Rosebush (6 page)

“That’s not true,” she said quietly. She reached out and ran the fingers of her right hand along the edge of a large stone soap holder in the shape of a cupid. “I do care. And I don’t have everything.” Her voice got louder and more angry. Her hand closed on the soap dish. “You don’t live my life. You don’t know—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I’m going to go.”

No!
I wanted to shout.
This can’t happen. No fighting.
I got that knot of panic in my stomach I always got when they fought, even just pretend. The feeling I got at the thought of anything ruining our friendship, of being alone again. I had to make this better. I stood in front of the door, took a deep breath, put my hands on my hips, and said, “Kiss and make up, you two.”

There was a long pause. They both looked at me.

Then Langley said, “Kiss and make up. I bet the boys outside would pay to see that.”

We all laughed and the tension was broken.

Langley stood and wrapped her arms around us both. “I’m sorry. I was just so disappointed in Alex. I should know better than to trust any boys. I love you two. You are the best friends I could ever have or ever want in the world.”

We each kissed our pinkies and brought them together in salute. “All for one,” Langley began, “and one for all,” Kate and I finished off.

Langley frowned, took my face in her hand, and turned it toward the light. “Speaking of which, someone has been wearing off her lip gloss. You need another coat before you go tell your boy the news. Pout for me.”

I pouted and she glossed me.

I remember that moment, the three of us in the mirror, Langley with her light-blonde hair, Kate with her honey brown, and me with raven black, three fairy princesses indeed. This was my life, I thought. Like a Clairol commercial. And it was perfect.

Five-and-a-half hours later, I’d been left for dead in a rosebush.

Friday

Chapter 5

 

Scratching.

A woman’s voice. “Mr. Carl St. James. White lilies in a green vase.”

More scratching.

“Nicola di Savoia. Balloon bouquet in shades of pink with a Mylar alligator balloon.”

“Pontrain Motors family. Bucket of four-flavored popcorn.”

A man’s voice. “That’s the one I like. Pass that over, will you, Rosie?”

I hate it when Joe calls my mother that.
That’s the first thing I thought when I regained consciousness the second time. Before even realizing that I could hear, that I was awake, that this time it was for real.

My eyes flew open and I saw him there, my soon-to-be stepfather, gorging his face with four flavors of popcorn.

My mother was sitting in a blue upholstered chair next to him, her legs together, ankles crossed, in the posture she described as Casual but Respectful when she made me and my sister, Annie, master it. She was wearing jeans with a perfectly ironed crease down the center of each leg, a white silk blouse with a bow at the throat, and an American-flag stick pin. She was rail thin and looked misleadingly delicate. Her hair was a perfect gold bob with bangs that ran straight across her forehead.

Beneath them the red-framed glasses she used when she was working were pushed forward on her nose. The scratching I heard was the sound of her burgundy-enamel Mountblanc roller ball making notes on the leather-bound pad in her lap.

I watched her for a moment, seeing her the way I always did recently, as a stranger. Like someone I was seeing on television, not someone I lived with.

I followed her gaze to my younger sister, Annie, who was standing near a shelf half filled with bouquets. For reasons that undoubtedly made sense to her, Annie was wearing the special red-velvet dress she’d gotten at Christmas, now a few sizes too small. It would have been obscenely short, but any hint of impropriety was erased by the black-and-white-striped tights and yellow rubber boots with duck faces on the toes she’d paired it with. At seven, Annie looked like a mini-version of my mother complete with an air of maturity far beyond her years, red-framed glasses, and golden bob—although my mother’s was dyed—but Annie was very much her own person.

My mother reached a hand toward her now. Annie lifted one of the bouquets and held out the card nestled beneath it.

“Arthur and Susan Kazarhi,” my mother said aloud as she wrote on the pad. “Pink-and-white orchid in green-patina planter.”

