The Opposite of Love (10 page)

23

ROSE

Rose measured her days in Chase time. Passing periods—maybe she'd get a glimpse or a quickie peck. Lunchtime—sprawling under the tree, her head in his lap, sharing food and joking around. Work—chasing kiddos, but always with the subtle awareness of his eyes on her and the possibility of five minutes in the coat closet after the kids were picked up and the area disinfected.

It fed her. It sustained her through the rest of the day. And then at night. After the Parsimmons' were long asleep, the thrill of padding her bed, removing the screen from her window, and sneaking over there.

Even though she rarely arrived before nine thirty, that little ragamuffin Daisy was always up. The kid had no bedtime. Or structure at all, it looked like. Daisy was the polar opposite of Rose in just about every way possible, But when Rose looked at her, she remembered herself. The innocent “self” that existed years ago. The eager—hopeful—believing self that had withered away and disappeared. She'd like to blame the Parsimmons for squashing that part of her, but who knew? Maybe it was just life.

During Rose's entire first year with the Parsimmons, Mrs. P. had dressed her in pink, frilly dresses that seemed like they belonged in an old-fashioned picture book rather than on a real girl. The frills itched something awful, but Rose didn't fidget. The itching distracted her and made it easier to stay ice-cube numb.

Numbness worked for her. She didn't have to speak. Didn't have to think. Didn't have to feel pangs of homesickness for her mother. Mrs. P. held her hand and paraded her up and down grocery aisles, while people commented. “What a lovely little girl.” “How sweet. Doesn't she look just like a porcelain doll?”

Mrs. P. ate up the compliments like chocolates. She even bought Rose her own porcelain doll that stood on a little stand. Rose touched the doll's delicate little nose and her delicate little fingers, and knew she was indeed a porcelain doll. She'd shatter just as quickly.

“Hi, precious, what's your name?” This coming from the checker with hot pink fingernails longer than Rose's toes. They looked like claws.

Rose stared at the fingernails.

“Oh, she doesn't talk,” Mrs. P. explained, wrapping a protective arm around Rose. Then in hushed tones, “She's adopted, you know. We're just not sure what kind of traumatic experiences she's had.”

Of course this was before Rose knew the word “adopted.” And long before she knew the phrase “traumatic experiences.” She just kept staring at the fingernails. If they weren't so pink, they'd seem like they belonged on a wicked witch's hands, not connected to a woman with platinum blond hair and cheeks streaked with blush.

“Poor thing,” the woman whispered, and that time Rose knew they were talking about her, and she agreed. She was a poor thing. The police had taken her mother away and forgotten to bring her back. Maybe her mom couldn't find her. Maybe the Parsimmons had forgotten to leave their address.

“Yes.” Mrs. P. clucked her tongue. “Just sits there all day, quiet as a mouse. The only thing she seems to enjoy is watching Disney.” Rose watched Disney movies over and over—except for
Bambi
and
The Lion King
—she couldn't handle the scenes where they lost their parents.

Mrs. P. held her hand back out to the car, and Rose followed mutely. Hoping, wishing, promising to be good forever if only her mother would come back.
Maybe Mama will come for me today.

Of course everything changed when Rose figured out that they'd given her a new last name. That she belonged to them. When she started talking. Because talking only seemed to complicate matters. Nothing she said was ever what Mrs. P. wanted her to say. Suddenly it was as if the porcelain doll that she'd been had fallen to the floor and shattered, and inside was something horrible and ugly, like the Sea Witches' evil eels in
The Little Mermaid
. And once she started talking again, she didn't want to stop, even though her words dug her deeper and deeper into a hole.

As much as Rose hated the Parsimmons for keeping her from her mother, she didn't want
them
to hate
her
. So she tried to make it better again. She tiptoed into Mrs. P.'s bathroom and found red lipstick in the top drawer. She painted her lips like a true porcelain doll, and she combed her hair over and over again until it shined. She ran out to show Mrs. P., her feet padding on the soft carpet. She smiled, ready to accept the compliments that were sure to come, and to wait to be paraded up and down grocery aisles.

“Rose Parsimmons!” The sharpness in Mrs. P.'s voice knocked the smile right off Rose's face. “Just what did you get into?” Mrs. P. pressed her own lips together so tightly that they almost disappeared. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped off the lipstick until Rose's lips burned. Mrs. P. locked up her lipstick after that.

