“Of course, my darling,” Rosie said gently and with a smile. It was almost genuine.
“I was just finishing up. But first look at this photo! It’s amazing!” Rosie thrust one of the postcards right into Rex’s face, and Rex was charmed all over again. He pretended to reluctantly scan the postcard but his mind was fixated with how strange and lovely Rosie was there in that old shop in her long black dress with those little shoes.
Rosie lifted up her dress an inch as she started to walk, revealing her tiny delicate ankle. She pranced away and waved at the short and wrinkled shop owner. “See ya, Jonny,” Rosie said like they were old friends.
And then Rosie and Rex made their way back to the street and continued walking toward the restaurant where their crabs were waiting. A fabric shop caught Rosie’s eye and she waltzed in prepared to examine all of the prints, take in the scents of the lace, feel the silks against her cheek. But as soon as Rosie’s foot stepped through the doorway, Rex burst with rage.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Rosie.”
He grabbed her wrist.
“I just said I was hungry.”
Clenched jaw. Silence.
“Twice.”
Bottom crooked teeth out.
Silence.
Eye of the storm silence.
And suddenly, it wasn’t about Rex’s hunger or Rosie’s delight in silk. Or Rex’s flaring temples or Rosie’s casual strut. Or Rex’s handsomeness or Rosie’s red lips. It was about friction. There was too much of it. And no amount of Rosie’s funkiness or Rex’s firmness could mitigate that.
So quickly, and without putting much thought into it, Rosie decided to forgo the crabs and the evening with Rex. She wiggled her wrist from Rex’s fingers and walked down Allen Street back toward her apartment.
When Rosie got home, Chloe was sitting on the couch stoned. Her arm was flopped lifelessly over a cushion and her eyes were closed lightly.
“Hey, babe,” Chloe mumbled, barely even moving her lips. And then she sat up, rubbing one eye but not bothering to move her hair away from the front of her face. “I thought you were out with Rex.”
Rosie huffed.
“Ugh, I was.”
Rosie reached for the joint sitting on the coffee table.
“He’s such an ass sometimes though.” Rosie threw herself onto the couch, splaying her arms out in defeat. She swung her tote bag over the back of the sofa. A few pens dropped out without Rosie even noticing as she sat up slowly and pulled her fingers to her lips for a drag of the half-smoked joint.
But Chloe placed her hand over Rosie’s before it met her mouth and guided it back down to the coffee table.
“Try this instead, doll,” Chloe said, handing her a white round pill. “This will take the edge off.”
And Chloe couldn’t have been more correct. Within thirty minutes, that single white pill of Vicodin soothed Rosie, warmed Rosie, hugged Rosie, consumed Rosie. It left Rosie with her arm flopped lifelessly over a pillow too.
The high from that white pill was so thoroughly calming. So thoroughly relaxing and soothing in a way she had never felt before. In a way she felt she needed.
Because Rosie expected so much from life and the people in it and she loved to feel and experience every last ounce of everything, but it exhausted her. And those little white pills allowed that all to melt away. It allowed her to relax. To find stillness. To find quiet.
Rosie let her afternoon with Rex and all the other vibrating things evaporate into nothing as she drifted into a half sleep. Drifted into her high.
And it was a high Rosie would have again and again. Even when it stopped making things better, and started making things worse.
14
The next night at their mother’s was the night of the monthly viewing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and Willow, Asher and Rosie dressed for the occasion. They each wore different permutations of fishnet stockings, big pearl necklaces, thick eye shadow, bright red lipstick and fitted tank tops. And as the three of them stood in front of the mirror to examine their outfits, Rosie held up the framed photo of Tim Curry as Dr. Frank-N-Furter that usually hung in the hallway. She winked with one eye and then the other at each of her children.
“Stunning,” she said in all earnestness.
