Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  My father might have made good money in the scrap metal business, but he wasn’t so good at saving it. Mom and I were forced to move the following summer, from our three-bedroom house in a nice neighborhood called Hammock Lakes into a two-bedroom house in a not-so-nice neighborhood without a name. The first thing I noticed about the new house was that black front door. Even at fifteen, I knew it was a bad sign. But Mom said it was cheap and allowed me to stay in the same school.

  Moving sucks. The packing, the planning, the tossing of childhood memories into a trash bag. It was all bad, the worst of which was my fear of never finding the box. It seemed the one thing my father had left me was destined to die with him. I had no idea what was in there, but it didn’t matter. Someone tells you something on his deathbed, you listen.

  And then, about six months ago, my mom roped me into watching one of her beloved reality shows. She pulled me down on the couch, slurring inside a glass of dark red wine. Give it a chance, she said, with a grip on my hand I knew I couldn’t break. Not that I wanted to break it. We didn’t do much together, so even watching a trashy show was better than nothing.

  Forgotten Rooms was a program where people allowed a decorator to come in and reorganize a wasted space, usually a den or something. But that week’s episode was about attics. Now, I don’t know why Mom was all excited, since most South Florida houses don’t have those huge attics that can be transformed into bedrooms. At least I’ve never seen any, and none of my old friends ever had one growing up or I can assure you we would’ve had sleepovers in it.

  Anyway, she loved the before-and-after pictures, and kept batting my arm, hacking, sloshing her drink, hacking some more, saying she wished we had an attic to transform. The host of the show was one of those glamorous women who just happen to know construction and wore a tool belt to prove it. She’s with her lucky couple who agreed to the project so they could be on television.

  The host used a hook at the end of a pole to release the ceiling hatch. While she was doing that, and letting a small ladder unfold from inside, she was educating the couple about the history of attics. Sizes, shapes, and the purposes many people use them for—mostly storage. But then she paused for dramatic effect, turned around to the couple, who was following her up the ladder, and said, Or to hide stuff. She winked, and it was as if she had winked right at me. I literally had to turn away from my mom, fearing the lightbulb in my head somehow illuminated through my eyes.

  Dad had said the brown box was at . . . ? And that was it. I thought it was somewhere, like at the back of my closet or at the bottom of my drawer. I didn’t realize until then that at was actually part of another word: attic. The box was in the attic of my old house. It wasn’t big enough to make into a spare bedroom, but it was definitely big enough to hide a box.

  Of course, there was a small problem: How was I going to get in there? It had been around three years since my father died, and our house sold quickly once we put it on the market a few months later. But the new owners hadn’t kept me away for long.

  Close to my fifteenth birthday—only a few months after Dad died and as Mom’s parental lenses were growing increasingly foggy with liquor—I had started taking the bus to my old neighborhood. I learned that if I took the 246 West, then I could switch to the 19 North, which would drop me fairly close, leaving only a short walk to Hammock Lakes. Once I got into the development, it was only another few blocks to Grove Street, 1100, the fourth house down on the left.

  The first time I went, it was almost dark by the time I arrived. I walked up to the house as if I were simply heading home, la-di-da, then slowed my pace as I drew near. I studied the trees, the grass, the light fixtures—looking for signs of change, knowing there should be some since the family inside wasn’t mine. But the only differences were the cars in the driveway and the numbers on the front of the house that were now silver instead of white.

  I hid behind one of the palm trees that acted as a barrier to the house next door. And there, in my bedroom window, a soft yellow glow lit up sheer pink drapes. I couldn’t breathe. Another girl was enjoying my bedroom with its own bathroom and window overlooking the lake, while I was relegated to a green house with a black door and no yard.

  I was devastated but would return whenever something triggered a memory—finding Dad’s grilling apron jammed under a stack of clothes, or Judd’s fingers haphazardly running along the keys of Dad’s piano. Back then, I just wanted to see my old house. But after watching that program with my mom six months ago, the visits took on a mission. I had to get into the house.

