Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  “You’ve got some uncle. Your very own office at twenty. Impressive.”

  “Twenty-one in two months.”

  “Eighteen in two weeks.”

  “I know.” He crinkles his nose, sort of like his uncle does, and says, “Didn’t need to be a detective for that. I just asked John why he had postdated the contract to May twenty-ninth.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “Big day. If you’re good, I’ll invite you to my birthday party.” There is no party, but I like the sound of having one.

  “And if you promise we’ll play duck, duck, goose, maybe I’ll come.”

  Oh my God. Are we flirting? I need to stay focused and crush this butterfly in my chest. “So you two are close,” I say, changing channels.

  “My uncle never had any kids of his own. He’s always treated me like a son. When I showed an interest in the work, he took me under his wing.” I imagine John’s long arms tucking Mac into his feathery fold. “By the way, I believe this belongs to you.” He hands over a sealed envelope. I don’t need to open it, knowing all of my money is in there, and slip it into the side pocket of my backpack. “Just between us, he would never have charged you, even if I hadn’t suggested doing it pro bono. He told me that sometimes people come to you wanting to find someone who’s lost. And sometimes, they’re the one who’s lost.”

  John thinks I’m lost? I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that, so I change channels again. “What are those?” I ask, pointing at the pictures.

  He’s already resumed his seat behind a large desk peppered with picture frames facing away from me. Why am I secretly hoping they hold images of his family and not of him cozy with some girlfriend? I’m shaken out of the thought when he claps. “I’ll answer your question if you answer mine.”

  I take a seat in one of the chairs across from him. “What question?”

  “College?”

  “Oh, that one. Well, I want to go to design school, but maybe not right away. Thought I’d tour Europe, visit some of the better fashion houses, maybe show my sketchbook to a lead designer or two.”

  Mac nods, impressed. “Wow, sounds great.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” I smooth out my favorite ruffled skirt, then lock my feet at the ankles. “Too bad I’m not actually doing that.”

  Mac’s face drops. “Oh . . . I—”

  “It was a joke.”

  “And the fashion thing? Was that a joke, too?” He’s staring at me with those moss-green eyes that pop against his caramel skin.

  “No. That’s real. Want to see?” It’s not exactly something I shove in people’s faces, but he seems genuinely interested, and for some reason I want to impress him.

  “Definitely.”

  “I applied to the Fashion House last November. It’s a design school in Miami Beach,” I say, reaching into my backpack for one of my sketchbooks. “They have an excellent program, one of the best in South Florida, but it’s tough to get in. I’m still waiting to hear.” I happen to open it to the page I’d been working on when I met that nasty old lady on the bus. The jumper, only half-done. I turn it around so the design is facing Mac.

  “Where did you learn to sketch like this?”

  “I’ve always chosen art as an elective in school. Half the time I was forced to make crappy papier-mâché projects, but the other half I got some decent drawing instruction. Maybe I was born with a little talent, too.” I imagine my mother gave it to me since the extent of my dad’s artistic skill was putting a fresh coat of paint on the house.

  Mac’s still studying the jumper when he says, “This is interesting.”

  “Interesting good or interesting weird?”

  “No. Interesting good.”

  “Thanks.” I’m beaming, for sure.

  “What is it?” he asks. I’m about to swat him across the table when he laughs and says he’s kidding. He flips through more pages, pausing on a gown I explain would have a sequin-encrusted neckline, maybe cuffs, too.

  He stops on a page full of cargo shorts and coordinating vests with lots of zippers and pockets. “These are cool.”

  “Those are Mary’s favorite, too,” I say brightly. It’s always good when more than one person likes the same thing.

  “Who’s Mary?”

  “My best friend. She’s kind of outdoorsy, even though she hates the heat.”

  He nods, still studying the shorts, clearly impressed. “They’re good, Rosie. You’ve got some serious talent.”

