“Just put your leg out if the ball is going to go by you. You can stop it with your foot or your shins,” he said in thinly veiled impatience.
Willow nodded, then continued to look up at her dad. Legs still staked into the floor.
“Okay, go and get the ball now,” Rex instructed.
Willow could see that he was struggling to stay calm.
Willow walked toward the ball, already worried what it was going to look like when she had to kick it back. She imagined herself doing it. She imagined herself doing it gracefully. She imagined herself kicking the ball a few yards ahead and racing her father toward it. She imagined him picking her up and tickling her and playing keep-away until he eventually let her take the ball from him. He would playfully knock her over onto the floor, and then she would pick the ball up and toss it away from both of them. And when she did, Willow and her father would be on the floor, out of breath and happy. She could see it so clearly. She wanted it to happen as it did in her mind’s eye and right there on the floor. She wanted it to happen so badly.
But the reality was that Willow could barely get control of her gangly legs enough to walk competently. Kicking the ball forcefully and accurately enough to cause it to make a full revolution was a physical impossibility. She tried her hardest anyway. But when she lifted her right leg to kick the ball back toward her dad, her left leg collapsed immediately. It left the soccer ball right where it started and Willow toppled over next to it.
Couldn’t they just dance and sing to a movie? Or play word searches? Do something that didn’t involve so much body? So much coordination?
“It’s okay. Try again, Willow,” Rex forced out through clenched teeth.
And Willow did try again. And this time she even made contact with the ball. But it just wobbled a little bit, and then came back to stillness in the same spot it started out in.
Rex huffed over toward Willow and demonstrated a proper kick. He waved his leg back and forth like it was so easy. Like everyone could do it.
But everyone couldn’t do it. Willow couldn’t do it. His daughter couldn’t do it. And maybe she was the only person in the whole universe who couldn’t do it. But Willow was Rex’s only daughter in the whole universe. Didn’t that earn her a few moments of extra instruction? A little warmth? A little patience? A little love?
After no more than two minutes of Rex swaying his legs and Willow looking confused, Rex had his hands over his eyes in frustration and Willow had her hands on her thighs in disappointment.
So Willow and Rex silently agreed to go upstairs.
It wasn’t working. This father-daughter soccer pass in the basement.
This father-daughter anything anywhere.
21
Eight Years Ago
That ache that had crept up within Rex in the hospital never left Rex’s bones throughout the first years of Willow’s life. And he saw it happening every time Rosie held their daughter. Willow plainly and simply loved her mother more. He saw it every time Rosie swayed Willow back and forth in her arms. Every time Rosie effortlessly ran her fingers through Willow’s tight curls. The same curls that snagged Rex’s fingers every time.
Still, Rex relentlessly made time with his daughter. Adamantly made time for loving his daughter in all the ways Rex Thorpe knew how. With puzzles and books and instructions for tying shoes. With obstacle courses and scavenger hunts and guided science experiments. With reading exercise after reading exercise. He showed her little words on the thick pages of early-reader books. He slowly enunciated every letter or every word as he guided his finger along the page. He picked up objects from around the house and asked his daughter what letter they started with. He sang the alphabet with her and asked her to repeat it. And sometimes she would.
But other times she would just stare up at her father with big, blank, brown eyes. And when Rex would draw a big letter A on a mini blackboard and ask his daughter what letter it was, sometimes Willow would tell him correctly. And sometimes she would tell him incorrectly. And sometimes she would divert her attention to the chalk in his hand and scribble all over his big letter A without saying a word. And sometimes Rex would write a big W and X and Y, and she would tell him correctly. And sometimes she would tell him incorrectly. And sometimes she would divert her attention. And sometimes she wiped her tiny hand across all of the letters, and then rubbed her freshly chalked hands on her father’s shirt.