  Finally, I got lucky two months ago. It was Sunday, the fifth of March, and it was one of those days that made you feel sad and lonely simply because the weather was crappy. A wet gray mist had hung around all day. I started reminiscing about making burned cookies with my dad and his homemade barbecue sauce with diced jalapeños. When my emotions were nice and raw, I repeatedly called and texted Ray, who wouldn’t pick up. Then, when I tried talking to Mary about missing him, she shut me down. I was on the verge of something, and it wasn’t good.

  So I took the bus, aching for a glimpse of a life that had been buried deep in the ground with my father. It had been a while since I’d visited, walked along the sidewalk that still had my initials carved into one of the concrete squares. And there it was—a FOR SALE sign pounded into the overgrown lawn. No cars in the driveway, no mail spilling from the mailbox, and no sheer pink drapes on my old bedroom window.

  I inched closer, put my hands against the glass window of the living room, where I would nestle into the sofa and read on rainy weekends. The house was empty, the front door locked. But I had once lived in this house, and I had once been locked out. I knew how to get in.

  The rear sliding glass door released under my special touch. I promptly closed it behind me and surveyed the tile floor, still bright and white. My eyes were drawn immediately to the spot where Dad’s piano had been, against the far right wall, where there was a window he said let in just the right amount of natural light. He didn’t like any kind of lamp resting on the old Chickering upright Mom insisted was a magnet for termites. I had been surprised she brought it with us to the new house. She probably plans on hawking it at a garage sale one day when things get too tight. It’s only a matter of time.

  I walked directly into the kitchen, knowing I’d be hit hard, but still anxious to see the honey-colored cupboards and the oven I burned my first batch of sugar cookies in. The tears came swift and fierce. There was my father, slumped in his chair, runny eggs staining the cuff of his work shirt.

  I ran to my old bedroom, curled myself into a ball on the carpet that had changed from forest green to berry pink, and howled like a sad, injured cat. I cried myself to sleep, and when I woke, Mary was there.

  “What are you doing here?” Was I dreaming? No, she was sitting next to me, running her fingers through the thick carpet.

  “I knew you needed me.”

  “How—”

  “Because you hung up on me three hours ago after you told me you wanted to call Ray and I told you if you did I’d never speak to you again.”

  I wasn’t about to tell her that I had called him. Texted him, too, like twenty times, but he never responded. I yawned and struggled to collect my thoughts.

  “No.” I rubbed at my swollen eyes. “I mean, how did you know I’d be here?”

  “I came with you once before. Don’t you remember?”

  Vaguely.

  “When you had your last major meltdown,” she continued. “Jesus, Rosie, it was just a few weeks ago. You thought Lucy had stolen your sketchbooks, but then you found them the next day, stuffed in an old pillowcase.”

  It wasn’t quite that way. Mary was the one who suggested Lucy had taken them, but I didn’t want to get into it and changed the subject. “How did you get in?” My brain was fuzzy, but not too fuzzy to ask questions.

  “You left the sl
iding back door open. Sloppy, Rosie, very sloppy. You’ll never make it as a professional burglar.” She let out a dry snort, trying to lighten the mood, but I was still groggy and confused. “Now come on,” she said, glancing at the bare window. “It’s getting dark. We should go.”

  We were both wearing cutoff denim shorts and snug pastel-colored tees—not exactly criminal attire, but sassy enough to be looked at twice if caught sneaking out of a house up for sale.

  “Not yet. I came for something.” I rose from the floor, shaking my leaden legs awake.

  “Something other than torturing yourself with painful memories? You’re a sadist.”

  Mary followed me out of my old bedroom and into the hallway that was once lined with family portraits and some of my bad elementary school art. I stopped in the middle of the hall, pointed to the attic hatch, and said, “I need to get up there.”

  “For what?”

  “My dad left me a box.”

  “From the grave? That’s some tricky shit.” She frowned. “You never told me.”

  “I’m telling you now,” I snapped. “Can you please help? I need a ladder or something.”

