll tell her to contact you as soon as I hear from her. Bye now.”
I end the call before Scott can give me another lecture on responsibility, and dial Rose Gold’s number again. Appearances are everything. She doesn’t pick up. I put my phone on the desk.
A loud wail breaks my focus. Adam. I forgot he’s been in the other room all this time. Oh, well, he can cry it out. Self-soothing is an important lesson to learn early—some of us do it our entire lives.
Hands on my hips, I wander around the room, trying to concentrate, to figure out what I’ve missed. After a minute, Adam’s wails escalate into shrieks, stopping me short. Those are more than the cries of a hungry or tired baby or one who just wants to be held. I’ve heard it enough times. I’d recognize the sound anywhere.
I rush toward the bassinet. Adam is on his stomach, flailing his arms and legs.
Beneath his head is a puddle of green vomit. He stares up at me with a tear-streaked face.
Just like Rose Gold used to.
22
Rose Gold
November 2016
My mother leaned in and lowered her tone, though the nearest inmate was clear across the visitors center and sobbing to an elderly woman.
“I have a new cellmate,” Mom said. I was trying to stay positive, but I didn’t like the way her eyes lit up when she said it. Before I could respond, she continued. “Her name is Alicia. She can’t be more than twenty. Guess why she’s in.”
“Why?” I asked. My first trip to the visitors center was two weeks ago. We’d gotten off to an okay start, but I wanted more from this second visit. I needed her to explain why she did what she did, to take responsibility for the ways she’d hurt me. In a year she’d be getting out of prison.