And although Rex would smile at Willow’s clear eyes and smooth chin, his heart would also break at her disinterest. Her inconsistent attention. Because Rex wanted to be a father that taught his daughter things. And he wanted to have a daughter who learned things from her father. He wanted to have a daughter as engaged in knowing as he was. He wanted to impart that to her. He wanted it to fortify her bones. But Willow and Rex were already speaking different languages. Because for Willow and Rex alike, it often, and inadvertently, went in one ear and out the other.
And one afternoon, at the end of another failed alphabet lesson, when Willow’s hands and Rex’s shirt were completely covered in chalk, Rosie walked into Willow’s room with a book of word searches. Rosie had picked it up earlier that day in the bookstore while Rex had been perusing the parenting section. As soon as her mother walked in, Willow teetered her way toward her and stumbled into her lap. Rosie and Willow both looked so comfortable, so whole, sitting there intertwined. As comfortable and whole as they always did together.
“I’m looking for the word heart,” Rosie said to her daughter softly, enunciating each letter.
“It starts with an H. Can you help me find an H on this page?”
And without hesitation, Willow pointed to the letter H among the whole big grid of letters on the page. And Rosie wasn’t excited or surprised by Willow’s response. She was just present. Content. And totally in sync with her tiny beautiful daughter who looked more and more like her every day. Rosie kissed her daughter on the cheek. It was a kiss filled with warmth and love and mutual understanding.
Rex wanted to cry. At the beauty of mother and daughter in perfect coexistence.
And at the tragedy of his incipient exclusion from it.
22
Rosie roared around the corner of Robert Kansas Elementary School with her left jean leg peeking out the window and her red lips bright as ever. Willow could hear the familiar sounds of Elton John’s “Levon” blasting through the window. As soon as Asher and Willow got into the back seat of the car, Rosie put on a pair of comically large pink iridescent sunglasses and rested them precariously on her nose so you could still see her eyes.
“Pizza’s at home,” Rosie explained, anticipating Willow’s and Asher’s hunger. “But tonight, we are eating with Elton... I hope you’re ready.”
Willow could see that Rosie was ready. She was wearing her favorite Elton John T-shirt. It had a huge saturated but now a bit faded image of Elton belting from behind a piano, eyes squeezed with passion. Willow could imagine her mother with a similarly scrunched face, lip-synching into a banana microphone while dancing on the couch.
Willow smiled, and then boogied along to the tune of “Levon” as the wind whipped through her hair. She looked at Asher, who was doing the same head bob to the beat.
Yes, Rosie, Willow and Asher were all ready to eat with Elton.
As soon as Lili Von came to a stop in the driveway, Rosie dashed into the house while Willow and Asher collected their backpacks, and then made their way through the front door. Rosie had her hip resting against the wall and a silver sequin vest dangling on her left pointer finger and a big necklace with a glittered dollar sign hanging from her right. She immediately wrapped Willow in the vest and placed the necklace over Asher’s head. Rosie wiggled her hand and wrist up into the air and turned her nose toward the ceiling like she was onstage in front of thousands as the music started to pulse in the air.
“There are more clothes upstairs
in the dress-up drawer in the closet. Go add to your outfits, and then we’ll dance!”
Willow and Asher looked at each other with wide eyes and openmouthed smiles, bursting with excitement. They turned and ran for their mother’s closet.
A strange pause.
“Don’t go in the top drawer though,” she yelled after them.
They never heard their mother saying words like don’t. And they already knew where the dress-up clothes were. They had done this one hundred times.
“All the fun clothes are in the bottom,” Rosie shouted warmly after they completed their way up the staircase, hopping two steps at a time.
When Willow and Asher reached their mother’s closet, they pulled sequin shirt after sequin shirt out. They held them up against their bodies and posed in the mirror. They opened the bottom drawer and swapped sunglasses and hats and boas. They threw any uninteresting articles of clothing up into the air and let them float onto the ground. And so quickly, Willow was lost in the magic of the evening.
But then, without her mind telling her to do it, Willow’s fingers wrapped themselves one by one around the translucent knob of the top drawer her mother had asked her not to open.