Asher had no idea what he was saying or doing when he slipped into his mother’s high heels, struck a pose and smiled, mimicking a line from the film. But Rosie couldn’t help hugging him so tightly. And then she joined Asher in his dance and guided him through the rest of the lyrics as they held hands and kicked their feet up.
When the “Time Warp” came on, Rosie, Asher and Willow took their places right in front of the TV and jumped to the left, stepped to the right and thrust their pelvises alongside the characters. They got up on the couches in their makeup while they did it. They laughed and sang until they were out of breath. And when the music was over, Rosie, Willow and Asher retreated to their separate rooms to put on their matching squiggly patterned pajamas with plans to reconvene in Rosie’s room.
But when Willow and Asher got back to their mother’s door, it was uncharacteristically closed. It was so strange to see their mother’s door like that. It was strange to see any barrier at all in their mother’s house. Their mother’s house was always so open. Open to air and life. It allowed music and laughter to move around freely. Before her heart could start beating any faster, and more nervously, Willow turned the doorknob. But it didn’t move with her hand. It stayed there locked in place, silver and cold.
“One second, noodles,” Rosie said but without enough breath from the other side of the door.
So Willow and Asher waited at their mother’s door with matching pajamas and bouncing legs. Ready to curl up next to their mother for bedtime.
And after only a moment, Rosie pulled the door open and smiled warmly at her children with a word search in hand.
“Should we play?” Rosie asked, extending a word search book out in front of her children’s already-vibrant eyes.
Willow and Asher nodded vigorously and in sync. They hopped into their mother’s unmade but cozy bed and prepared to tangle themselves up in Rosie. And as soon as Rosie wiggled herself between her two children and then underneath the covers, Willow pressed her ear into her mother’s shoulder and hooked her right thigh over her mother’s leg and locked her eyes on the grid of letters. And Asher nuzzled under his mother’s arm, tucked his knees into his belly and locked his eyes on the same grid of letters.
“Robot,” Rosie announced slowly, mumbling a bit. “Can you find me the word?”
Willow and Asher scanned the grid of letters on the page with intense focus. And then Asher yelled out and pointed down at the paper.
“Thewe!”
Asher and Willow waited for their mother to trace the outline of the word and announce the next word to be found, but Rosie was silent. Willow looked up at her mother to urge her to move the pen, but her eyes were nearly closed and her head had fallen unnaturally to the side.
“Mom,” Willow said firmly as she nudged her hip into her mother’s thigh.
But Rosie just lay there with her mouth a bit agape and her shoulders sunken.
“Shhhhh,” Rosie said, with lazy lips and cheeks. Her eyes were still closed as she sank even deeper into her pillow. And then Rosie’s wrist went weak. And the word search book fell slowly from her hands and onto her lap.
Willow had never seen her mother’s lips producing a shh. It was so strange for Willow to see her mother’s body draped so lifelessly across her pillow. She was used to her mother lighting up with vitality. Pulsing with energy. But even with Rosie so physically loose, there was something so heartbreakingly rigid about her in this state. The thought occurred to Willow that her mother had perhaps hardened against her world. That she had detached in some way. Even if it was just the littlest bit.
> But Willow pushed the thought away as quickly as she could. And she hooked her knee right back over her mother’s thigh and wrapped her arm around her mother’s waist. And Asher followed his sister’s lead and curled right back up in the tiny space between Rosie’s arm and ribs.
Rosie, Asher and Willow all drifted into sleep with the lamp on and the book of word searches on Rosie’s lap right there in her bed. Without back tickles or head scratches.
* * *
The next morning, Rosie, Asher and Willow were all surprised to wake up simultaneously to Rex’s shouting.
“Rosie!”
“Rosie!”
Rex’s voice echoed aggressively throughout the house. It was so strange to hear Dad’s voice knocking around Mom’s walls.
“Rosie! You’ve got to be kidding me! It’s ten thirty. The school called again to ask where the kids are.”
Rosie exhaled fully. And then she rolled her eyes and rolled out of bed. But not before full-lipped kisses for each of her children.