A few days later, Rose climbed on Mr. P.'s lap while he watched football with the guys from work. She sat stiff and worried about their loud voices, the way they yelled at the screen, and wondered if they were like the men her mother used to bring home. She smiled her porcelain-doll smile, ready for compliments, but Mr. P. didn't seem to notice. So then she leaned forward and said something she'd heard before. Something she'd heard her mama say to the men, something that made them smile, something that got their attention. Well, it got his attention all right.

Mr. P. yelped, like she'd bitten him or set fire to his hair or something, and he stood up so fast that she fell right off his lap. Thud! Her tailbone ached. She stayed there on the floor, looking up at Mr. P. and his work buddies, and wondering what she'd done wrong.

After that, the Parsimmons took to locking their bedroom door at night. When Rose saw monsters in her closet, she pulled her blankets down the hall and curled up in the hallway right outside the Parsimmons' bedroom, because she knew they wouldn't let her crawl in bed with them.

Shortly after that, the Parsimmons started watching Dr. Phil on the tube, searching for answers to their “problem” child. Clipping articles from random magazines and printing out boatloads of info from Internet sites, all proposing to have miracle cures for the “acting-out adopted child.” They dragged her to doctors—shrinks and psychiatrists—trying experimental techniques like wrapping her in a mat and making her pretend like she was being reborn. They put her on a cocktail of medications. They took her to a new doctor and made him examine her—down there. Just the thought of it made Rose feel like she might puke. And then she decided.

Screw porcelain dolls.

Rose had never told anyone her memories from childhood, but during those evenings at Chase's apartment, lying in his bed, she found bits and pieces slipping out. At first she tried to hold them in, telling herself that Chase didn't care to hear her sob story, telling herself it was dangerous to share too much. But as she relaxed around Chase, she loosened the hold on her tongue. And the memories slid out.

He mostly just listened.

But that was okay.

Rose managed to dodge Candy until a windy evening in late March.

When Rose arrived, Daisy grabbed her hand and dragged her to the couch. She looked about six in her ratty princess pajamas—the sleeves not reaching past her elbows and the bottoms barely hitting her knees. “Look, I made Nala a little bed over here for when she visits.” She'd fashioned a soft sleeping area out of a FedEx box with what looked like an old sweatshirt padding the bottom.

“Nice work, Daisy,” Rose said, handing her the cat.

A petite woman with big hair and a thigh-length skirt poked her head out of a bedroom and asked, “Who ya talking to, Daze?”

Rose's heart fluttered. Chase's mom?

The woman caught Rose's eye and stepped forward. “Oh, hey there. You Chase's new friend?”

Rose nodded, wondering how much Candy knew about her. Word spread fast in Simi Valley, especially after Rose got caught TPing her own house, and she never quite knew how people would respond to her. Not that she cared.

Daisy reached her sticky hand for Rose's and led her over to Candy. “Her name is Rose, Mom, and she's paying me in jelly beans to cat sit.”

When Candy laughed, her eyes crinkled around the edges, and for a moment, she looked like a teenager. “Right on!” She sidled up to Daisy and held out her hand. “I get a commission, right?”

Daisy looked confused.

“That means, I get some jelly beans too, baby.”

Daisy smiled at first, then grew serious. “Only the gross flavors. You can have black licorice and popcorn.”

Rose reached into her sweatshirt pocket and pulled out a box of multicolored candies. This was the first time she'd been able to bring the jelly beans as promised. Every week the Parsimmons took her paycheck and held it hostage, so she'd had to wait until she could slip a five out of Mr. P.'s wallet.

“I ate most of the buttered popcorn on the way here. You're right. They
are
gross.” Rose said, handing the opened box to Daisy, whose eyes widened. “Although it was dark enough outside that I accidentally ate a bunch of piña coladas too. You might want to consider that for your list of favorites. Not quite as good as watermelon, but better than bubblegum in my book.”

Rose thought about reaching out to shake Candy's hand, but she didn't. Too corny. Instead she just turned to her and said, “Hi. I'm Rose.”

“Hey,” Candy said, all nonchalant. “Make yourself at home.” She moved past Daisy and flopped onto the couch, stacking her feet on the coffee table. “I think Chase was in the shower, but he should be done by now.
Hey, Chase!
” she hollered, loud enough to shatter windows. “Your girlfriend's here!”

