Rosie Girl

by Julie Shepard

  “I’m sorry,” Mac says. “But you still have more than most. Or you will. Five hundred grand. Plus a little something else.” He tilts up my chin so he can kiss me. It’s soft, but short, and I settle my head against his chest to take a breath. “And who knows? You may have your real mother at some point, too.”

  I pull away. “You really think so?”

  “I think we’ve got a solid direction. Based on the facts we have so far, she’s somewhere in Colorado. Always has been. Which is why, I believe, your dad forged a Florida birth certificate by changing the name of the hospital, the county, all that stuff. It was the first thing John checked. Your father didn’t want anything to lead you back there.”

  That scares me. What else has my dad been hiding all these years?

  “John should be home tomorrow,” he says, “and then he’ll run her name again—her real name. We’ll have more answers soon. I promise.”

  Even outside, the whiny sound of violins reaches us from downstairs.

  “I think I hear wedding bells,” Mac says.

  “Either that, or the death march.”

  • • •

  So what do I say? That the ceremony was marvelous, and the bride and groom made a splendid appearance, and their vows were magnificent, and all that phony stuff?

  Hardly. All I’m going to say is that I got through it. But I did notice one thing that everyone had to notice. Lucy loves Judd. I was seated in the first row of chairs with a clear view of her face. There were tears. But him? No tears, which made me suspicious. Never mind the fact that ten days ago he was trying to get into my pants. He must know about the inheritance. Is that why he’s held on to her? A sliver of me actually felt sorry for Lucy, wondering how many more seventeen-year-old girls he’ll go after.

  Back at the table, I focus on the swimming yellow roses and nibble buttery garlic bread while Mac nurses a light beer. Or two. I haven’t been keeping tabs on him. I could tell he was pleasantly surprised when the bartender set up in the corner didn’t card him. He nudged me to get something, so I asked for a glass of wine and got a red one that tastes like feet.

  During the first course, Lucy and Judd visit our table. He’s got his arm around her waist; she’s spilling out of her dress.

  “So this must be Mac, the one who sent you flowers,” Lucy says, eyeballing him. I’m surprised she remembered his name.

  “Yep.” My tone must be a little too clipped for her. She nestles her face in my hair, whispers in my ear.

  “You’re not still upset with me about the money, are you?”

  In the same hushed voice, I sarcastically reply, “Yes, but don’t worry. I won’t ruin your wedding night.”

  “Like I’d let you . . . ,” she says with a snake’s tongue, then returns her attention to Mac.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says. “Congratulations to you both.”

  Judd reaches in, and he and Mac manage an awkward handshake over a basket of bread.

  “You taking good care of my little girl?” she asks, but doesn’t wait for his answer. She tips my chin up with two fingers. “You don’t look so good. And what’s this?” Her eyes dip below my shoulder.

  “Nothing,” I say, lurching away from her.

  “You ripped your new dress already? Too tight? I told you to watch it.”

  Judd snickers at her dig, making me furious.

  “All those chips and root beer sodas.” Lucy tsks, and if I could, I’d yank off the silly flower headpiece and shove it down her cleavage. That sliver of pity I felt during the ceremony? It’s now with the rest of the trash in the alley.

  Mac swallows hard. “Yes, I’m taking good care of her.” Under the table, he squeezes my thigh, which has been doing this uncontrollable-shaking thing. A couple hours hasn’t done much to ease the trauma of Ray’s attack. My insides remain twisted in knots that refuse to untie.

  “She’s a handful,” Lucy says, pinching my cheek harder than necessary. “But worth it. A little rough around the edges, but—”

  “Rosie’s a lovely girl,” he interrupts, which also shuts down Judd’s snickering.

  “What’s that you’re drinking?” she asks, even though the empty Bud Light bottle is sitting on the table right in front of him.

  Mac picks it up as if to check for himself. “Just a light beer—”

  “Hmm . . . by the way you’re talking, I’d think you’ve been knocking back something a little stronger.”

