Rosie Coloured Glasses

by Brianna Wolfson

  Part of Willow wanted to live finding happiness everywhere too. She wanted to live open to all sorts of love. She wanted her heart to fill with all sorts of love. But it didn’t work. She didn’t like Dad’s kind of love. She didn’t like the chore charts and nighttime checklists. She didn’t like his broad shoulders and the intensity between his eyebrows. She liked Mom’s kind of love. She liked the kisses and singing and candy and little surprises on the bus. She couldn’t help it.

  But, even still, when her father ducked under the table, took her brother by the hand and guided him into the backyard for a game of catch, Willow wanted to cry. Or maybe grab a baseball glove herself.

  Everything looked so nice out there on the manicured grass of her father’s backyard. Father and son in baseball caps and jackets throwing a frayed old ball back and forth. Asher’s big leather baseball glove was way too large for his tiny hand. It dwarfed his entire body. And every time the ball would fly out of her father’s hand and into Asher’s glove, Asher’s entire body would teeter back and forth under the sheer force of Rex’s pitch. But as soon as the ball was under control, Asher would fill with pride. He would arch his back and roll up onto his toes as if he had been catching baseballs for years. The forced casualness was endearing even to Willow, who was quietly shaking with jealousy.

  Asher reached into his mitt, pulled the baseball out of its clutches, cocked his arm back and looked up at his father. And Rex repeated the throwing motion again and again and again for Asher. He demonstrated a full-shouldered follow-through and the precise turn of the wrist required for an optimal pitch. He’d flick his wrist up and down to ensure that the end of the throwing motion was reinforced in Asher’s mind. And then Asher mimicked his father’s motion, launching the baseball straight into his father’s hand.

  Rex tucked his glove into his opposite armpit, ball still swaddled in there, and shook his hand around dramatically. Like he was relieving the sting of the fastest fastball ever thrown. She could tell her father was faking it, but Asher swelled with pride all over again.

  Willow could see so clearly what was happening out there on the grass. Rex had told a small lie pretending his hand hurt, but he was giving a gift to Asher with that lie. The gift of a proud father impressed by his son. And Willow could see that the lie was worth it. It was connection. It was love. It meant something. Something important.

  And even though Willow couldn’t hear anything through the window, she could see her father’s lips moving as he imparted something worthwhile and true to his son. It was making it a little hard to breathe. She wanted something too. She wanted love. She wanted it so bad. She needed to breathe it in. It was her oxygen. She was suffocating without it and there her father was providing a bounty of it to her brother.

  But Willow and Rex were separated by a glass window and so much more. So Willow just sat there, aching for love and trying to catch her breath.

  The sensation was brand-new.

  Because this time, that ache for love was directed at her father. All throughout Willow’s life, her mother had loved her so much there was no space for anything else. But right there, forgetting to miss her mother and watching this shared moment between her father and her brother, Rex and Asher, father and son, made her want her father’s love too.

  Made her crave it.

  Because once you taste that first crystal of Pixy Stix on your tongue, you want to pour the whole rest of the pile on top. Even if it isn’t your favorite grape flavor.

  * * *

  When Willow walked away from the window, her chest came to a stillness. She missed her mother all over again. She missed her all the way down to her bones.

  She was burning up with questions.

  Where was she?

  Where was her mother?

  Did it have anything to do with what was rattling around in that drawer?

  25

  Five Years Ago

  Even though there were glimmers of hope over the last few months, with every new day, Rosie felt more and more like she was existing underwater. When Asher cried to be fed, or Willow asked for crayons to color with, or Rex asked how the day was, Rosie only heard blubbering, echoing sounds. Even moving her legs to walk downstairs or her arms to pour water into a glass met with an unrelenting resistance. Blinking even felt like too much energy to muster.

  And while Rosie was dull and listless on the outside, on the inside she was panicked. Panicked about the state of her motherhood, her marriage and her health. She knew the ugliness she saw in front of her was all a delusion, but she could not escape the rage she felt encompassing her whole entire life. Her life and her children and her husband.