Rose cringed. Chase ducked into the room, his face all sheepish and his shaggy curls still wet from the shower.

“You gonna watch the tube with me and Daisy, or do your own thing?” Candy asked.

“Uh.” Chase shifted his weight. “Probably just hang out in my room and talk.”

“Sure. Just talk.” Candy laughed. “Don't forget, we're sitting right out here, so keep it G-rated.”

Rose felt her face heat up. Chase just ignored Candy and turned his attention to Daisy, who'd scooped up a handful of Jelly Bellies and was sifting through them. “Okay, Daisy-Dukes. That's enough. The rest we'll save for tomorrow.”

Daisy made a halfhearted groan, but went ahead and placed the rest of the Jelly Bellies in the kitchen cabinet next to a box of saltines.

“Way to go,
Dad
,” Candy teased. “How responsible.”

Chase chuckled. “Someone's got to watch out for her.”

Candy stood up and fake-swatted his ass. “Hey, hey! I resent that!”

“Resent it all you want. It's the truth.”

Candy fake-shoved him. “Okay you little lovebirds, go have your talk. Daisy and I have some serious
American Idol
watching to do.”

Chase put his hand around Rose's waist and pulled her toward his bedroom. The funny thing was, they really did just talk. Okay, so they
mostly
just talked. Rose made Chase set the alarm by his bed for midnight just in case they fell asleep.

“Your parents really put you on Ritalin when you were six?” he asked, smoothing her hair.

“Yep,” Rose said. “They meant well, they just didn't know what to make of me.” Or any kids, really. It was obvious the Parsimmons had never had a kid before. They didn't understand that blueberry muffins made crumbs, milk spilled, and hands got sticky. It didn't take long before Rose stopped trying to please them. She made crumbs with every blueberry muffin. She dropped her milk on purpose, shattering the glass.

Chase looked at her as if he wanted to swallow her up with his arms. So she let him. It felt so good to be touched. Like a parched desert after a rain, she drank it up. And never wanted it to end.

24

CHASE

When Chase spilled the news to Daniel, he socked Chase in the arm. “You mean she shows up every night?”

“Pretty much.”

Daniel sang “Booty call!” And socked him in the arm again. “Bro—do you know how many guys would die to be in your shoes? She's got to be one of the hottest girls in Simi. At least top ten.”

Chase grinned. “No booty call. More like a support group with, uh,
benefits
.” Sure he and Rose fooled around. She'd let him take off her shirt a couple times, and man, was that nice. It was kinda hard to keep control of himself physically when they were together. He'd never really been serious about a girl before, and sometimes his body got ahead of his mind. He struggled to rein it in. But they also mostly talked. No sex, and Chase wasn't pushing it. Not that he was nervous or anything. Just that, well, he hadn't ever done it before, and he sure didn't want to get it wrong.

Plus it had been kinda cool just getting to know Rose. He felt pretty sure she hadn't shared herself with anyone before, not in this way. Chase had tacked that picture she drew for him right on his wall, next to his posters. Rose hadn't really been “giving” herself to him, he decided. She'd been “sharing” herself with him. There was a difference.

With all that baring of the soul (and body), Chase began to feel obligated to share himself, as well. It stressed him out. Because did guys talk about that kind of stuff? He and Daniel knew each other backward and forward, but that was because they'd been buddies since elementary school. He hadn't
told
Daniel about his life; Daniel just
knew
. So with Rose, he started off easy. Told her about the good times. Fishing in the lake and basketball on TV. Learning to ride a bike.

When he got to the topic of Walter, the words stuck in his mouth, hanging back. Relax, he told himself. It's not like you're broadcasting your business to the world. You're just telling your girlfriend. Thinking of her as his girlfriend made it okay, so he went ahead and blurted it out. Told her that for years Walter cracked his first beer to help him wake up in the morning. On work days, he'd mix some vodka into the orange juice from his lunch thermos. He'd end work with a visit to happy hour and come home mean. On weekends, he stayed drunk from Friday night right through Sunday—church included. Some people were more fun when they were drunk. Walter was just plain mean.

“Scary,” Rose said, gazing into his eyes. She kissed his nose. “And you were only a kid.”