“Stay here, noodles,” she whispered, and raised one eyebrow as she slipped out the door of her bedroom.
Willow and Asher made their way onto the staircase, where they watched and listened to their parents yell coldly at one another.
“Rex, relax,” Rosie said while rubbing her right eye with the heel of her hand. “The kids were up late. I wanted to let them sleep. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal. It’s a school day, Rosie. They need structure. They need discipline. This isn’t good for them.”
Rosie poured Froot Loops and milk into a bowl and scooped a spoonful into her mouth. A bit of white liquid dribbled down her chin.
“You can’t be so freakin’ cavalier with everything anymore! Wake up, Rosie! You are a goddamned mother!”
A few drops of spit flew from his mouth as Rex cut into Rosie and as he turned toward the staircase.
Willow and Asher scurried back into their mother’s room and took their place under her comforter and lay still.
“What were they up late doing, anyway?” Rex added as he stomped harshly up the stairs.
But Rosie didn’t have to answer his question.
Because he saw the answer as soon as he swung open the door. The sight of Willow and Asher in faded lipstick and smudged eye shadow told the whole story of the prior evening. She saw her father’s face as she made eye contact with him and could see all the disappointment in it.
Disappointment at how she looked there with her makeup on. Disappointment at how she had enjoyed her time in her boa. Her father’s eyebrows pressed together and his jaw tensed. And then his breathing became audible and his fingers gnarled as all the disappointment twisted into disgust. Disgust at how she was so happy at her mother’s. Disgust with the scene of last night’s makeup. Disgust with everything.
“Wash your faces. Get dressed. We’re going to school,” Rex directed. His voice was steady but his body was shaking.
Willow ushered Asher into the bathroom where they could clean their faces. She wiped Asher’s face and then her own until they were clear of any trace of their time with Mom. Willow sent Asher to his room to get dressed, then stared at her own face in the mirror. It looked so bare. So empty. She reapplied some red lipstick and felt replenished.
Willow returned to her room and tugged her purple leggings on, one leg at a time. She pulled her black T-shirt with the horseshoe over her head and thought about how her outfit and lipstick would only disappoint her father all over again this morning. But then she remembered that day in kindergarten when she walked downstairs for school and overheard the forcibly quiet fight that ensued when her mother walked through the door with bags upon bags filled with the purple leggings and black horseshoe T-shirts in all different sizes.
“It’s just a phase,” her father shouted through clenched teeth, ripping one of the shopping bags out of Rosie’s hand.
“No. It’s not,” Rosie said casually, and continued to walk by her husband.
“Even if it’s not a phase, this is not the kind of behavior I will encourage from my daughter,” Rex said sharply.
“This is exactly the kind of behavior I will encourage from my daughter,” Rosie retorted. This time with a rare fire in her eyes and grumble in her voice.
Willow just smiled from the top of the stairs. Hearing Mom say this made Willow want to wear that outfit every day forever. And right there at the top of the stairs, a few weeks into kindergarten, she decided to do just that and never changed her mind since.
Rex had opened his mouth, undoubtedly with a retaliation, but Rosie got to the moment of pause first.
“I won’t let you take this from her. I won’t let you strip Willow of any and all of the weird, beautiful things that make Willow, Willow. You hear me?”
And that was the end of the conversation.
Willow smiled at the memory playing in her mind’s eye as she returned to Asher’s room. She took him by the hand and walked him downstairs to say goodbye to her mother. Rosie was already waiting by the front door with her eyes crossed and tongue out. Before Willow and Asher were too far out the door, Rosie tossed brown-paper-bagged lunches at her children and winked as she watched her ex-husband continue to pull them down the driveway.
Rosie blew kiss after kiss to her children as Rex’s car pulled away.
15
Eleven Years Ago
The idea of a single apartment suiting both Rosie and Rex was nearly unthinkable. But the idea of Rex and Rosie continuing to alternate back and forth between beds was even more unthinkable.