  Rosie’s brain and heart rattled inside her body. They clanked around in her skull and beneath her ribs until she hurt. She just lay in her bedroom for hours and hours staring at the walls and listening to the gushing sounds of her own syncopated heartbeat. She saw herself in her mind’s eye swiping the picture frames off her dresser, tearing the curtains off the poles, dragging her uncut fingernails down the walls until they were peeled to shreds. She hated these twisted fantasies. She was tortured by them and she wanted them to stop. She wanted them to stop so badly. But they were always there. She knew how lovely her life was, but she just couldn’t stop the dark visions from tearing the whole thing to the ground. And the more she tried to push the dark thoughts out of her mind, the more they crushed in on her.

  One solitary afternoon, when she couldn’t endure the harrowing pulse of her organs any longer, Rosie picked up the bottle of Vicodin that had been sitting in her bathroom cabinet since Rex’s minor surgery a few months prior. She opened the orange tube, tapped a tablet into her hand, rolled the tiny white pill between her pointer and thumb. She remembered the feeling of calm that kind of white pill induced all those years ago on her couch. The tingling relaxation. The sinking tranquility of her bones. The quiet in her mind. The kind of peace Rosie yearned for. The kind of peace she needed.

  And so, without hesitation, Rosie put that white pill plus one more onto her tongue and swallowed.

  And within just a few moments, the tingling began.

  Finally, her body and mind slowed. Finally they eased. There, lying alone on their king-size bed, Rosie felt like she had submerged herself in a warm bath. She found herself on the receiving end of a kind embrace. With Vicodin in her blood, Rosie felt safe in her own body and mind for the first time in months.

  Still, though, the listlessness continued. And the hours alone in her bed extended. Because, now, instead of her depression, it was Vicodin melting her muscles, her bones, her mind. But at least she had a quiet mind and, though drug induced, she welcomed this state of being with open arms.

  And surreptitiously, with equal openness, Vicodin welcomed Rosie’s affinity for her high. Vicodin coiled around Rosie and squeezed her so tight she was unable to move. Unable to parent. Unable to do much of anything at all. Except lie there alone and breathe.

  Until she couldn’t even do that.

  * * *

  It was hard for Rex to see how much his wife tensed up in loathing at the presence of her son. And he didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand how sweet, kind, helpless Asher could fill Rosie with so much anger. He didn’t understand how her blond-haired, blue-eyed, cooing baby could fill her with so much sadness.

  How could Rosie lock herself in their room staring at the walls when her two children were downstairs? How could she pull away from her children when they needed her? How could she pull away from her husband when he needed her?

  Rex knew that his wife was overwhelmed. And that it wasn’t just with parenthood. It was with life. And Rex thought he understood that. Because Rosie had always breathed in every bit of life around her. It was what he loved so much about her. The acute interest in every single cranny. Her fixation on the invisible, infinitesimal, human-to-human forces flowing all around her. The need to explor
e the smallest, most seemingly insignificant things in the world. The things that everyone else just skipped right over. The image on the T-shirt the guy across the street was wearing. The detailing on the facade of a house. The mural hidden in the alley peeking out from behind a tarp. The smell of spring rain compared to fall rain. The way two birds in flight intersected one another. The orientation of the bow in Willow’s hair. The softness of the socks that covered Asher’s feet. All of those teeny, tiny things that stacked up on top of one another until they were all too much to handle. Because Rosie’s delicate lungs, her delicate body, did not have the capacity to take in all that life all the time. Nobody’s did. And so, as much as Rosie filled up in her life, she would have to empty it all out too.

  And right now, the Rosie he was looking at was empty. Morning after morning. Night after night. But how much longer would it take until she filled up again? Until he had his wife back? Until his daughter had her mother back? Until his son could meet his mother?