  I haven’t shared my designs with a lot of people, mostly just Mary. So this is a new feeling, warm and tingly, and I don’t think it’s only because he likes my drawings.

  “I wish I really could go,” I say. “I’d love to grab every one of my sketchbooks and jet off to Italy, or maybe France! Become someone’s apprentice, run my fingers across soft fabrics all day, stab my fingers with needles, cut my fingers with scissors, and have all the charcoal pencils I’ll ever need tucked into a smock.” I press Pause on my fantasy. “I need to go to school first. I know that. Sorry for rambling.”

  “No, don’t apologize. I think that’s great. You have a dream, Rosie.” His warm smile fades before he says, “It’s important to have one.” He closes my notebook carefully, and slides it back to me. Then he pulls a pen and legal pad from the drawer. “I hope you get your wish, and that Italy or France or wherever is in your future.” He pops the pen cap, poises the tip above the yellow-lined paper. “But for now, let’s talk about your past.”

  • • •

  Part of me feels like we’re two kids playing Clue, but there’s no denying Mac’s earnestness and dedication to his job. I don’t know where to begin, so he prompts me with a stern, professional voice meant to get things rolling.

  “Let’s start with the box. When and where did you find it?”

  “A little over two months ago, in my old house.”

  I tell him that it’s up for sale, so the house was empty. Then I describe how I gained access through the rear sliding glass door. He nods like he’s impressed with my breaking-and-entering skills, too.

  “We found the box in the attic.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Mary and I.”

  “Did you bring the contents of the box with you?”

  Sometimes his language is so stuffy. But it’s kind of cute, too. He’s like an old adult in a young man’s body. I lean over the chair to get it from my backpack. As I’m digging around, moving books out of the way, I feel Mac’s eyes on me when he sort of leans forward. Can he see down my shirt at this angle? I pull together the collar of my blouse just in case.

  “Voilà,” I say, presenting the Ziploc bag to him.

  “What happened to the box?”

  “Safekeeping.” The truth is, I imagine the scent of Dad’s fingertips still on it and don’t want to risk losing that.

  “May I?” he asks, waiting for permission to open the seal.

  “Of course. That’s why I’m here.” But I am nervous to have someone else’s hands touch my dad’s letter, the pictures, my birth certificate, the bracelet.

  He must sense my hesitation because he asks, “Would you prefer I wear gloves?”

  “Should you? I mean, because of fingerprints and stuff?”

  “This isn’t a homicide case. Plus, I assume these items have been held by you many times. Lifting prints wouldn’t yield any other than yours, anyway.”

  “Oh.” Suddenly, I feel stupid. “Then don’t worry about the gloves. Just dive in.”

  He splays out his hands and says, “They’re clean.”

  “Go ahead . . .” I egg him on with a smile.

  “Why don’t you come around on this side?” he offers. My insides clench. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite. Unless, of course, you smell like cherry pie.”

  “Which reminds me,” I say, sidestepping the
flirty comment. “Why did you think peach? The night we met. You thought I’d prefer peach pie.”

  He points at my left cheek. “You’ve got a small patch of blond fuzz right near your ear. Your face is kind of round and you’ve got that cleft in your chin, like the dimple at the bottom of a peach and . . .” He pauses as his cheeks bloom raspberry pink. “Possibly sweet.”

  “Possibly?”

  “Not sure yet,” he teases.

  Now I’m blushing, too, and growing warm inside. Whether he knows it or not, this guy is using a blowtorch on my heart Ray managed to freeze. “Well, there’s no chance of smelling like any kind of pie. I probably reek of Del Vista, which is a combination of old textbooks and Lysol.” I join him on his side of the desk. He tells me to sit in his chair while he stands.

  “Okay. Let’s go through each item, piece by piece.”

  “I’ve already done that a hundred times,” I say, making no attempt to hide my frustration.

  “Look into my eyes,” he says. “These are what you call a fresh pair. I’ll find something, Rosie. And like dominoes, one clue will knock into another clue and before we know it, we’ll have found your mother.”