  Oh my God. How could I have ever wanted someone like her to love me? She thinks this small tear in the armpit is bad? Wait till she sees the enormous red wine stain I’ll be sure to have before the evening’s over.

  “Why not get him something, babe?” Judd asks. “Roland gave us an awesome bottle of Jack. Break it out. Rosie’s got herself a nice guy here. Even more reason to celebrate.”

  I’m not sure what’s going on here, but before I can decline on his behalf, Lucy drifts away and leaves Judd hovering over us. He doesn’t look as crisp as he did a couple hours ago. The tie and jacket are gone, the white dress shirt bunched up around the waistband of his pants. “She’ll be back in a minute,” he says. “How ’bout a little game of whiskey pong, Matt?”

  “It’s Mac,” I correct him.

  “Whiskey pong?” Mac asks.

  “You’re in college, right? Same thing as beer pong, only with—”

  “I get it,” Mac says.

  Judd grabs his shoulders like they’re old friends and gives them a shake. “Then let’s put that wedding gift to good use.”

  Mac, still in his grip, shoots me a nervous glance. I don’t think he’s a big drinker.

  Judd takes off, visiting other tables to round up more players. I think he’s already had enough. Not that I blame him, since he’s become shackled to Lucy for life—or death. You never know. Lucy barely got through her vows without hacking. At one point, she even pulled out a tissue from the top of her dress and wiped her mouth with it. Before she tucked it back in, I thought I saw a spot of red but couldn’t be sure.

  37

  TURNS OUT, Mac isn’t so good at whiskey pong. It took Roland and another guy to carry and unload him into the passenger seat of his car. Lucky for him I know how to drive stick shift, thanks to Judd forcing me to learn one day in his truck.

  When I cut the engine in my driveway, he snaps awake. Well, kind of.

  “Where are we?” he asks groggily. It’s cute seeing Mac drunk—so unlike his uptight, responsible self.

  “My house.” I jingle the car keys in his ears. Lucy and Judd are spending the night in a honeymoon suite at some hotel downtown.

  “What time is it?” he asks.

  “Almost midnight.”

  I grab my purse from the back, get out of the car, then open his door. His leg falls out.

  “Come on, Mac. No sleeping in the car.” I tuck my head under one arm, then hoist him up so I’m carrying him like he’s a soldier injured in battle. It’s never taken me so long to walk the path to my house. I have to fumble with my keys while trying to hold him up. I finally push open the black door and we all but fall into the house. Mac’s shoe hits my bad ankle as we tumble onto the tile floor.

  “Ow!”

  He rubs my arm. “You’re soft,” he slurs, his breath thick with beer and whiskey.

  Memories of Ray stir instantly, and I push him aside. He lands near the bench of my father’s piano and stays there.

  “You need a cold shower,” I say, getting to my feet.

  He grabs my good ankle. “No, come back down here.”

  I gently shake him loose, like a puppy. “Forget the shower. But at least crawl over to that couch so you can pass out properly.”

  And so he does. Poor guy probably had more to drink tonight than he’s had the past three years in college. I find myself snickering as he slides along the tile floor, pulling himself
up and onto the couch like a bag of bones. I place an afghan over him and his mouth falls slack.

  The ringing of Mac’s phone startles me. It vibrates toward the edge of the table where he threw it, but I grab it before it falls. It’s John. Mac said he was still out of town, plus it’s after midnight on a Saturday. Something’s up.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh . . . is Mac there?”

  “John, it’s Rosie.”

  “Rosie? Why are you answering Mac’s phone?” Not accusatory, more surprised. I wait a beat before answering.

  “The wedding was tonight,” I say, ready to launch into explanation mode. “Lucy and Judd. They got married.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mac took me. I hope that’s okay. I really didn’t want to go alone.”

