Hugo & Rose

by Bridget Foley

  * * *

  Years before, when she was pregnant with Isaac, Rose had seen her aunt Barbara walking away from her in the international foods aisle of the grocery store.

  What’s she doing here? Rose had thought, delighted at the unexpected chance to catch up.

  She had gotten as far as shouting “Bar—” when she remembered that Barb was dead. That she had been dead nine years, since an aneurysm had quietly plucked her from life. That Rose had helped her cousin pick the jewelry Barb’s corpse would wear for the viewing. That she had let the flowers from the church wilt in the heat of her car during the gathering afterward at her uncle’s home, and when she returned to it that night, it had smelled overwhelmingly of lilies, stale water, and floral foam.

  The woman at the other end of the aisle stopped and turned toward the stilted sound Rose had made. Rose’s eyes met hers for a moment, and the details that had made her “Barb” melted away in the contradictions. The high-waisted jeans over the flat landscape of her butt, the dry ginger cast of her hair, the slight hitch in her gait: The “Barb-ness” of her was still there, but it was subsumed by the “not-Barb-ness.” The angle of her eyes. The gray cast of her skin. The slackness of her face.

  The woman had looked away quickly and Rose had shuddered, pretending to study the rack of lasagna noodles while she composed herself.

  Later, when she told Josh about the encounter, he had said that that sort of thing happened because the brain was a “pattern recognition machine,” but it was a lazy one. Rose’s brain had taken a shortcut, its best guess given the stimuli it was given (ass, hair, walk), and sent a ghost down the aisle of the Piggly Wiggly.

  When Rose had said it was “spooky anyway,” Josh had grinned and said the human brain was the spookiest thing he could imagine. “It’s all dark corridors and creaky staircases,” he had said in a mock dark voice before launching himself onto her with a kiss.

  Sitting in the parking lot of the Orange Tastee, Rose tried to use the memory of Josh’s voice to slow the heart racing beneath her seat belt.

  To a brain, a person is nothing more than a pattern. A collection of stimuli … What had Josh called it? A neural pathway.

  That’s what had happened.

  Rose racked her mind for the details that would melt him away. The “un-ness” that had dissolved Barb that day in the grocery store.

  They did not come.

  Maybe if I just got another look at him …

  But she shook that thought off as soon as it arrived. Barb at least had been real. She had once been a living, breathing human with children and a wicked tennis serve.

  But Hugo?

  Hugo was never real. Rose was not asleep and on the beaches of her dreamland. She was conscious and sitting in her car in a shitty small town in eastern Colorado.

  * * *

  The tournament was canceled. Isaac’s coach sent a mass text, which Rose received just as the kids were finishing up their meal.

  Isaac took the news better than expected. The unfinished game defaulted in his team’s favor, meaning that the winning goal had been his.

  Rose drove them home on the rain-slick highway, stopping halfway at a gas station for a potty break. The boys begged to buy candy from metal display shelves, a wish that Rose uncharacteristically granted, handing each a dollar.

  She put a mix of children’s music into the player for the rest of the ride. The boys sang along to the songs about planets and paleontologists, listing the colors of the rainbow. They ate their candy bars and looked for Volkswagen Beetles on the highway. Penny fell asleep. They were happy.

  Rose’s mind raced. Filled with Hugo.

  * * *

  Josh had Sunday off. Though he’d wanted to take the kids to the park, maybe convince Penny to try the slide, the rain spoiled his plans.

  Instead he had made pancakes. He had had to ask Rose every step of the way where the necessary tools were (“Whisk?” “Top drawer.” “Griddle?” “Lower cabinet”), but he had managed to make a family meal without poisoning them all.

  Even Rose, who could get testy about the mess Josh would make in the kitchen, didn’t seem to mind as much as usual. She sat at the table, staring out at the rain hitting their backyard, while he took requests from the kids: A kitty for Pen. A Mickey for Adam. A spider for Isaac.

