by Cathy Lamb
Betsy sobbed, broken. Johnny felt sick, his face stricken with grief. Tilly shook.
Frieda, metaphorical hatchet up and raised, asked for the records to be unsealed so Johnny and Betsy could visit Rose.
No.
Frieda, wanting to kick some butt, asked if the birth records could be unsealed when Rose was eighteen. She would be an adult then, able to make her own decisions.
No.
Johnny and Betsy lost. The records were sealed forever, as the law required then. Rose would stay where she was.
Johnny and Betsy cried in court. The judge was sympathetic.
Even the opposing attorney for the state was sympathetic. Frieda the hatchet swinger was sympathetic but super pissed off. She hated losing.
Johnny and Betsy went home to their one-hundred-year-old rambling farmhouse in the country that day and cried again.
They cried with Tilly. They cried in their garden, they cried as they lay in bed, their arms empty, their hearts battered. All through the long, dark years of imprisonment, where Johnny and Betsy were both beaten down by the fear and isolation, the abuse and deprivations, they had clung to the hope that they would see each other again, see Tilly, and see Rose.
They had lost Rose again, and they went down a long black tunnel for months. It was as if she’d been taken from them all over again, and the grief clawed at every ounce of happiness.
The longing to see her never went away. The love never went
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away. They clung to hope that one day something would change and they would see her. They clung to a future they wanted, even when it seemed impossible. They clung to each other, their love unending, even when their tears mixed for the daughter who was out there . . . somewhere.
Betsy and Johnny took a leap three years later and opened a small grocery store about fifteen minutes from their home. The building had been a saloon eighty years ago, then a saddle and boot store, then farming equipment. It had been unoccupied for ten years.
Betsy quit her job as the manager of the big-box store and she, Johnny, and Tilly cleaned and scrubbed, painted, replaced the electricity and the plumbing, and opened up Rose’s Market with red-and-white-striped awnings, fresh fruits and vegetables, cheeses, wines, breads and cakes, and the best meat they could find. They grew rows and rows of roses on their property—
burgundy, white, yellow, pink, purple—and sold bouquets in honor of their Rose.
What they didn’t provide from their own large gardens, they bought locally. They named the deli Marvin’s Deli. When Marvin saw the scrolling sign, in red, his favorite color, he leaned on his cane and cried.
They named the fruits and vegetables section Tilly’s Garden.
Tilly chuckled when she saw it when she came home from a break from college. “Well, I do like getting my hands dirty.”
Tilly studied business and Spanish. “But I hate kale. Do we have to sell kale?” Yes, they did. “We’re not rabbits!” After Tilly graduated, she worked for Rose’s Market full-time.
Betsy found Eartha, released from prison years ago, and hired her.
“I’m happy to be back with my best jailbird friend,” Eartha said. “My momma taught me how to bake pies. How about I be your pie maker?”
“Bake your pies,” Betsy told her.
Betsy also found Rainbow. She was out of jail and living in a homeless shelter. She had been on the streets off and on when her mental illness became too much to handle and she lost what-
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ever minimum wage job she’d been able to grab. There was a small room above the grocery store, with a kitchenette and bathroom.
Rainbow lived there. She rested, recovered, went with Betsy to see a doctor for the appropriate medications, and eventually worked as a cashier. Rent was free.
Betsy organized cooking classes at Rose’s Market. Customers could come and learn how to make crock pot dishes and homemade pizza and pasta primavera. They had cake-decorating classes. Eartha taught her pie classes. Every Thursday night everything was 10 percent off. The crowds came. It was only 10
percent, but it was fun for people. They liked the price break.
They liked the cake samples and cookie samples and bread, cheese, and fruit samples.
At Rose’s Market you could decorate Christmas and Valentine cookies with your kids and you could paint Easter eggs.
Santa came, and so did the Easter bunny.
Rose’s Market specialized in cheese and wine, honey and breads, desserts and fresh fruits and vegetables. Their motto: Peace. Love.
Delicious Food.
Johnny and Betsy bought the home from the owner who was still living with his daughter in Fresno and decided not to return. He had seven grandchildren! There were a lot of soccer games and ballet recitals! They needed him. Betsy and Johnny continued to pamper his animals, sending him photos regularly so he could still see them.
They opened a second store, again named Rose’s Market.
Tilly ran the second store.
Johnny kept his job as the manager of the lumber yard, as Marvin could not work much anymore, and he would not let Marvin down. Johnny, Betsy, and Tilly moved Marvin into their own home, nicely remodeled by then, and took care of him the last year of his life, as he had no one else. A nurse came in to help during the day.
When Marvin died he left everything he had to Betsy and Johnny. Betsy and Johnny thought that Marvin had no other as-sets. The business had been failing when Johnny arrived on the scene. It now made an impressive profit, thanks to Johnny, but
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they had no idea of Marvin’s net worth. Marvin had an old house he’d lived in for sixty years, never remodeled. He also had fifty acres, free and clear. Johnny hadn’t known that Marvin owned all of that land around his home. It was near to neighborhoods, and builders wanted to buy it.