  “Well, empty houses don’t usually have ladders just sitting around,” Mary said, hands on hips, suspicious of this whole thing. “But I think I saw a folding chair near the front door. Sometimes Realtors keep them at properties when they’re waiting all day during open houses.”

  Pays to have a best friend whose mom is a Realtor, but I’ve often wondered how good Mrs. Perkins is at selling houses. She’s not that friendly, and her eyes are always darting all over the place when we talk. Mary says it’s just nervous energy.

  Anyway, she was right. I dragged the chair into the hall and asked Mary to hold it steady for me.

  I opened the hatch carefully, so the interior ladder wouldn’t drop on my head.

  “Wow. Cool,” Mary said, as the rickety wooden steps unfolded in front of me. “Why didn’t we ever hide out up there?” I looked down to see her beaming at me mischievously.

  “Because it’s not that kind of attic. There’s barely room to breathe up here. It’s full of insulation stuff.” I climbed the ladder and peeked inside the dark cavern, hoping I wouldn’t have to go any farther. I’m kind of claustrophobic. “Of course, I wasn’t smart enough to bring a flashlight.” After fumbling around, all I had were fingertips coated in dust and dirt. I climbed down the ladder and off the chair, then plopped to the floor and angrily wiped my dirty hands on my shorts.

  “Quitter,” Mary said. “Let me have a shot.” She stood on the chair and didn’t even ask me to hold it for her. Then she climbed the ladder and stuck the top half of her body way into the attic. She was taller than me, with longer arms, and those two things alone gave me hope.

  Mary grunted, shifted her body in different directions.

  “Feel anything?”

  “Nope.” She sounded far away, like she was deep inside a cave.

  Aggravated, I pulled my knees to my chest and dropped my head between them in defeat. Moments later, I heard her sneakers descending.

  “Except for this,” she said, presenting me with a dusty brown box.

  6

  THERE IS STILL the taste of Lou’s cherry pie on my tongue when I shed my clothes and slip into the robe I’d tossed on the floor earlier. An old sleeping bag rests at the back of my closet, wrapped up like a pink jelly roll. The box is inside it. I pull it out and carry it with me into bed. The brown leather has peeled off at the edges. Stains dot the top, random circles I imagine were made by the rain. I hold it to my nose, hoping for a whiff of him. But it doesn’t smell like my dad. It just smells old.

  The small silver clasp on the front releases at a flick of my finger. My heart always races when I lift the lid. Carefully, I extract each piece and lay them out on the comforter I’ve smoothed over my lap. Everything is so old, I’m afraid one hasty move will bend a picture or rip the brittle piece of paper that holds my dad’s handwritten words.

  May 29, 2009

  Dear Rosie Posie,

  Today is your tenth birthday. I just tucked you into bed wearing the polka-dot pajamas your best friend, Nicolette, gave you at your party. You love them so much, I hope you don’t insist on wearing them to school tomorrow, claiming a belt, socks, and shoes will mask their intended purpose.

  So you’ve found the box, and in it this letter, which means I’ve passed away. I’ve lived with a secret that at first gave me peace, but has grown to torture me as you cleverly cheat at cards, never fail to burn cookies in the oven, and create strange, beautiful outfits from nothing. Just like her.

  I’ve put off writing this for a long time. I chose today because while you and all your friends were outside playing in the pool, I was in the kitchen feeling another sharp pain in my chest. As I placed the candles on your birthday cake, I promised myself that today was the day. Tonight. No more waiting. One might say it was risky, taking a chance like that, and it was. Because I’ve been sick a long time. My heart is fragile and could stop beating at any moment.

  I’ve been lying to you, Rosie, and not just about my health.

  Sometimes a lie is told to protect people. Last month you lied to that new boy at school, telling him everyone was making fun of your outfit, when really they were laughing at his lisp. By the time you read this letter, you may have forgotten that story, but I hope you at least remember that I listened and understood. You had lied to spare him.