  After breakfast, everyone stayed in their pajamas. Though neither Rose nor Josh said it, there was an implicit agreement that today would be a “do-nothing day.” Josh lay on the floor with the boys, playing a third to their adventures; policing Penny, making sure none of their Legos ended up in her mouth.

  He was enamored with them. Fascinated. When did Penny start stringing so many words together? When did Isaac’s legs get so long? When did Adam start looking so much like a tiny, male version of Rose?

  Josh looked at his wife, holding a cup of coffee, her feet tucked up on the couch. Her eyes were distant, lost in thought. He loved looking at her when she didn’t know he was looking. There was a tension that appeared around her mouth when she knew she was being observed.

  God, she is lovely.

  Josh wanted to take her upstairs right now. Slip his hands up the soft cotton of her T-shirt. Pull at the waistband of his pajama bottoms, the ones she was wearing and had claimed for her own.

  Josh saw none of the ugliness Rose saw in herself. She was to him the perfect Rose. His Rose. His beautiful, single, blooming Rose.

  He got up from the floor and kissed her. Soft and sweet. Chaste enough for the kids to see.

  When he pulled away, she smiled at him. Distracted still, but appreciative of the gesture. He sat next to her, breathing in the smell of coffee and the tangy scent of her neck. “What are you thinking about?”

  Rose’s eyes sharpened. Finally with him, instead of the somewhere else she had been in the reaches of her mind.

  “Nothing … I’m not thinking of anything.” She chirped, “Should I make more coffee?”

  * * *

  Over the next week, Rose’s mind boiled with the man from the drive-through. She made detailed lists of the things about him that were not Hugo: the cheap plastic glasses, the soft cup of a double chin, the thin peaks of hair on his forehead. In her dreams Hugo’s eyes were perfect, able to see the herds of Bucks moving through the saw grass at a distance. And his jaw was firm. And his hair was full, shiny as it picked up in the breeze. The man in the window was nothing like Hugo.

  But still …

  His eyes had the same chocolate hue. His smile the same crooked shape. The plane of his nose the same angle.

  The man looked like Hugo in disguise. Hiding the real him beneath a poly-blend shirt and the fledgling inner tube of male middle age.

  Rose felt the way she had felt at her high school reunion, witnessing the decline of the beauty of youth. The faded jocks and wrinkled princesses. This man was as alike to Hugo as all those people were to their youthful counterparts. And like those strangely familiar grown-ups, this man looked like the Hugo she knew, but worn. Hugo without the gleam of the man in her dreams.

  Rose tried to put him out of her mind. Concentrated on the immediate tasks of her life. Doing the laundry. Cleaning the car. Dropping the kids off at school.

  But the man from the drive-through bubbled to the surface even during these menial tasks. He was everywhere. He was a french fry crushed into the upholstery of Penny’s car seat. He was the grass stain on the seat of Adam’s soccer shorts. He was the head of the PTA, peeling an orange for her youngest, inquiring whether Rose would be attending Mommy’s Margarita Night.

  Rose had watched the woman’s fingernails slide under the skin of the orange, pulling the fruit from the pith. It wasn’t possible. But still …

  “Rose? Will you be there?” The woman had had to pull her away from her thoughts of fast-food restaurants and imaginary men.

  “Yes. Maybe. I—I’ll try,” Rose stammered, trying to cover.

  Her dreams during this time did not change at all. There was nothing different
about the island. Nothing different about the business she and Hugo conducted. Castle City remained a distant goal, the island remained a paradise.

  No, that wasn’t entirely true. There was something different. Rose noticed it in the moments of calm, when she’d watch Hugo as he beamed his confident grin at the distant horizon, studying the shape of his jaw, the trace of his hairline, comparing him with the Hugo she’d seen in her waking hours. The Man Who Was Not Hugo.

  On those occasions, when Rose would turn to him to steal a look, she’d catch him glancing away furtively. As if he’d been studying her, too. And wondering the same things.

  But upon waking, instead of lolling in the remembered glow of her time with Hugo, or resenting the fact that she had to wake up at all, Rose would lie in bed, her thoughts immediately traveling to a truck stop town sixty miles away, an inconsequential food stand, and the man who could be starting his shift there.

