by Sarah Willis
Three months later they have both said they love each other, but there are problems. He says she drinks too much. She says he doesn’t know how to loosen up. He says Jennifer treats him rudely. She agrees, but then he tells her that Jennifer treats her badly, too, and she shouldn’t put up with it, and she won’t answer that one. It’s not something she cares to admit to. And work is not going well. She has headaches to beat the band. When she arrives late for the third time in a week, her boss asks her if everything’s all right. She says, “Everything’s fine, thank you,” and she’s on time every day for the next two weeks, but then she begins to leave early. She says her daughter’s taking private skating lessons and needs to be picked up at the rink by four-thirty. It is the first bold-faced lie she has ever told, and it bothers her until the second glass of scotch, when she waves away the worry with a flick of her hand. “Oh, who cares,” she tells herself. She calls Simon early in the evening, before her voice gets sloppy. “It’s my new routine,” she tells him. “Go to bed early, rise early.” It’s not quite a bold-faced lie, and easy to live with. When she hangs up the phone, she gets a glass and fills it halfway with Johnnie Walker Red, drinks it standing by the sink. Then she fills it halfway again and takes it into the living room. She turns on the TV. She sits straight and holds her head high. She is not the type to slouch.
One morning Rose wakes to find her cigarettes in the sink, smothered in scotch. The smell is nauseating. The need for a cigarette is overpowering. She will kill Jennifer. How dare she! Who the hell is she to be so smug, the little druggie? The attic reeks of marijuana. Rose cries over the kitchen sink and cleans up the mess.
That Friday night Jennifer tries to leave the house, even though she’s grounded. “You’re not going anywhere!” Rose yells. “You’re to stay home, clean your room, and stay off the phone!”
“What will you do?” Jennifer says. “Stay home for once and watch me?”
“I have a life! I’m allowed to have a life! You need to listen to me and stay home!”
“Why? Because you’re such a good example?”
“Shut up, Jenny!” yells Peter, coming into the kitchen, his fist clenched.
Rose appreciates Peter’s concern, but she wishes he’d stay out of this. It only makes it more difficult with two kids shouting.
“Fuck you,” Jennifer says to Peter, giving him the finger.
Peter rushes Jennifer and knocks her against the fridge. She scratches his face, and he grabs her arm and twists it behind her back. Peter has been lifting weights, and his arms are muscular. Within a second Jennifer’s bent over double, screaming for help. Who the hell is going to help you? Rose thinks.
“Stop it!” Rose shouts.
Simon comes in the side door. At the sight of him everyone freezes. He’s never just walked in before. This puts a new slant on everything. He stands there, looking at them. He’s furious, his teeth clenched, eyes narrowed.
“Let her go,” he says to Peter, with a sigh, as if maybe Peter had done the right thing but must stop now. “Why don’t you leave us alone for a minute, Peter. Would you mind?” Peter looks at Simon, shrugs, and walks out of the kitchen. The TV goes on. Jennifer and Simon glare at each other. “Apologize to your mother,” he says.
“She thinks she’s perfect,” Jennifer says. “And you think you’re my dad, but you’re not. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“No,” he says. “But I can ask you, and you can do it because you should. I know it’s hard to lose a father. My dad died a few years ago and I’m still crying about it. But I’m not blaming anyone. Stop blaming your mother.”
Rose feels swollen with love for this man. Her heart pounds in her chest, and she hopes these well-said words will do the trick, make everything better. If only that could happen, she would never drink again. She holds her breath. This is not a time to interfere. It’s time to let the cards fall where they may.
“I’m not blaming her for my dad dying, Simon,” Jennifer says in a dry, even tone that makes Rose’s stomach sink. “My dad was what made her happy, not us. I’m just tired of being reminded of that. But now you’re here, and she’s still drinking. I wonder why?” Jennifer turns away from Simon and looks at Rose. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I should know better. I should know better than to even bother talking to you. I’ll go to my room now.”
Jennifer walks out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Rose clamps her teeth closed as tight as she can to keep from crying. There’s silence as both she and Simon stand there, not knowing what to say. Finally Simon asks, “Should we stay here, tonight? We could order out.”
“No. Let’s go. We need to give Betsy a ride, anyway. She’s in her room. I’ll go get her.” She goes upstairs to Betsy’s room. Betsy doesn’t say a word about the arguing downstairs.
“I love you, Betsy,” she says. “Thank you for being a good kid.”
“You’re welcome,” Betsy says.
Rose stares at Betsy, this quiet child who gets all A’s on her report cards, who doesn’t say much but is kind and polite when she does speak. Too polite, maybe? They are all afraid, just handle it differently. Betsy thinks that if she’s very good, no one else will die. Jennifer thinks she can bully death away. Peter’s trying to fight it physically; he’s not old enough yet to understand that cancer doesn’t care if you have muscles. Cancer doesn’t give a crap if you’re good or bad or if your family needs you.
Sure, she drinks to ignore all this, but maybe she’s the only smart one.
As she gets into the car, Rose wonders what Simon does to push away death. That he might love her, to comfort himself, troubles her. It’s too much responsibility.