  I can already hear the clicking and clacking of small white tiles.

  16

  LUCY COMES HOME beaming like a platinum-haired sun shower.

  After spending an hour with Mac yesterday and the two of us constantly referring to the woman I’m trying to find as my mother, I woke up today with the title stuck in my throat and can no longer use it for my father’s second wife. I wouldn’t go so far as calling her by name to her face—she hasn’t been that bad these past twelve years, though after my dad died the proverbial gloves came off. One day she’s offering to buy me new bras, and the next she’s screaming through the house that she knows I stole her cigarettes (which is usually true, but most times she’s just misplaced them or has already smoked more than she realized). So she can be a little unpredictable toward me. I get it. After all, I’m not her real daughter, just baggage that came with a ring. As much as I haven’t wanted to believe it, that’s the truth.

  So Lucy has floated through the front door as if on a cloud made especially for her. I’m warming up four-day-old Itchin’ for Chicken in the microwave, watching it pop and splatter oil against the plastic window.

  “Lookie, lookie!” she sings, then muffles a cough. It’s not her typical work attire of jeans and a tight blouse with one too many buttons unbuttoned that she wants me to notice. She’s thrown out her left hand so fiercely she almost hits me in the face. I back up against the counter to get a better look. On her finger is the diamond ring Judd showed me last week. I’m glad it finally happened. I’d been waiting for him to pop the question and get it over with.

  “He surprised me today at work. Took me to lunch and—”

  The microwave dings. “Congratulations,” I say.

  Lucy’s face falls like a child who’s been sent to bed. “You don’t sound very happy.”

  I force a smile. “There. I’m happy.”

  “Happy as a one-eyed toad.” Lucy’s voice has the nasty razor’s edge she gets when someone’s response doesn’t match her expectations. “What’s your problem?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Sure you do. It’s written all over your face, which, by the way, needs a good scrubbing. It’s all oily. And must you wear your hair like that, so crazy? You should pull it back once in a while.”

  I bite my tongue, clench my teeth, whatever I have to do so that I don’t explode. She knows my mother’s alive. It says so in my father’s letter. Like me, Mac was scratching his head after reading it.

  Mac: Why has she never told you the truth?

  Me (trying not to roll my eyes): Exactly. That’s what I’ve been racking my brain about since I found out months ago.

  Mac: This is our first clue, Rosie. I have a feeling the reason behind Lucy’s silence may be linked to the whereabouts of your mother.

  Whereabouts. Mac’s all about the detective lingo.

  So if Lucy knows I know, her own reason for hiding the truth will be blown. Mac and I agreed it was best to keep up the charade.

  “Let me see it,” I say, pretending to cave a little.

  Begrudgingly, she extends her hand.

  “It’s pretty.”

  “Pretty? It’s gorgeous! Almost a full carat! The ring your father gave me was barely—”

  “Don’t,” I snap. “You will not trash him.” I turn away and press the microwave door, which always sounds like it’s breaking when it opens.

  “You’re being selfish,” she says.

  I pull out the plate of sizzling chicken. “How is that?”

  “You don’t want me to be happy.” The ring catches her attention again. “Did you ever think for once about my loneliness since your father died?”

  I grab a fork and knife from the utensil drawer. The late-afternoon sun slices through the kitchen, lighting up our shoes, darkening our faces. “Uh, you found Judd like ten minutes after Dad died. When did you have time to get lonely?” I walk right past her and take a seat at the table. Stabbing the chicken with the knife, I pull back the skin with my fingers. It’s a thigh. Dark meat. If I wasn’t so hungry, I’d toss it at her, or at the very least, in the garbage.

  “I take it back,” she says, but it’s clear by her tone she’s poised to throw another dagger. “You’re not being selfish.” Here it comes. “You’re being a bitch.” And there it is.