  “It’s okay, Rosie. It’s fine. But can I talk to him?”

  Uh-oh.

  “Please don’t be mad. Mac had a little too much to drink. He’s fine, sleeping on the couch.” I pause, waiting for John to reply, but he stays silent. “Do you want me to give him a message?” More silence. “John? Is everything okay?”

  “Maybe it’s better this way, anyway.” No, he’s not angry.

  “What’s better?” I ask.

  “Telling you directly.” He sounds really weird.

  “Telling me what? Are you back in town?”

  “Got in late tonight and passed by the office. Mac had left me your case folder on my desk, so I went through all of his notes. That nephew of mine did some good work.”

  I calmly agree with him, but I’m anxious and want to reach through the phone and yank words out of John’s mouth.

  “The impatient side got the best of me,” he says. “I couldn’t wait to run her name.”

  I don’t know what he’s going to say next, yet my whole body clenches with anticipation. “I’m listening,” I say, so nervous I have to take a seat on my father’s piano bench.

  “I found her, Rosie. I found your mother.”

  38

  I DO SOMETHING CRAZY. After repeatedly trying to wake Mac from his stupor, I slap him hard across the face. Well, not that hard, but hard enough for his head to pop off the couch and for him to cry, “What? What’s happened?”

  “Mac, sit up. John’s on the phone.” I’m holding it in front of his half-open eyes so he can see his uncle’s name. He peers at the screen.

  “Tell him I’ll call him tomorrow.” Then he says to the phone, “Hey, Uncle John! I’ll call you tomorrow!”

  I put the phone back to my ear. “No, he won’t. We’re calling you back in a few minutes once I’ve gotten some coffee into him.”

  I hang up and take Mac’s face in my hands, forcing his droopy eyes to look at me. “He found her.”

  • • •

  Sitting across from each other at the kitchen table, we’ve got steaming mugs of sludge and Mac’s cell on speaker between us.

  “She’s in a sanatorium.” John dumps it like a boulder in our laps.

  “What? No way.” It’s the first thing that comes out of my mouth.

  Mac reaches out and pats my hand. “Where did you find her, John?”

  “Colorado, as we suspected, in a very small town called Burlington. I don’t have much more information than that. Psychiatric institutions have several layers of confidentiality. They’re not just going to disclose information about a patient because I ask. Mind you, I did my best to shake them down, but all I got was the sense she’s been there a long time.”

  “So that’s it?” I ask.

  “It is. The rest is up to you if you want to pursue it.”

  The three of us remain silent. Mac sips his coffee, makes an exaggerated frown.

  “Look,” John says. “Why don’t we all get together on Monday. It’s late, and I’m beat. Been traveling all day. Can you come by the office after school, Rosie?”

  “Of course.” I’ll go right after Lucy’s surprise send-off lunch, which would probably be around the same time, anyway.

  We hang up, and I’m literally shaking from the news. The coffee isn’t helping. I need food, something in my stomach. I reach behind me, pull out a cookie from the ceramic jar, and offer one to Mac.

  Inspecting it in the dim kitchen light, he asks, “Oatmeal raisin?”

  “Yep.”

  He takes a bite, then says, “They’re burned.”

  “I know. That’s how I like them.”

  He puts his down while I nibble on mine and sip the hot coffee, which tastes good going down.

  “So she’s still there.”

  “Probably never left,” he says. “At some point, your father took you and moved to Florida.”

  “I wonder what happened.” My mind races with possibilities, but I rattle off the most obvious one. “Do you think . . . ?”

  “Do I think what?”

  “That my father put her in there? According to his letter, he loved her. Something must have happened.”

  “Or is still happening,” Mac says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s in a mental hospital, Rosie. She’s ill.”

  “I get it,” I say, a kernel of sadness popping in my chest. But ill how? Or how ill? It makes a difference, the order of the words. Is she like Elaine’s husband, Alan, staring at a television in some cold white room because she stopped recognizing my father? Or me?