It’s Friday night, and on Sunday they’re going on a three-day trip to a cabin in Pennsylvania. At the restaurant they talk about the drive, what they’ll pack, what they might do there. They grin at the suggestion that they might not leave the cabin at all.
When Simon drops her off, Rose notices the house feels cold and she remembers the time in her life when her brothers and sisters had all moved out. She keeps her coat on as she walks upstairs to the attic. Peter was to be picked up at eight to spend the night at his friend’s. Jennifer was to stay home, but that didn’t mean she did. No music filters down through the floorboards.
There’s a note on Jennifer’s pillow, and somehow, Rose was expecting it. Staring at the note, not able to read it yet, she wonders; did she choose to go out, leaving her daughter to her own fate? Possibly.
Don’t bother looking for me. I’ll be out of the state by the time you read this. Just making life easier for you. Your daughter, Jenny.
A laugh like choking clenches her throat. Her daughter is so theatrical. Michael’s genes. Damn it. Don’t do this to me.
What should she do?
There’s a good chance this is all show, and Jennifer’s peacefully sleeping at a friend’s house. Still, Rose will have to make some phone calls. It’s midnight. God, she wants to just go to sleep and see if Jennifer isn’t back tomorrow. She can’t, though, can she? How would she ever explain herself? I was tired? Still, calling strangers at midnight, admitting that she doesn’t know where her daughter is, will be so goddamn embarrassing. Now she’s pissed. Now she’s really pissed.
“Damn it, Jennifer!” she shouts to the room. “Fuck!” It’s the first time she’s ever said that word out loud. She will not cry. Her eyes feel hot, but dry. Fine, she thinks. Fine. I have to make these calls.
When she gets to the phone, she realizes she knows only two of Jennifer’s friends, who might not be her friends anymore. She hasn’t been keeping track. She has been too busy being a goddamn widow and paying the bills. She makes the two calls. Jennifer’s not at either place. Rose asks these parents if they have any suggestions, any other phone numbers. They kindly offer her lists of names and numbers. She writes them all down, and hangs up the phone. She can’t do this anymore. Not a chance.
Simon will be home now and she can call him. But she won’t. He’d have all sorts of
good suggestions and opinions he’ll want to share. She can’t stand anyone’s opinions just now. She’s too tired. Jennifer will come home tomorrow. Where else could she go? She’s only trying to scare Rose; not to get scared is to win this round. She will simply go to bed.
She has one drink and goes upstairs. Outside, it begins to sleet, the pings against the windows sound like someone typing slowly, then faster, a furious release of cold, harsh words. She takes off all her clothes and gets into her flannel pajamas, a Christmas present from Peter. Before she falls asleep, she has this thought: Peter will know what to do. Her fourteen-year-old son will know what to do.
Light seeping through the thin shades wakes Rose, and her first cogent thought is damn those cheap shades. When might she have enough money to do things right? She is sick of cutting corners.
Then she feels her head swell, as if while she lies there it fills with a heavy liquid expanding inside her skull. The throbbing will eventually go away, even though it’s hard to believe—where does pain go? And then she thinks of Jennifer and wonders if last night was a bad dream. No, it was too ordinary. Rose’s dreams are of long halls with no doors, or flying above the trees, or ghosts—Michael to be exact. While she sleeps, Michael walks, talks, and directs plays. He sits down to dinner. He hangs pictures. By sleeping, she is responsible for his life. In the day he is just plain dead.
Rose makes coffee and well-done toast. She can’t stand the thought of chewing anything soft so early in the morning. She sits at the kitchen table, staring at nothing, eating slowly. She does not want this day to start. She’ll have to search Jennifer’s room for phone numbers, possible clues. She’s searched her daughter’s room before and always found something, a little pipe, a small plastic bag with the remains of what must be pot, an odd pill. At first she began these searches with vigor; she would find something, prove to her daughter that she has a drug problem, and they would both cry and hug and bond. What a stupid word. Bond. As if she wanted to be bonded to her daughter. She simply wants to be a good mother.
But after the first confrontation—when Jennifer ranted and raved, swearing it was someone else’s pot, even naming a name—Rose simply threw out whatever she found, a statement in itself. See, I am searching your room. A lot of good that did.
And now Rose can’t stand the thought of pulling out drawers, lifting the mattress. Jennifer had better come home soon because Rose can’t bear it. And if Jennifer does come home today, before Simon calls, she won’t ever have to tell him that her daughter ran away, and that she didn’t call him. Because Simon will not be happy. He will feel betrayed. Damn him. What promises has she made by saying she loves him? What choices does she have to make because she does love him?
Jennifer is not home by noon. Rose calls Peter at the house he slept over at last night, and he gives her a few more names to try, says he will get a ride home soon to help her look for Jennifer. He sounds excited by this turn of events. She wonders if it’s because he thinks Jennifer may really be gone, or because it makes him look even better. Peter’s into making good impressions.
Rose remembers training for the synchronized swim team in high school. She would hold her breath until it hurt, then hold it longer, finally letting her breath out slowly, not allowing herself to gasp. If she gasped, she would add ten more minutes to her practice. But, in the end, she could hold her breath longer than anyone.