Plus, Marvin had half a million in the bank, and $50,000 literally in a mattress in his guest room. Betsy and Johnny found out about that stash when they read the letter Marvin wrote to them, telling them he loved them as his own children. They grieved for Martin, a decent, kind man who had given Johnny a chance and paid him fairly from the start. They used part of the money to start a scholarship fund for their employees and their children.
They opened a third and fourth store. Then a fifth.
All of the markets were called Rose’s Market. All of the fruits and vegetable sections were called Tilly’s Garden. And all of the delis were called Marvin’s Deli.
He would have liked that.
At thirty-eight unexpectedly, miraculously, Betsy became pregnant. Johnny and Betsy had tried for years, after they had established themselves, to get pregnant, but they couldn’t. The doctors had run test after test, but they couldn’t find anything wrong.
They resigned themselves to a childless life.
The pregnancy was a joy, yet it was filled with grief, too. It triggered their feelings of deep loss, their searing grief at losing Rose, but Kayla was a smiling, easy baby, and she soothed their tired souls, added love to their battered hearts, and peace to their lives. Aunt Tilly was thrilled.
One day, they told each other, the sisters would meet.
They hoped, they prayed.
C h a p t e r 3 0
“Serafina only had three more scales left, all the colors of roses: red, pink, and yellow.”
“I love roses.”
“I know you do. You’ve always been your mom’s and my rose, you know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, you silly. You say I’m your rose kid.”
“You are.”
“Tell me what happened to Serafina.”
“She rescued a dolphin who had been pushed up onto the sand. She had to wait until nighttime so no one would see her.
She used her tail to push herself onto the beach, then grabbed his tail and pulled him back in.”
“She lost another scale.”
“Yes. She lost the bright yellow one. Then s
he was down to two scales, rose red and a soft pink. A three-year-old merchild became lost in the ocean, and Serafina was the one to rescue her.
A teenager who was snorkeling panicked in the water, and she pulled him to shallow water. No one believed him when he said a mermaid rescued him.”
“All the scales were gone then and she had a green tail, right?
Like the other mermaids.”
“Yes. Her last scale floated through the ocean’s wave to King Koradome. Then something magical happened.”
C h a p t e r 3 1
I was reading the newspaper on my phone while my mother made me my favorite soup, chicken curry with coconut milk, in my kitchen. The sliding glass doors were open, and the breezes from the ocean floated in, warm and salty. I could smell the faintest scent of the sweet roses I’d planted around my home.
Sundance sat right at my feet, as usual.
Sometimes my mom and I will cook dinner together, just the two of us, and then watch a movie. Whoever is not cooking will read the paper out loud and we’ll talk about politics and social issues and celebrity gossip and new books that are reviewed.
I had bought two miniature pecan pies for the movie. Pecans are nuts. Nuts are protein. Therefore, pecan pie is healthy. I think everyone knows that.
“Hey, listen to this,” I said to my mom from my kitchen table as she ladled our soup into bowls. The goats had escaped again and were staring as us through my sliding glass doors, waiting eagerly for me to see them and run them down, as usual. I pretended I didn’t see them because I hate running.
“This article is about two people, a couple—a boyfriend and girlfriend. They were teenagers when they killed the boyfriend’s father. The girlfriend said she did it, the boyfriend said he did it.
The girlfriend was pregnant. Her name was Betsy.”
I looked up as a thundering crash filled the kitchen. My mother had dropped two empty soup bowls.
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“Mom, oh, my goodness. Are you okay?” I dropped my phone and went straight for her. “You’re in sandals. Come this way so you don’t get glass in your feet.” I stuck my hands out and grabbed hers, guiding her over the glass. “Sit down. I’ll clean it up. Mom? Mom?” She had a faraway look in her eye.
“Momma? Are you okay?” I handed her some water. “Here, drink this.” She sat down heavily, as if her legs had given out, and I cleaned up the mess. I kept an eye on her.
“Let’s have the soup, dear,” she told me, her voice constricted. “Perhaps I need to eat.”
“Okay.” I ladled up the soup, turned off the stove, grabbed the spinach salad and our French bread out of the oven, and sat down.
“Mom,” I said quietly, carefully, “Are you sick? What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.”
“Mom, please, I know something’s wrong.”
She put her hand on my arm, but her hand shook as if there were a live wire in it, and I covered it with my own. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Read the rest of the article. It will . . . I want . . . I think . . . it will distract me from this.” She waved a hand in the air.
“Are you sure? Okay.” I picked up my phone. My concern for my mother was sky-high. There was something wrong and she wouldn’t tell me. I was trying not to force it out of her, but I was close to it.
I read to her the case about Johnny Kandinsky and Betsy Baturra. “Do you remember that case?”
“Yes, I do. Quite well.” She was pale.
“Mom, please eat,” I said. “You—”
“Let’s hear the rest of the article.” Her voice was firm. I don’t argue with my mother when she uses that firm voice.
I read the rest of the article to my mother: The couple was released from prison because Tilly Kandinsky remembered what happened the day of the murder, and blew open the investigation of her father, a serial killer.