  Rex was getting tired. He needed Rosie. And he needed help. Help changing diapers and cutting up chicken into teeny, tiny pieces that his daughter could handle with a fork. He needed help cleaning Lucky Charms off the floor when Asher would adorably sweep them off his high chair. He needed help remembering to freeze Asher’s favorite Batman-themed teething ring. He didn’t know how to braid Willow’s wild hair. Or that he should always have three extra pacifiers on hand. Or which brand of mashed bananas or pureed yams Asher would like best. He didn’t know to arrange Willow’s vegetables in the shape of a face on her plate to get her to eat them. Or which spots under her arms were the most ticklish. He didn’t know which scent of bubble bath calmed Willow down before bed. Or which Mozart composition would soothe Asher before a nap.

  Those were things mothers were supposed to know. Those were the things that Rosie had been so good at. Throughout her whole life. And with the birth of his daughter five years ago. And Rex was trying. Really trying. But he was not a mother. And he was not Rosie. He would never be in tune to these things. These little details of life that Rosie was always so in touch with. These little details that would make his children feel so loved. Rex couldn’t do it like Rosie could do it. No matter how much he tried.

  With the little he could offer his wife while she was in this state, Rex just rubbed Rosie’s back tenderly. He kissed her good-night lovingly. He didn’t call for her to help him even when both Willow and Asher were crying. He didn’t act frustrated when she refused to have sex. Or talk. Or even blink. And he didn’t protest when she said she wasn’t going to join the family for dinner once again.

  But when Rex saw that Rosie had made her way through his bottle of Vicodin, he knew this was bigger. Bigger than that one joint Rosie smoked in front of him back when they were in Manhattan. Bigger than his brand-new house with the front lawn for the kids to play in. Bigger than not coming down for dinner. Bigger than his marriage. Bigger than any choices he had ever made in his whole life.

  Every fiber of his body ached with sadnesss for the wife he may have lost. But every synapse of his brain fired simultaneously with determination for the father he wanted to become. A father that would do anything to protect his children.

  Rex dug deep into his soul before pulling one of the keys to 299 East 82nd Street out from the back of his drawer. He held it tightly in his fist and walked delicately into his and Rosie’s bedroom, where he knew he would find his wife wrapped in stillness lying on their bed. He gently knelt beside their bed on one knee and pulled Rosie’s hand into his chest, pleading for some acknowledgment from his wife. Pleading that she might surrender to help.

  “Rosie,” Rex whispered. “We need you.”

  Rosie stared at the ceiling.

  “I know you are in pain here. There are places we can go.”

  Rex’s throat tightened as he placed the key to their apartment in New York into Rosie’s palm. She slowly curled her fingers around it and turned her face toward Rex. Rosie’s eyes met Rex’s deeply. There were tears climbing onto her eyelashes, not yet ready to slide down her cheeks. But still, her face and body were still. Rex willed Rosie to sit up and kiss him. Willed her to sit up and say, “Let’s get out of this place.” But she said nothing.

  “I kept our apartment, Rosie. I kept it for us. I kept it for you.”

  Rosie’s tears were falling now onto her otherwise motionless cheeks. His cheeks and chin were wet with them. But there were still no words.

  “Please, Rosie. We can go. We can all go.”

  Rosie turned her eyes back toward the ceiling and slowly uncurled her fingertips to drop the key back into Rex’s lap.

  Rex’s chin sank into his chest as he felt the slight weight of the key hit his legs. As he felt the overwhelming weight of his circumstances hit his heart. He realized that he had been crying too.

  Rex didn’t want to accept Rosie’s refusal for help. Refusal for optimism. Refusal for a happier future. He picked up the key, stood up and looked down at his wife, his Rosie whom he barely recognized. His Rosie who didn’t want any of the things she used to want out of life.

  Rex placed the key from his lap on Rosie’s bedside table so she would know the apartment, her old life, a better life, would always be there for her. That he was always there for her.