  I want to spare you, but once I’m gone, it’s only right that you know what I’ve kept from you, if not why. While this letter is meant to reveal the core of my secret, there are other layers that must die with me. I’m sorry, Rosie. You must think I’m a coward, and you’d be right.

  Your mother—your real mother—is alive. She didn’t die from an illness. You were a respectful child and never pushed me for more. As you’ve gotten older, I suspect you’ve become instinctive, too, and know that wanting details would only cause us both pain. I thank you for that.

  Lucy knows the truth, knows why Justine and I had to part ways. She can tell you without the heartache that would’ve crushed me all over again if I were to try. She wants to be a good mother. I’ve seen her give you extra raisins in your oatmeal and rub your back when you couldn’t fall asleep. But it’s been challenging. She doesn’t understand you like I do and struggles against your creative spirit. The incessant sketching, the multiple outfits that make loads of laundry. I think she feels separate from us. After all, you and I are blood.

  Know that I loved your mother very much, especially for giving me you. The other items in this box are all I have left of her. They’re yours now, so treasure them. If you’re brave enough, they may even lead you to her.

  I hope you can forgive me,

  Dad

  Forgive him? Possibly. I loved my dad, but those other “layers” he mentioned worry me. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Dad’s parting words feel more like a warning than a confession, which is why I needed to hire a private detective to find my mother and get to the bottom of things. I don’t want to wait my entire life for that other shoe.

  My poor father. I’d like to think he was blind—not blinded by love. Those extra raisins? Dumped like a mound of sweet and chewy insects. And when I didn’t want to finish them, her piercing glare was all I needed to know that every last one had better be eaten. She did rub my back. Once. While my father stood at the doorway and praised her affection. But what he didn’t see was the deliberate, tight squeeze she gave my neck before leaving my bedside. Back then, I couldn’t understand why she didn’t love me like a mother should. But as I got older, it became clear. I wasn’t hers. We weren’t blood.

  I carefully refold the letter and place it to the side.

  Since I didn’t feel comfortable leaving it with John, I add the photo of my mother to the rest of the stuff and take stock.

  A pictur
e from some sort of party, blurry people gathered behind them. Maybe not a party, more of a casual thing by the way my parents are dressed—Dad in jeans, a T-shirt, and a baseball cap; my mother in a pair of white capris and a red sweater, a yellow headband struggling to tame her wild dark hair. They’re on a couch. She’s on his lap, wrapped in his arms, one hand grabbing the brim of his cap. They’re not just smiling, they’re playing. I’ve peered at this photo of her until my eyes cross and I feel a headache coming on. I do resemble her—the big eyes and mouth, definitely the hair—but the overall shape of my face is more like my father’s, the cleft chin designating me a true Velvitt.

  The other picture is only of my mother—the one I showed John at the deli—looking pudgy, bundled up in a ski jacket, a pink pompom sprouting from her head. I imagine my father snapping the picture, giving her directions for a pose. Her arms are stretched out like a V, as if to say, “We’re finally here!” Above her, a giant letter C on a rustic wood sign. Beneath it, two words mostly obstructed. Letters sprout around her—C, M, and N—but most are blocked by flyers and my mother’s bulky figure. I turn it over. Justine is written with a heart over the i. I’ve always wondered if it was my father or my mother who wrote it that way.

  A copy of my birth certificate. Nothing weird there.

  And my favorite item in the box—a leather bracelet, about an inch wide, with two names embossed, separated by a flower: Justine and Leni. It’s only my favorite because I imagine her wearing it, but I’m insanely curious about this Leni person. What kind of name is that, anyway? Was it a boyfriend? But that would be spelled Lenny, and why would my dad ever keep something from one of my mother’s old boyfriends and then leave it for me?

  I lean over to examine it under the light of my lamp. The way the leather is worn and scratched, and the flower has lost its color. Based on my research, it’s the kind of bracelet kids were making during the ’70s. I figure they each made one, and Leni has a faded leather strip of her own, kept with other mementos carrying equally faded memories.