“How odd,” I said. “Betsy predicted things during the trial
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that would happen to the judge and the jurors, and they did, which helped her case in saying she had premonitions about Peter Kandinsky and how she had foreseen he was going to kill Johnny.” I stopped reading. Wow. There was someone else out there who had premonitions, just like me. She wasn’t a fraud, she wasn’t trying to steal people’s money. “They tried to get their daughter back after they were released. They went to court. They had attorneys. But the courts said no. Even though their convictions were overturned, the courts said their daughter, named Rose, could not be returned to them. They found in favor of the adopted parents and that it would be too traumatic to make the girl move.”
My mother sat very still.
“It was a difficult case,” my mother said.
I looked at her, and I could feel my brow furrowing. “A difficult case? How so?”
“Well, the woman, Betsy, said she had premonitions, and I didn’t believe her.”
“But you believe me.”
“I know, dear, but she was trying to use it as her defense. No one believed her, that’s why she was in jail. They thought she was delusional, and a liar.”
“I’m sure people think that about me, too. Anyhow, this article is about them and where they are now. Johnny and Betsy bought land and started farming, then they opened a grocery store called Rose’s Market, my favorite market. They now have a chain of grocery stores up and down the West Coast. I love their cheeses and wines and homemade breads. I love their fruit.
So it says here that they are hoping that their daughter contacts them through this new DNA test, like Jules and I did. They were interviewed by a newspaper and several TV stations.”
My mother made a choking sound. “They’ve taken a DNA test?”
“Here, Mom. Have water.” I handed her the glass. “Do you want some wine? You seem so stressed.” She looked stressed.
Her face was pinched, mouth a rigid line.
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“I’m fine, honey.” My mother choked again. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”
Why the repetition? My mother did not repeat herself.
“Yes, they took a DNA test.”
“What else does the article say?”
“They said they’re hoping their daughter takes a DNA test, too. They said their daughter was born in Portland in 1975.
They named her Rose. Baby Rose.”
My mother made another choking sound.
“Sure you’re all right, Mom?” I stood up and put my arms around her. “Are you upset? I know you have several weddings coming up. Are you stressed about the work? I can help you.”
“Yes, yes. That’s it. I’m stressed, dear.” Her hands were shaking. “About the flowers. The tulips. Daffodils. Peonies. Chrysanthemums. Marigolds. My, the peonies. Roses. Many roses. Thank you, dear, we might have you help with the hats. Let’s have our soup, shall we? Yes. We’ll have the soup. The soup I made for you and me. The soup.”
Was she having a stroke?
“Eat, Evie. Eat.”
“Mom—”
“That’s enough, Evie.” Her tone said she was done with this conversation. “I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
Clearly, I thought, as I put down my soup spoon and watched her, almost vibrating with stress, everything was not fine.
My brain was frazzled. I was worried about my mother. I wanted Marco but couldn’t have him. I had driven by Emily’s house and felt guilty. I was worried about Chief Ass Burn and what he would do to my mother and aunts if he found out about their side business.
I knew I’d probably have a premonition. The more together I am, the more rested, the fewer premonitions I have. If I’m upset, I’ll go down a premonition rabbit hole. I’ll wake up nervous and anxious, and I’ll start wondering when the next premonition will hit. Then it’ll hit. It’s like worrying about having a panic attack and then you make yourself have a panic attack.
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It didn’t take long for a premonition to creep in.
A young man wander
ed in looking for a book on bike rides on our island. He had a lopsided smile with a lot of teeth and black hair in a ponytail. He was with two young women. They were all in biking clothes. They were chatting, enjoying my yellow bookstore, trying to choose which desserts they wanted to buy.
I saw it then, a clear flash. The young man was going to end up with a broken neck. I saw him in a ditch, unconscious, one of the young women screaming, racing down to help him, the other biking away for help.
I closed my eyes for a second and studied the premonition.
Yes, today he was in the same clothes as he was in the premonition, which meant that it would happen today, probably. It could happen the next day, if he wore the same clothes. That’s another torturous part of premonitions. I can look at what people are wearing during my premonition, but they might be wearing those same clothes another day, too.
But I couldn’t take a chance. As they studied the raspberry tortes, the giant chocolate chip cookies, and the chocolate peanut butter cheesecake, I took in every piece of his clothing, down to his socks and shoes. He probably thought I was checking him out. Whatever.
I smiled at them. “Biking, huh?” Yes, they were biking. They rode up from the ferry, they loved the island, so many places to bike to!
“What kind of bike are you riding?” I stared right at the young man so I would be sure to get his answer.
He cheerfully told me the type of bike he had, and I was familiar with the brand. “What do you ride?”
I told him the type of bike I had, that it was blue.
“I went with blue, too. My mother’s favorite color is blue, so I thought, what the heck? Honor mom, right?”
“Always,” I said. We chatted more, then I said to Tiala,
“Could you help these three find the book by Genesis Ringold?
She’s a local, she’s been all over all the islands, hiking and riding her bike, and she knows the best places.”