  Rex walked toward the door and without even turning back to Rosie, he said, “Then it has to be rehab.”

  Rex walked out of the room, closed his eyes and exhaled before reaching back to close the door behind him.

  As he did, he heard Rosie speak. Her voice was weak but clear.

  “I won’t go, Rex. I can’t. And I won’t,” Rosie said.

  And as Rex shut the door, he knew she was right.

  * * *

  Rex walked down the hallway away from their bedroom; he felt his hands and ears and belly warm. A new fire, a new anger, grew inside of him. He wanted to shake his wife. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake every ounce of hurt out of her. He wanted to put his face in hers and yell at the top of his lungs. Tell her to move. In any direction at all. He wanted to grab her wrists. He wanted to grab them tightly and tell her that she had to try. Had to make a sacrifice. Any sacrifice. In any direction at all.

  But Rosie had told him plainly that she couldn’t. That she wouldn’t. And Rex wasn’t capable of tugging it out of her. He was never capable of tugging enough out of her.

  26

  Rosie stood right there at the forefront of Willow’s mind every day she was away. Every minute of every day for the last four days. She stood there in a floral-printed dress, waving her hips and arms and blowing kisses at her daughter. And then she dissolved away.

  As Willow and Asher played Marshmallow City, Willow wondered if her brother was thinking about the same thing. But when she looked up from her sticky hands to read Asher’s mind, she had no idea what her brother was thinking.

  The scene in Dad’s kitchen was so familiar. The two of them on Dad’s tiled kitchen floor sticking toothpicks into marshmallows. Then sticking those marshmallows onto other toothpicks. Then those toothpicks into other marshmallows. Doing this until large toothpick-and-marshmallow towers were erected. Arranging the towers across the kitchen floor until a marshmallow metropolis formed. Lining the black-and-white-speckled kitchen tiles with mini marshmallow roads and mini marshmallow walkways with toothpick streetlamps.

  It was a game they used to play upstairs in Asher’s room until Dad found out that Asher had been hiding marshmallows under his pillow and sneaking them before bed.

  It was a game they used to play loudly and energetically. They would debate over the appropriate orientation and height of a tower. They would ruminate over which color toothpick to use for which building. They would dispense Asher’s action figures throughout their city to inhabit their towers and their streets. And Batman would wave to the Hulk as he walked down a marshmallow pathway. And Superman would share a to
othpick-lined room with Rambo.

  But today when they played with their toothpicks and marshmallows, everything was quiet. In Marshmallow City and in Dad’s kitchen.

  Willow broke the silence when she looked up from her marshmallow-and-toothpick cube and asked her brother, “Where do you think Mom is?”

  Asher snapped his eyes to meet his sister’s. His big, blue, wholesome eyes. And now also his swollen marshmallow-stuffed cheeks.

  “I don’t weally know,” he said. The marshmallows were pressing their way out the corners of his mouth as he spoke.

  While Asher tried to swallow the marshmallows in his cheeks, Willow tried to swallow Asher’s nonresponse and return to erecting her towers. But Willow wasn’t ready to end the conversation. She wanted, needed, wanted to talk more.

  “But what if you just had to guess or something?”

  Asher stretched his neck up, and then dipped his head and scrunched his eyes as he swallowed the white marshmallow bolus in his mouth. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and stretched his spine to answer his sister.

  “What if she, like, took a twip into space?”

  Asher lit up at the sound of the fantasy he created.

  “Yeah. Maybe she went in a wocket ship.”

  Asher’s whole body started to levitate at the idea. His eyes floated upward and his earlobes rose. He smiled a gummy smile and stuck another marshmallow into his cheeks. Willow could tell that Asher had considered this recently created story of where Mom was a genuine possibility. And that he was beginning to create a catalog of questions in his mind that he would ask Mom about her adventure in outer space when she came back. Asher’s optimism about their mother’s return almost made Willow smile a little. It almost made her smile enough to allow the belief to seep into her too.