And while Asher tried to walk in a pair of red patent leather stilettos, Willow slowly pulled on the drawer. But before Willow could get a full look of what was inside, there was a slapping crack that startled everyone. Rosie’s long fingers were wrapped tightly around her daughter’s wrist.
Rosie and Willow looked at each other, both stunned at the strangeness of this interaction. When Rosie and Willow touched, it was always soft and warm. But not this time. This was harsh and scary and unfamiliar. Their eyes stuck there, locked intensely. They could all hear the rolling of bottles and scattering of something as the drawer was forced shut. But before any more tension moved through the moment, Rosie looked side to side, smiled and said, “You’re it!” as if they had been in the middle of a game of tag all along.
Willow giggled and chased after her mother.
But there was a red mark on her wrist from her mother’s tight grip and a seizing uncertainty about those things rattling around in that drawer. But everything quickly turned back into fun.
After an hour jumping up and down on the couch to “Bennie and the Jets” and feeding each other pizza, Rosie sank into her seat quietly.
“I think it’s time for bed, noodles,” Rosie said languidly.
But Willow didn’t want the night to end. And she requested a viewing of Blazing Saddles. It was her mother’s favorite movie. Rosie looked at Willow, and then rocked to her feet to put the movie on. There wasn’t reluctance. But there wasn’t excitement. And watching her mother listlessly turn the television on with limp fingers made Willow’s tummy turn again.
Willow turned her attention back to the movie. She never understood all the jokes, but she always laughed when Mom did. But tonight, Rosie never cued anyone to laugh. They just sat on the couch, quietly scooping ice cream into their mouths.
But Willow remained confident that the couch dancing would ignite when it was time for Lili Von Shtupp to sing “I’m Tired.” It was their favorite part of watching the movie, flopping around like they were actually tired. They would all loosen their legs and arms and slowly tip over onto the pillows, only to get back up and act wobbly all over again. And they would laugh, and laugh, until they ended up in one big pile of fake tired in the middle of the couch. And, for the best part of the scene, Willow, Asher and Rosie would huddle up together and yell along with Lili Von as she said she was “pooped.” It was their favorite part and they couldn’t get through it without giggling and giggling straight from their bellies.
But tonight when the familiar scene of Lili emerging from the red velvet curtain in her black dress came on, and Willow took her position standing on the couch, Rosie looked the real kind of tired with her head leaning on a pillow and her eyes only half-open. But still, Willow and Asher did their flopping. And when Willow whipped her head around to yell out, “I’m pooped,” she expected to be joined by her mother. But Rosie’s eyes were completely shut and her small thin body was limp against the cushions of the couch. Without even letting Lili Von Shtupp finish her song, Willow turned the television off and put a blanket over her mother. She ushered Asher up to bed, then came back down and kissed her mother delicately on the cheek. She didn’t want to wake her.
And then Willow went upstairs to her own bed in her own room. She fell asleep slowly in a pair of pajamas that didn’t match her mother’s.
* * *
Willow’s eyes burst open and her heart stopped at the loud crack of lightning followed immediately by booming thunder. She gripped onto the edges of her sheets and braced herself for another loud sound. She could hear the frozen rain slapping angrily against the roof again. At the second lightning crack, Willow leaped out of bed and dashed downstairs to find her mother, who was still asleep on the couch.
“What is it, noodle?” Rosie asked in a raspy, just-woken voice as she stretched her arms out warmly for her daughter, who was standing nervously by the wall.
Already Willow could tell that her mother, although sleepy, was back to her normal vibrancy. Her normal level of attention to Willow’s needs.
Willow barreled into Rosie’s arms and tucked her head into her mother’s shoulder.
“Ooo, is it the storm?” Rosie asked behind a little bit of a chuckle.
Willow nodded her head but made sure to keep it pressed against her mother’s warm body.
“It’s just a bunch of water, baby! Nothing’s gonna hurt you.”
