The king bed that she had fallen asleep in so many times was still unmade. There were candy wrappers on the bedside table. And two ripped-open Pixy Stix at the top of the pile. The sight of those thin purple-and-white-striped wax paper tubes caused a tightening in the back of Willow’s throat. It caused pressure against her heart. Willow felt tears forming. Forming and preparing to drip out of her.
But what would happen if she were to keep crying? Keep feeling sad? Or scared? Or mad? Who would listen to her? Who would hug her?
Without Mom there, Willow knew the answer was no one.
And so Willow, by her own force of will, untwisted the knot in her stomach, waited a moment for the teary wells in her eyes to evaporate and resumed dragging her boxes down the hallway. This kind of independent determination was brand-new to Willow Thorpe. It felt strange as it coursed through her blood, fortified her muscles and strengthened her soul. But she knew she needed it. She knew she would continue to need it. And she let it seep into her as she dragged her boxes all the way down the stairs and out the door.
When Willow emerged from the house, Rex grabbed her two boxes and then Asher’s and piled them into the trunk of his car. Then they drove off without saying a word.
Willow sat quietly and tearlessly taking inventory of all the things that she wished were in the trunk of Dad’s car with her two boxes. The old chest full of sequin jackets. The pink wigs and floral headdresses. The cowboy hats and fake glasses and feather boas that were in the bottom drawer of Mom’s closet. The charcoal drawing hanging on the living room wall that she, Asher and Mom made one day when it was so snowy that you could only see white when you tried to look out the window. The sculpture in the hallway that Willow picked out at a craft fair in a warehouse somewhere that took an hour to drive to one afternoon when she should have been in school. The camera with all of her pictures of the waves crashing against the rocks at sunrise from the time Mom woke her up before even the sun had risen and brought her to the ocean. The silly shaped cookie cutters that made desserts they would eat before they had their vegetables.
Willow wished she could have brought her purple comforter that smelled like Mom’s perfume. Or the homemade snow globe with little clay versions of her, and Asher, and Mom wearing bathing suits and waving as little glittery flecks swirled all around them. She wished she could have peeled the paint off Asher’s walls and created a secret hideout in the woods behind Dad’s.
She wished she could have put that whole house in the back of Dad’s car. Every inch of that home, each and every thing that was in it, was a memory. Was a part of Mom, a part of herself. She wanted to live forever in the warm and consuming embrace of all of those things. But with each revolution of the tires, with each tree that passed by in the window, Willow was traveling farther and farther from all of those things. Farther from Mom.
And then Asher broke the silence again. With something both simple and profound.
“Dad, how did it happen? How did Mom die?” he asked while he tapped his light-up sneakers together.
Rex’s back straightened and his hands tensed around the wheel. He was quiet for a moment.
“It was an accident,” he said.
And then he paused for too long.
“A car accident.”
Another long pause. And then an exhale.
And then just another, extending, thick pause.
48
Immediately after his children left for school the next day, Rex dug the old keys out of his sock drawer and called Roy and asked him if he would come down from New York and watch his children again for a couple of days. It was a big favor, but he knew it was important. And Roy was the kind of friend who always did a favor for a friend in need. Roy had checked in on 299 East 82nd Street for Rex regularly over the years, but Rex knew the time had come for him to go up and check in himself.
“Always here to help however I can, Rex,” Roy responded genuinely. “I can be down there before the kids get home from school.”
As soon as he heard those words, Rex got into his black car and drove all the way to 299 East 82nd Street without stopping. He drove with Willow and Asher and Rosie on his mind and “Leather and Lace” on the speakers. He drove all the way to the apartment he had not visited for years and years and years. To the apartment his mind often wandered to. To the place where Rosie was perfectly Rosie. To the apartment where Rex was a better Rex.
Over all these years, Rex never found himself willing to relinquish that apartment. Especially knowing he had given Rosie a key in case she wanted a retreat. And now, more than ever, he was happy he did. He needed that place now. Perhaps as much as Rosie needed to know it was an alternative, an escape all of these years.
He knew Rosie might not be able to be Rosie in the quiet suburbs of Virginia. The way he knew Rosie might not be able to be a wife without the energy of the city. The things, the people, the movement in the city. The way he knew Rosie might not be able to be a mother without the ripples of the world flowing so wildly around.
And it could not be said for certain whether it was the deprivation of city life or the hormones that rushed through her after the birth of her son or the natural vicissitudes of Rosie’s chemistry, but in truth Rosie stopped being Rosie soon after the move. It happened in a way that Rex knew could not be reversed. Not with his embrace or back rubs. Not with his children or his offer to return them all to the walls of 299 East 82nd Street.
Even after Rosie dropped the key in his lap and Rex knew he and Rosie would never move back to that apartment together, Rex could not bring himself to get rid of it. He knew it needed to live on, even if in a faraway dream.