  * * *

  Naomi had a theory.

  Rose had debated telling her about the apparition. She was worried it would make her seem crazy in a “not good” way. Movie crazy. Institution crazy.

  That was why she had not told Josh. She didn’t want to see the look on his face that would confirm her worst fears. That she’d come unhinged. That her mind had broken. That she was a disappointment yet again.

  But somehow with Naomi, it came out.

  The events of the day: the boys, the rain, the man in the window. The words spilled from her almost against her will. She felt more like a storyteller than a witness. Was that how things had happened? Had it happened?

  When she finished Naomi was quiet for a moment. Rose could tell she was selecting her words.

  “You said you started dreaming about Hugo when you had a bicycle accident. When you were six?”

  Rose was surprised by this tack. “Yes.”

  “And Isaac, who’d been giving you trouble that morning, he wants a bike for his birthday.”

  Rose shook her head. She wasn’t sure where Naomi was going, but she was certain it was the wrong direction. “That’s not. It’s not … I did see him.”

  Naomi was cautious. Gentle. “I’m just suggesting that dreams … That this man in the window … maybe in the heat of the moment, you were so upset with the boys, so out of control of your emotions, maybe your mind felt like you needed Hugo, so this man … coalesced with your image of him.”

  Rose was silent for a moment. This idea that her brain was tricking her. It was what Josh would have said. Dark corridors and spooky houses.

  Of course that’s what it must be. It sounded right.

  But it didn’t feel that way.

  Still, Rose knew what she needed to say.

  “Maybe.”

  Naomi looked at her a moment. “Rose, you know it wasn’t really him.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  * * *

  That afternoon Adam got off the bus wielding a piece of paper. He waved it as he ran toward Rose.

  “I drew a picture of Hugo!” he yelled, excited, breathless.

  Rose held the page. “Who’s this?” She pointed to the smaller figure, with a red crayon “U” of a smile standing next to Adam’s vested rendition of Hugo.

  “That’s me. That’s what I’ll look like when I meet him in real life.”

  Rose held her breath. In Real Life.

  “Hugo’s imaginary, honey. You can’t actually meet him.”

  “I know, but … it would be cool, though. Right, Mom?”

  Right. Maybe. Or maybe it would mean you’d gone crazy. Rose wasn’t sure what to say.

  Isaac saved her. “Cool picture, Addy!” His eyes were quick, sliding over the details of the page. “I want to make one … Mom, can we draw before dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  Later Rose put all three of the children in the bath at once. They were getting too big for it, of course, but they hadn’t yet started complaining. The boys would bracket Penny’s small girth in the tub, Isaac curling his long legs up and Adam sitting Indian style, his back to the faucet. There was always some drama when Penny’s inevitable curiosity led her to grab at their penises, but even here the boys were accommodating.

  “No, Pen-pen. That’s a private area,” they would tell her, gently pushing her small hand away.

  Rose noticed that the boys were less likely to complain when she rinsed the soap out of their hair during these group baths. Since Penny would let Rose pour water on her head without a fuss, the boys were braver than when they were alone. They didn’t want to be shown up by the baby.

  Rose put on makeup while they splashed in the bath. Mommy’s Margarita Night. A fund-raiser raising funds for … what? Rose didn’t know, but she had gotten the e-mails and the phone calls and the flyers in the boys’ backpacks. It was “Not to Be Missed!” and “Very Important! Full Parent Participation a Goal!!”

  Rose didn’t even like margaritas.

  But she was going. Josh said it would be good for her to get out. He could get home early.…

  Rose checked the clock. He was already fifteen minutes late.

  She had showered. Put on a pair of pants with an actual zipper rather than a drawstring or elastic. They didn’t look great, but … at least I got the button to close.

  Rose sifted through the aged makeup in her bag. She couldn’t even remember buying most of this stuff. She found an eyeliner that wasn’t crumbling and put it to her lid.