Rosie peeled her daughter off her chest, held her by her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye.
“I’ve got an idea. I think we can get un-scared of this thunderstorm thing. Yeah?”
“Okay,” said Willow, who was filled simultaneously with fear and trust and excitement.
Rosie lit up.
“Okay, sit tight for just a second. I think I have something that will do the trick.”
Before there was even another loud crack or boom from outside, the room had filled with a familiar song. It was Prince’s “Purple Rain.”
Willow followed her mother upstairs, and then Rosie started digging through the costume drawer in her closet. When Rosie emerged, she was holding a strange-looking pair of sunglasses. The lenses had been popped out of the thick black rims and replaced with purple translucent paper that was taped sloppily around the edges. Rosie bent down next to the bed and slid the glasses gently onto her daughter’s face. And just like that, everything magically turned purple. Rosie picked her daughter up underneath her arms and carried her to the window.
Willow was a little too big and Rosie a little too small for this, but it still felt so right.
They looked out the cold window together. They looked at the still-icy air with thick rain slashing through it.
“Check that out, baby. That’s purple rain,” Rosie said to her daughter in a warm whisper.
And it was. Big purple sparkling drops of water filled the sky. And when the drops met the ground, they turned into large purple sparkling pools of water. And when the lightning cracked and the thunder boomed, they only served to enhance the drama of Willow’s private purple storm.
It was beautiful. It was magic. And Willow was in awe of the purple sky. And of her mother for turning it that color.
Willow felt herself sinking into the scene. She felt herself become mesmerized by it right there in her mother’s arms. Willow’s muscles relaxed. Her heartbeat slowed, and her shoulders fell.
Right there in front of the window, Willow’s mother was her mother again. And Willow felt a wave of energy surge through her as she squeezed her arms against her mother’s chest.
“Okay, noodle. We’re going out.”
And before Willow could understand what her mother was saying, Rosie had already dashed do
wn the hallway with Willow still in her arms, and her daughter’s little body bopping up and down at her hip as she held her purple glasses desperately against her face to keep them from falling.
Rosie pushed the back door open, set Willow down, tossed off her Elton John shirt, stepped out of her loose gray pants and ran out into the cold purple puddles.
Willow watched her mother’s bare bottom wiggle toward the bare trees on the periphery of their backyard. Willow couldn’t remember if she had ever seen her mother so naked before. She watched the way her mother’s hips moved side to side as she ran from one puddle to the next. She watched her breasts bounce freely up and down. She watched her curly hair stick to the sides of her wet cheeks. Willow wanted her body to move like that. She wanted her soul to be free like that. So Willow took off her nightgown and joined her mother in a naked dance in the purple moonlit rain at midnight.
The freezing winter rain kissed Willow’s skin on its way to the ground. It soaked her in happiness.
There Willow was, nose red and fingertips white, drenched in the cold, drenched in her fear, but feeling only happiness. There Willow was in her purple-lensed glasses, un-scared of the storm. And entranced by her mother. Swept up in her love.
Rosie picked up her daughter’s cold slippery body and hugged her closely.
Then as Rosie carried Willow inside, their wet skin slid against one another’s, but they felt all the more connected for it. And when they went upstairs, Rosie ran a warm shower for Willow and told her to meet back in Rosie’s bed to finish Blazing Saddles once Willow had dried off and gotten back into her pajamas.
“Wear the pink ones with the bunnies,” Rosie said through a wink. “I’ll wear mine too.”
Willow loved these nights with Mom. Tucked in her bed. Tangled up. Time extending indefinitely. Warming each other. Loving each other. Wearing the same pajamas.
But when Willow slipped back through her mother’s door after her shower, Rosie was already sound asleep on her bed. Naked with her wet hair still stuck to her cheeks and wet clothes scattered across the floor. She hadn’t even made her way under the covers. Willow nudged her cold bare shoulder back and forth.
Rosie Coloured Glasses Page 10