And as soon as Rex took one delicate step through the doorway, he remembered exactly why he had kept it. He had kept it because there were pieces of the Rosie he fell in love with in this apartment. Pieces of her that would be there forever. There were pieces of her in the patterned wallpaper and the mismatched doorknobs. In the intricate crown molding and the rickety heater. There were pieces of her in the mustiness that was thick in the air now after sitting there unused. There were pieces of Rosie in every cranny of 299 East 82nd Street. And keeping the apartment meant keeping pieces of her. And being in this apartment now meant being with her.
He was sorry he hadn’t had the wisdom to see it all before—the strength to insist they come back with the children from time to time...
Rex walked from room to room with his eyes lightly closed as his fingertips traced the walls. He was feeling for Rosie. Willing her energy, the memory of her, her love to move through him. Willing that energy to be strong enough to enter his heart. Willing that force to be strong enough for him to pass on to Willow.
And then Rex’s eyes opened when his fingers were interrupted by a break in the smoothness on the wall. It was the locket he had given to Rosie that first day in this apartment. That first day in the apartment when Rosie first told him about Willow. That day Rosie tacked that locket to the wall as a manifesto to love. To their unlikely beautiful love. To their nuanced and special complementary love.
Rex took the locket into his hands and examined it. He turned it over and over to inspect each scratch. Each bit of tarnish. Each chipped golden edge. He snaked the chain through his fingertips, and then gently moved his fingertips across the engraving on the back.
299 East 82nd Street. Apartment 5.
It was always so special here at 299 East 82nd Street. It still was special here. Because everywhere where Rosie was, was special. And Rosie left pieces of herself everywhere she ever was. Rosie left pieces of Rosie in everyone she ever loved. Even if she was gone.
Rex cupped the locket in his hand, and then pressed it into his heart. He could feel Rosie in that locket. He could feel the locket pulsing. He could feel Rosie’s life force pulsing. Giving him love. Giving him life.
It was exactly what Rex needed. And he knew it was what Willow needed too
. With Rosie in his heart and his heart guiding him now, Rex felt ready to love his daughter in the way she deserved to be loved. In the way he might not have been able to love Rosie toward the end.
Giving Willow the love of Rosie, the love Rosie stored up in that locket, would be the first step.
* * *
The next day, on the way back from Manhattan, when he was almost home, Rex stopped at the bus depot where all of Robert Kansas Elementary School’s yellow buses were held. He stopped at the depot like he had so many times already this school year. And he walked over to the dispatcher, Chris, who shook his hand and pointed him the direction of Bus #50 like he had so many times already this school year.
And then Rex slipped two more grape Pixy Stix into the depths of the front left seat like he had so many times this school year. He tied his “For Willow” note around it. And then he wrapped Rosie’s locket around it.
Rex smiled warmly at his gift. Yes, Willow could have a little piece of Rosie to hold on to. And the healing process could begin. The reacquaintance of Willow and Rex through the memory of Rosie. Through the love of Rosie. The reacquaintance of father and daughter through Pixy Stix and an old gold locket.
49
Willow had become a leaky faucet of sadness. She dripped, dripped, dripped with it. It never gushed out in spurts or sprayed anyone around her. It just dripped, dripped, dripped. All the time. It didn’t happen in the form of tears or red sores or a wet bed. It just dripped, dripped, dripped out her pores.
And as she took her usual seat on Bus #50 right behind the driver, her sadness dripped, dripped, dripped some more when the silver duct tape on the back of the seat caught her eye. She wanted so badly to peel back the tape and discover a new batch of Pixy Stix. She wanted so badly for her mom to be back in her life. For love to be back in her life. And even though she knew it was impossible, Willow couldn’t stop her pointer finger and thumb from pinching the corner of the strip of tape and tugging it back. Willow peered in the hole and thrust her hand into the void as she dripped, dripped, dripped with the expectation of disappointment.
But just like that, the dripping stopped. There was the familiar feeling of those thin tubes of Pixy Stix right there in the seat. And that feeling stopped all the dripping. It dried it all right up.
Two more Pixy Stix.
Two more Pixy Stix!
Mom had left her two purple Pixy Stix.
But how had she left those Pixy Stix?
Was she still alive?
She was still alive.
Mom was still alive!
A rush of the purest happiness and excitement and relief and love jolted through every vein of her body. It jolted through her body and filled her bones and heart. It wrapped around her lungs and her brain so quickly that she was dizzy with it. The whole world did one whole flip and everything was good again.
All of Willow’s memories of her mother went zipping into the future. All of the dancing and singing and movies and candy and lipstick that Willow had crystallized in the past projected straight onto a screen of her future. She could barely contain a shriek at the idea that she would have all of those things again.
But where was she? Where was Mom?
Willow pulled her hand and the Pixy Stix out from the hole in the seat. A tarnished golden heart-shaped locket came with the tubes. It was dangling from a tarnished golden chain wound delicately around the two tubes. Willow pressed the locket into her heart. She could feel Mom in that locket. She could feel the locket pulsing. Giving her love. Giving her life.
She felt the same tingling feelings she felt when she had her head in her mother’s lap in the tree house. The same feelings of comfort. And relief. And pure, unadulterated, heartwarming happiness.
Where are you, Mom? Willow thought to herself. Where are you?