  Am I? It’s just that seeing her wearing the ring makes it official. Her commitment to my father is over. Done. For some reason, it hurts and makes me angry. I hear Mac in my head, telling me to keep my cool. I stick a piece of chicken in my mouth and force myself to chew. I forgot to get a drink, but don’t dare get up from the table.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbles.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Fine! Don’t accept my apology!” Lucy shouts, her face pinched like a raisin.

  “What’s going on in here?” Judd appears in the kitchen doorway. I didn’t even know he was home. It’s four thirty on a Tuesday afternoon. He should be flipping fries in grease right about now.

  Lucy pouts, her bright red lipstick becoming an exaggerated clown frown. “Rosie doesn’t like my ring,” she declares. “And she’s got a fresh mouth.” She starts rummaging around in the drawer next to the stove. “Where did you hide them? I know you hid them.” Her voice is growing frantic, but I refuse to tell her where I put her pack of cigarettes. I’ve done it for years, hiding or flat-out dumping them. Did I really need another parent dying on me?

  Judd sweeps into the room wearing dirty gym shorts and an undershirt that allows a full view of clumpy brown armpit hair. His creased cheek and glassy eyes are clear giveaways that our argument has woken him from an afternoon nap.

  “You need to show your mother some respect,” he says, sitting in the chair next to me. Then he grabs the chicken thigh from my plate and takes a bite. “And now that I’ll be your stepdaddy, you’ll need to show me some, too.” He licks his fingers, puts what’s left of the chicken back on my plate. Under the table, he grabs my knee and squeezes it. “Apologize to your mother.”

  I mumble something unintelligible into my napkin, just to get them off my back.

  “Well, if I can’t have a cigarette, I’ll have a drink,” Lucy spits.

  “I’ll fix it for you, babe.” Judd narrows his eyes at me before grabbing a bottle of something from the cabinet. I’m afraid if I look close enough, claws will have sprouted from his fingertips. He’s sneering with the twisted desire a predator has for its prey. It’s a look that finally confirms what I’ve always suspected. He’s coming for me.

  • • •

  Mary and I are on the phone. Over at her house, she may simply have her bedroom door closed, but mine is locked and braced by a chair. I’m
not taking any chances with Judd on the prowl.

  “So did he get down on one knee and cluck out the proposal while holding a bucket of wings?”

  I can always count on Mary to make me laugh when I want to scream. “I don’t think so, but thanks for the visual.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’m beginning to think . . . I don’t know. If I do find my mother, maybe I can stay with her. I don’t think Lucy wants me around anymore.”

  “News flash. She hasn’t wanted you around for a long time,” Mary says.

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Come on, Rosie girl. Do you need me to make a laundry list for you? ’Cause I could start with the time she left you waiting for her after school one day in ninth grade. Remember how cold it was? Rainy, too. You ended up taking the bus, and when you got home she said she forgot. That was it. No apology, no nothing. She forgot about you.”

  That’s not how I remembered it. Lucy did apologize, said she got held up at work. “But she made me mushroom soup when I got home,” I added, somehow feeling the need to defend her.

  “Mushroom soup?” Mary asks. “What are you talking about? Lucy’s never given you a hot bowl of anything. She’s been a witch your whole life and you know it.”

  “Sometimes, maybe,” I hedge.

  “Sometimes my ass. She’s Cruella De Vil minus the Dalmatians.”

  That makes me laugh again, imagining Lucy’s platinum hair streaked with black, a fur stole wrapped around her shoulders. “Well, maybe I can escape her evil clutches. Mac is hopeful he’ll find Justine—”

  “That’s the first time you’ve said her name out loud,” she says.

  I think for a moment and agree. “It’s a pretty name, isn’t it?”

  “Gorgeous,” Mary says, mocking me.

  “Anyway, Mac says the things I gave him are like dominoes that will knock into one another.”

  “Dominoes, huh?” I imagine her rolling her eyes, all skeptical.

  “Yeah, those were his exact words. I’m feeling kind of confident.”

  Silence.