Joe lounged on my mother’s left, ankle on his knee, arm across the back of my mother’s chair, taking up as much room as possible. I’d heard people say he was handsome, but to me he looked like a gorilla. He had hairy hands and the perpetual shadow of a beard. He was wearing a blue-and-white-checked button-down shirt with gold cuff links and khakis. The shirts were specially made for him, as he’d tell you if you were unfortunate enough to talk to him for more than five minutes. Expensive, but can you beat the feel? Here, touch the fabric. What a guy, that Joe.

Joe must have felt my glare because he was the first one to notice me. His face split into a grin. “Well, isn’t that a sight for sore eyes. Look, Rosie, Sleeping Beauty has awakened.”

My mother looked up instantly. Too fast, in fact, not giving herself time to compose her face, and what I saw, in that moment, was fear. And age—it was like she’d aged ten years since I saw her last.

Then the fear vanished and she was smiling, perfect lipstick, just the right degree of concern in the eyes. “Jane, darling!” She set aside the notebook and came toward me. “We were just making a list of people for you to write thank-you notes for and—”

Thank-you notes? For what?

My mother trailed off, the brightness fading. “Janey, oh, my precious girl.” She was at the side of my bed now, clutching my hand. Which was when I realized I couldn’t feel anything. “Jane, do you know where you are?”

Or speak.

Horror, terror washed over me.

My chest tightened and I felt tears pricking my eyes and a scream started in my stomach and tried to work its way out, but it couldn’t. It was trapped, a prisoner in my own body.
What is going on?
I wanted to scream.
Someone tell me what is happening!

Nothing came out.

Tears blurred my vision and I felt like I was suffocating. My brain sped,
Where am I how did I get here what is this let me out where am I?
but no one heard, no one answered. Everyone was talking at once, saying things I couldn’t understand, coming in and out of focus. “Don’t leave me, Mommy make it better, Mommy—!” I knew she stood next to me crying, I knew somehow that there were tears falling on my arms, and I couldn’t feel them.

The fear that coursed through me then was white hot and chilling at once. I was being buried alive, I was stuck, trapped, alone, forever.

My heart began to race.
I have to get out of here I have to be able to move this can’t be happening to me this can’t be happening!
The heart-rate monitor started to beep more quickly as my pulse picked up. The me inside me tried to claw its way out, fighting, twisting, pushing. Dying.
I have to get out of here, I have to escape.
My vision blurred, went black.
I’m in danger. Let me out let me out.
The heart-rate monitor beeped faster.

I felt my throat closing up.
I’m going to die, I can’t breathe, oh God, please please let me out, let me
—

The heart-rate monitor began to shriek and my mother’s face, chalk white, was replaced by a face I didn’t know, the face of a woman in pink scrubs with big yellow suns grinning on them.

“Shhh, baby,” she said, smiling down at me as much as the suns on her shirt. “I know this is all a shock, but it’s okay. It’s all going to be okay. But you’ve got to calm yourself down.”

She held my eyes with hers and there was something about that, about her steady gaze and soothing voice, that seemed to reach deep inside me. “Relax, sweetheart,” she said, and as though she’d hypnotized me, the monster fighting inside of me stilled. “Let’s try to do this on your own without more medicine. Breathe with me, baby. One in, nice and slow, now let it out. Another breath in, that’s good, you’re doing great, and out.”

After four breaths, my throat opened up. After six, the heart-rate monitor started to beep more slowly.

“There’s a good girl,” she said to me. “And waking up just in time for lunch, too. It’s chicken stew. Hope you don’t regret it.” She laughed, a ringing peal that blanked out the humming and beeping of the machines around my bed and made the room feel human for an instant. I think I fell in love with her then. “My name is Loretta and I’ll be your guide through the world of critical care for the next few hours.”

“Is she okay?” my mother demanded. “What happened?”

“She’s better than okay, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Loretta said. “Did you see how she focused on me and responded to my words? Shows there’s little if any cognitive impairment.”