  The image of Kaitlin-with-the-boobs at the soccer fields flew into her mind. The way her perfectly mascara’d eyes had softened with pity for Rose and her poor neglected kids.

  Fuck her and her fucking face. Rose flared with anger.

  But before she was even done with that thought—before she could even feel bad for that uncharitable, mean thought—there he was again. Rising to the top of her mind.

  The man in the window.

  Hugo.

  She had seen Hugo just hours after Kaitlin and her puppy dog sympathy and the new knowledge that Rose herself was the subject of “Mommy Gossip.”

  Rose corrected. No, not Hugo. You didn’t see Hugo. You just saw a man.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  She turned. All three of her children were sporting soapy Mohawks. They giggled at their conspiracy, grinning wildly.

  “Very handsome.”

  “Not Penny. Penny’s pretty.”

  “Of course, Adam. Penny is my pretty little punk rock girl.”

  From downstairs came the bang of the front door hitting the jamb. The distinct jangle of Josh’s keys, the zip of his vinyl bag against his pants. “Sorry! Sorry! I’m home!” he shouted, accompanied by the crunch as he set his bag down. The thump of steps on the stairs.

  “Patient transfer went a little long. I didn’t forget I was babysitting.”

  Rose grimaced. “It’s not called babysitting when it’s your kids, it’s called—”

  “Parenting. I know.”

  Rose gave him a sad smile. She kissed the kids on their soapy foreheads. Three nosefuls of bubbles.

  As she stepped into the hallway, Josh followed her. Alone for a moment.

  “Hey.”

  Rose stopped, looking back at him.

  His face was concerned. “I really am sorry.”

  She nodded, pulling up her chin. “I know. I’m just … late.”

  * * *

  Rose watched them from the dark interior of her car. Packs of mothers making their way into the restaurant. All in their “going out” clothes, their hair freshly done. They smiled and laughed as they walked from the parking lot to the door. Happy to have an evening away from the kids. Happy to have an excuse to drink on a school night. What did they call Chardonnay? Housewife heroin.

  She noticed many of them had carpooled, emptying out of minivans like clown cars filled with middle-aged women of privilege.

  No one had asked Rose to carpool. They had pestered her, yes. Insisted she come …

  But no one
had asked her to share a ride.

  Dear God, she didn’t want to do this.

  She didn’t want to be the woman these mothers thought she was. She didn’t want to spend a night trying to think of the next thing to say. She didn’t want to be who she was when she was who she was.

  And then there he was again. Filling her mind.

  The man in the window.

  Hugo.

  Not Hugo.

  Rose started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, her mind finally quiet; still not ready to acknowledge what she was about to do.

  * * *

  It took her fifty minutes to get to Hemsford, though Rose didn’t know it. She hadn’t looked at the speedometer or the clock the entire way, driving instinctually in the dark, weaving around the red taillights of the other cars.

  It seemed to Rose that one moment she had been accelerating onto the street away from the gathering pack of mommies and the next she was pulling up to the curb outside the Orange Tastee. It was frightening to realize she’d driven all that way, barely conscious of her actions, her thoughts otherwise occupied.

  Of course her husband would tell her this was due to yet another miraculous trick of the mind. The prefrontal cortex handing the drudgery of the steering and braking off to its subordinates, farther down the chain of command … so she could put her mind on more important things.

  Like the man from the window’s face.

  Rose peered through the plate glass of the restaurant. Inside, two teenagers, a boy and a girl, were leaning against the counter, talking to each other. The yellow Formica tables of the dining area were all empty, reflecting the green-light stutter of the fluorescents above.

  What the hell was she doing here?

  Idiot. Rose leaned her forehead against the curve of the steering wheel.

  The boy hefted his bulk onto the counter. Making himself more comfortable. He was talking with his hands. Universal gestures favored by teenage boys for use while bullshitting.

  Whatever he was saying, he was lying. Rose could tell by his posture, by the way he didn’t move his shoulders.

  But the girl was fooled. She shifted position, too, stepping a little bit closer to him. Taking the paper hat off of her head, running her fingers through her hair. Laughing.