Simon doesn’t call until five in the evening, a slight blessing—he has been very busy all day. Rose interrupts him as he describes a nasty accident a teenage girl had involving a pencil and her eye. She interrupts him because he will be embarrassed he went on and on when she had something so important to say, and she doesn’t want to embarrass him. She’s right, he’s quite shocked by her news and asks her how she discovered Jennifer had run away. For a moment she thinks to lie; she could say that just this morning she went up to her daughter’s room and found the note, but if she tells this lie to him, and he believes her, she will lose respect for him. She tells the truth.
“Last night? And you didn’t call me?” There is everything in his voice she expected, and more. Hurt, confusion, anger, and distance, as if already he is eyeing his retreat.
Her heart skips a beat, throwing her off-kilter. She grinds out her cigarette in the ashtray; a blue-glazed, half-moon tin-thing Jennifer made in camp one year at Boys & Girls Club, so long ago. “I’m sorry. I know I should have called you, but I thought it was a prank. Maybe it is.”
“And you called everyone you can think of?”
“Yeah. I even searched her room.” She told him a month ago how she searched Jennifer’s room and found pot. He was so appalled, and offered so many careful, moral, perceptive ideas that she was overwhelmed by her own inadequacies and never told him about the following searches, the things she found and threw away. “I’ve been driving around to a few spots she hangs out, like Coventry and the mall. I guess I’ll go out again now and look some more.”
“Would you like me to come help?”
Right away she knows something has changed. The Simon who loved her just last night would have said, I’m coming over. This Simon feels unneeded, hurt, and a bit pissed. He warned her she had to do something about Jennifer and she didn’t.
“Please,” she says.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He’s coming straight from the hospital.
“Thank you,” she says.
As they drive around looking for Jennifer, Simon tells her that she should send her daughter to a drug treatment program, or one of those tough-love places where Jennifer will scrub bathroom floors with a toothbrush. His concern is tinged with resentment. All his comments are too pat, too easily said. Her jaw tight, hands gripping the wheel, driving because she knows this part of town—and her daughter—Rose says, “You’re such a fool.”
“You think so?” he asks. His anger comes out dry and held tight. Doesn’t he know how to fight?
“Yes. You don’t know my daughter at all. Or me. You’re pretty damn new to it all, to know so bloody much.”
“Yes, I guess I am.” That’s all he says.
Rose worries. She knows she has gone too far, but this is her life he’s judging. “I only meant—”
“Oh, I know what you meant. I really don’t want to discuss it anymore, if you don’t mind.”
She can’t drive, not like this. Her sight is blurred; it is as if she is seeing the streets and buildings through a hot, bright fog. She pulls over to the side of the road. Trees hold snow along their branches like deft ballerinas, icicles glisten from the eves of homes, window lit, cozy, warm inside. What she sees isn’t real, they are the postcards, she thinks, of places she might have lived if Michael hadn’t died. Wish you were here. The thought is bitter and she’s tired of that taste in her mouth. She’s doing the best she can. Damn Simon for judging her.
“Look,” she says. “I know I need to do something about Jennifer—but I think your ideas are a bit harsh. She’s lost a father. She needs love, not boot camp.”
Simon turns away, shaking his head slowly. There’s dead silence. The windshield wipers are on, brushing aside the snow with a rhythmic pulse that Rose finds annoying. She almost turns them off, but she’s afraid of being closed in with Simon, the outside world gone—because if no one was looking right now, she would climb into his lap and curl up, close her eyes and never open them again. And she can’t. Life doesn’t work that way. God knows, she’s no one’s good-luck charm anymore.
“I don’t think love’s going to do it this time,” Simon says.
She has no answer for that, so she doesn’t say anything. Once again they just sit in silence. Finally he touches her thigh. Briefly.
“Let’s go back to your house, Rose. I think I’ll go home now.”
She knows it’s over. She just doesn’t have the energy to fight for his love right now. Maybe if he goes home, he’ll miss her. That’s how it works for her, anyway. She will miss him terribly in a few hours. She even misses Jennif
er right now.
“Okay,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
She drives home, still looking out the window for Jennifer, imagining her barefoot in the snow, wandering around, searching for a little warmth. Just for a minute she hopes Jennifer is barefoot.
Rose pulls up the driveway and they both get out of the car. Simon turns to walk down to the street, where he parked his car. It’s covered with snow.
“Simon,” she says. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’m tense and tired. I’m sorry.”
“We’ll talk when you’re feeling better,” he says. “Please call me when you hear about Jennifer. I’m sure she’s fine. She’ll be home soon.”
“Yeah, I think she will,” she says. “I’ll call you.” Nothing has been said about the trip to the cabin in the mountains. They would have been leaving tomorrow, but that will not happen now. She knows, too, why Jennifer chose to run away.
Simon gets into his car, turns on the wipers, and drives off. Snow blows off the back of his car like a long white wave.
There is at least five inches of snow on the ground. There are no tracks leading to her door.
Sunday Rose doesn’t call Simon, and he doesn’t call her. But she does call the police. They take a description and tell her to stay by the phone.