The apartment that Rex picked out with the strangely shaped rooms and old light fixtures was his first concession for Rosie. He would have preferred a modern condo with sharp lines and stainless steel appliances, but Rosie could never survive in such a place. She needed colors and patterns and nooks and crannies. She needed quirk. And Rex would do that for this woman he loved. Just this once.
When Rex lifted his hands from Rosie’s eyes to reveal their new apartment on the Upper East Side, they both immediately became aware that Rosie’s dress matched the toile wallpaper in the entranceway exactly. And, accordingly, that Rex had picked out the perfect place for his girlfriend. Rosie grabbed the back of Rex’s head and pushed her lips and cheek into his. It could barely be considered a kiss the way Rosie smashed her face into his, but it was all the more intimate for it. It was Rex’s second-favorite kiss he ever had.
And even though the look and feel of the apartment was not to his taste, he loved the look and feel of Rosie in it. And just this once, that was enough.
Rosie ran over to the wall and stretched her arms and legs into the shape of an X.
“Can you see me? Am I camouflaged yet?” she said as she posed.
And Rex and Rosie just laughed and laughed. They laughed and laughed straight from their bellies as they stared into each other’s eyes from opposite ends of the entranceway.
And then Rex activated the record player that he had already cued up. The introductory chords of “Leather and Lace” filled the room.
Rex met Rosie at the wall and uncupped his hand to reveal a tarnished gold chain and locket, an antique he knew she would appreciate. Then he turned the locket over to show her the engraving he’d had etched into the back of it.
299 East 82nd Street, New York, New York. Apartment 5.
He swung the necklace over Rosie’s head and watched it dangle around on her chest.
Rosie clutched the locket, then held her small hands over her beating heart. Her beating heart filled with Rex’s big love.
Rex lifted her gently off the ground. It got so quiet as they swayed back and forth in tandem to the melody of their song.
It was happiness. It would be brief in the grand scheme of things. But right there in their apartment entranceway at 299 East 82nd Street, it was so real.
&nb
sp; And suddenly, without warning or words exchanged, Rosie was crying. But there was an atypical passivity to it. An atypical tremble accompanying it.
Rex waited patiently for Rosie to explain her tears.
And then Rosie whispered, “I’m pregnant.”
To Rex and also to the rest of the empty room and also to herself. It was the first time she had been able to say it out loud. She stared vacantly over Rex’s back as she said it. Tears still dancing in her eyes.
Rosie pressed her forehead into Rex’s shoulder. His strong, steady shoulder. And for a moment she felt okay. It, too, was brief in the grand scheme of things. But right there in the apartment entranceway at 299 East 82nd Street, it also was so real.
And then, without saying a word, Rex pressed his lips firmly and deeply into the top of Rosie’s head.
“Do you think we can do this?” Rosie finally asked timidly.
“I think we have a special kind of love, Rosie Collins,” Rex said kindly and matter-of-factly.
Rosie knew it wasn’t an answer, but it was perfect enough.
“We do, Rex Thorpe. And it’s ‘most mad and moonly.’” Rosie pressed her head even farther into Rex’s shoulder.
“That crazy e. e. cummings love poem!” Rex said through a smirk. And then Rex kissed Rosie again. This time with a renewed levity in his lips.
It was Rosie’s second-favorite kiss she ever had.
Even though both of their hearts were beating nervously and out of sync.
When “Leather and Lace” faded out, Rosie wiggled herself from Rex’s embrace and looked at him lovingly. He had already done so much for her. The apartment. The locket. The strength in his body. The love in his heart. She wanted to think about it every day. She wanted everyone to see it. She knew a single piece of jewelry never stayed on her body for long. So she took the locket off her neck and hung it from a nail head on the wallpapered wall. As a manifesto to love at 299 East 82nd Street. As a manifesto to unlikely, meaningful, profound love.
Rosie Colored Glasses Page 7