Willow closed her eyes and pressed the locket farther into her heart.
Tell me where you are.
And then Willow opened her eyes and looked down at the locket in her hands. She twisted it around in her fingers and examined every scratch. Every bit of tarnish. Every chipped golden edge. She snaked the chain through her fingers, and then turned it over. She traced her fingers slowly across the engraving on the back. She traced her fingers across it and felt the shallow grooves of each letter.
299 East 82nd Street. Apartment 5.
And Willow’s question was answered.
Of course that’s where Mom was. She was safe and happy in that apartment in Manhattan she loved. And she wanted Willow to be safe and happy with her there too. Just like she said in that willow tree.
For the first time in months, everything was making sense.
Her mother had been so distant because she was planning her escape. She had left her on that curb at Robert Kansas Elementary School so many times because she was back at her apartment. Getting it ready. Painting the walls and setting up the music. Stocking up on her favorite movies and filling up the kitchen with her favorite snacks. Yes, it all made sense. Why Dad didn’t bring her to the funeral. There was no funeral. That phone call with Roy. He had faked it all. He had faked it to get Willow to stay with him in that house in Virginia. But Willow knew better now. And her mother knew better all along.
Willow would find Mom there in Manhattan as soon as she could.
She clutched her Pixy Stix in her fingers, and then tucked them into her backpack. And then she kissed her tarnished locket and tucked it away in her jacket pocket.
And then she pressed her eyebrows together and filled with determination. Determination to get to Mom. Determination to get to love.
And, now, when Willow Thorpe was determined to do something, she made it happen.
It hadn’t always been true, but it was now. It was true for Willow as much as it was for Rex.
They had been missing each other’s love for so long and they had missed again. Ever so slightly this time. But Willow and Rex, daughter and father, were ready for love and they would do anything to find it. Even if in new places or in new ways.
* * *
Willow watched every tick, tick, tick of the clock in the back of Mrs. McAllister’s class until the end-of-school bell rang and she could go home and tell Asher about all of it. And as soon as she and Asher stepped off their buses and through the big thick door of Dad’s house, Willow took her brother by the hand and yanked him into the front closet. Willow’s eyes were wide with something.
“When we play hide-and-seek, we don’t hide togethew, Willow!” Asher explained slowly and instructively in a noisy whisper.
And without saying anything, Willow reached into her jean jacket and pulled out the locket.
“Ooooooo,” Asher said with eyes now wide as Willow’s.
But then he said nothing. And within a few seconds, his extended blue eyes shrank back to normal size.
Willow dangled the chain aggressively in front of his face.
“What?” Asher said, still in his noisy whisper.
“Look at it,” Willow instructed, turning the locket over to show Asher the address engraved on the back.
“Mom left this for me in the seat on the bus.”
Asher’s shoulders dropped and his mouth turned down. He welled up with sadness when he thought of his mom.
“Like befowe she died?”
“No. Like now.”
Willow expected a burst of excitement for the second time but got nothing but a head tilt from her younger brother in the darkness of the front closet.
Willow continued. “Like meaning she’s still alive, Ash. She wants us to find her here. At this address.”
Willow now had the locket in the center of her palm, on display for Asher. And she waited for the third time for Asher to share in her excitement.
“Willow, that doesn’t make any sense,” Asher said as he rubbed his wet eyes.
And then W
illow explained everything to Asher. How Rosie had been leaving Pixy Stix in the back of the seat all year. How there wasn’t a funeral. How Mom had been planning their escape this whole time. How Mom never would have left them, even if it was an “accident.” How they would go to Manhattan and find her.
Willow’s belief that her mother was in that apartment gushed out of her. Out of her words and her pores and her bones and her heart.
It gushed out of her so swiftly, so fiercely, that there was no reality anymore.
So Asher did what little brothers have done for all of time. He believed what his big sister told him. And it had nothing to do with the facts and everything to do with loyalty. And love. So Asher let Willow’s words into his heart and tacitly but resolutely joined his sister in her plan to find Rosie.
50
And the next day at school, Willow made that plan with the help of the binder full of bus schedules in the library instead of eating lunch. The plan was to walk to the bus stop from their house and take the bus all the way to Manhattan. She studied the times of the buses and turns in the streets. She calculated the timing of each step and what it would require to execute it. A ticket cost two hundred and nine dollars. A second one for Asher took it to four hundred and eighteen. And they would need some extra money for a taxi. And maybe some candy on the way. Five hundred dollars was the number she scribbled in the back of her word search book and settled on. Five hundred dollars to get back to Mom.
Willow thought about how they would get all that money. She and Asher could pool all the money in their piggy banks. And then there was their weekly allowance to count on.
When Willow got home from school, she decided to count up just how far they had to go to reach five hundred dollars.
She wanted to start with what was in Asher’s piggy bank. So she walked into her brother’s room and watched him as he shook the porcelain pig next to his ear. There was a hollow clank before one dime fell out onto his rug. Asher partly frowned, and then tugged open the drawer next to his bed. He had been spending his allowance every week on action figures from the old toy shop next to the school.
Rosie Coloured Glasses Page 21