  I’ve read my father’s letter so many times, I remember it word for word, have even recited it silently when I had trouble sleeping. Justine and I had to part ways. Had to, as if it was necessary. He didn’t want to.

  “So you think that’s why he left her?” I’ve got a serious hunch that’s the case, but I pose the question anyway.

  Mac shrugs, takes another bite of the cookie. “I don’t know.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it. That John found her with your help. She’s alive, but she’s . . . you know.”

  I’ve painted a dozen scenarios about her, including ones where she’s gone, too. Like my dad. Joined together in heaven. But most of them have been snapshots of her leading a normal life with another husband and a kid or two she wanted to keep. My dad said she was into fashion like me, too. I’ve imagined her as a famous designer who goes by an exotic name she made up.

  But of the dozen scenarios, not even one involved her wrapped in a straitjacket or shackled to a bed for her own good.

  Mac peers into his cup.

  “More?” I offer.

  “No. One cup of mud is my limit.”

  “Sobered you up, though, didn’t it?”

  “Not as much as this news.”

  “I know. I think I’m in shock.” I return to the coffee machine, even though I don’t want any more. I just don’t know what to do with myself. My body is exhausted, but my mind is on overdrive.

  “You can’t possibly want more of that muck.” Mac has come up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. I grip them, basking in the comfort. He kisses my neck.

  “Are you still drunk?” I ask, spinning around in his embrace.

  “Not after that coffee I’m not.”

  There’s no use suppressing a smile, but still my hands keep his chest inches away. “I’m serious, Mac.”

  “Me, too. About you.”

  “Why?”

  He places a finger on the cleft in my chin. “Because of this.” Then trails up the side of my face and strokes the patch of fuzz on my cheek. “And this.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “I wasn’t done,” he says, then backs away. “You’re honest and talented and you make me laugh.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You also wear fluffy yellow sweaters, always smell like fruity shampoo, and know how to drive a mean stick shift.” His breath smell
s like cinnamon and burned coffee.

  “Okay,” I say. “You’ve convinced me.” Then I sink into his arms he’s wrapped around me and smell something else—hope.

  39

  I’M DREAMING OF MAC. We’re in the woods, walking along muddy trails, yet I hear tapping, like nails on glass. I don’t want to leave the trail and beg my brain to stay put.

  Mac is leading. “This way, not much farther,” he says, and then my foot plunges into something thick and wet, and I’m sinking, screaming for him to pull me out, and then I’m pleading to that same part of my brain to wake up, because I know I can.

  “Hey, birthday girl!” It’s a loud whisper that yanks me from the quicksand, out of the forest, away from Mac.

  My alarm clock shows 5:57 a.m. I look to my door, expecting to see Lucy standing there, pretending to be excited about my birthday, but she’s not. I notice a folded piece of paper on the floor, a note slipped under my door during the night.

  “Rosie, open up!” Same loud whisper. I follow it to the window, where the tapping starts again. It’s Mary, and she’s holding a cupcake with a lit candle in the center. I scramble out of bed, pick up the note, then swiftly unlock the window for her and remove the screen. Don’t want to wake the newlyweds who have yet to fully recover from the weekend. Yesterday, they holed themselves up in their bedroom all day, emerging only twice for food and drink. I was able to watch four episodes of Hem for Your Life in the living room, eating salty crackers and cream of broccoli soup for dinner.

  “I thought you’d forgotten . . . ,” I say, glancing at the paper while Mary contorts herself through the window.

  “Forgotten about the day you turn legal?” She’s rather sprightly for this time of day.

  I accept the cupcake, my mouth watering at the thick spread of chocolate frosting.

  “Forgotten about me altogether.” I close my eyes, make a wish, and blow out the candle. When I hand it to her, she licks the frosting from the edges.

  “Well, that’s not possible, and we both know it.”

  “I’ve missed you,” I say.