“I guess I was. But it's funny … I feel like I've been old forever.” Chase stared at those little cottage-cheese bumps on the ceiling. “I never knew what would set him off. But as a kid, I always had this sense that Candy
should've
known. Like it was somehow her fault.”

Candy should've known that he had burritos for lunch and not to pick up burritos for dinner. Candy should've known the towels in the bathroom were hung crooked. Candy should've known not to talk to the mailman. Or the guy at the checkout counter at the drugstore. “Saying that out loud sounds so stupid,” Chase said. “It was just so easy to blame her.”

“Maybe because
he
blamed her?” Rose suggested softly.

“Maybe.” Chase remembered blaming Candy for setting Walter off. Blaming her for taking it. Blaming her for not taking it—for crying or fighting back. It'd been so easy to blame her and so hard to respect her.

“And then, he started taking off for chunks of time.” Chase said. During those weeks, Candy would invite Chase and Daisy to come sleep in her bed. They'd bring in extra blankets and lie there in the dark, listening to each other breathe. His mother would whisper, as though someone else was listening, “We're the Three Musketeers. Nothing can get us down.”

Chase and his sister agreed. They both knew it wouldn't last, but for the moment, it didn't matter. The warmth from his mother's bed warmed his soul like chicken noodle soup, and that warmth would last for days.

“What happened when he came back?” Rose smoothed his hair away from his forehead.

“It was worse. It was a nightmare.” Chase said, his chest heavy from remembering it all. Walter would accuse Candy of cheating on him. He'd smell the sheets. He'd rant and rave, throwing her laundry across the room. It got so that Walter just checked in and out of their lives like they were some kind of seedy motel, a place to crash and trash with no cleanup obligations. After a surprise visit that ended in a black eye, Candy said, “Enough.”

“And finally she got the balls to end it.” Chase could still remember his mother's face when she told Walter off. Her face muscles looked like they were vibrating, filled with so many different emotions that he couldn't identify.

“Leave.” Her voice vibrated too. Shaking but strong. She stood at the front door, blocking his father's re-entry. “I'm not gonna hang around here, waiting.” Her voice gathered momentum, and she spoke faster now. Louder. “Waiting for you to show up here and teach me another lesson.”

Chase and Daisy huddled together in his bedroom. Using the door as a shield. He peeked through the crack, his vision narrowed. All he could see was Candy's face. Chase wrapped his arm around his sister, holding her tight. He could feel her shaking.

“Was it bad?”

“Yeah.” Chase's voice cracked. He remembered Walter slamming the door nearly off its hinges, and Candy jumping back to avoid getting hit. Daisy pressing her face into his side and wrapping her arms around his stomach. When Chase tried to pry her arms away, he couldn't. Strong little kid. Chase felt something wet beneath his bare feet. She'd peed in her pants. And now he'd stepped in it. It grossed him out a little, but he tried not to show it.

Daisy peeked up at him, her face streaked with tears. She didn't speak, but her face showed her embarrassment.

“It's all right.” Chase loosened her hold. “I'll clean it up while you change your pants.”

By the time Chase finished scrubbing the carpet, Candy had already gone to the landlord and asked him to change the locks. Chase was old enough to watch Daisy, she said, and it was about time she started dating again.

“And then he left for good?” Rose nuzzled her head in the crook of Chase's arm.

“Pretty much. He still sends cards a couple times a year—birthdays and Christmas, although they're both usually a month or two late.”

“Do you think your mom wants to get married again?”

“Yeah. I think she's lonely.” Sometimes he caught Candy crying at night, like she missed Walter or something. It was like missing a splinter or a blister. How could she miss someone who only brought her pain? Besides, she met more eligible bachelors at the salon than there were flavors of ice cream.

And ever since she dumped the stoner, she'd been dating Bob the Plumber. He seemed halfway decent and, like Candy said, “a keeper.” Made good money too. After all, Candy reminded them, she had to pay the bills, and her $12.33-an-hour job as a receptionist and hairstylist-in-training at Salon Joli didn't cut it. Someday, Candy would move up to hairdresser and earn the big bucks. She just had to get the hang of cutting bangs. They always wound up longer on one side.

Chase had shared more than he'd intended to. Rose just lay there on her side, her hand propping up her head. Her long, fine strands of hair spilling over her shoulders and across her smooth brown skin. Her eyes wide and clear, drinking in his words like there was no one more important in the world. He reached out to touch her hair. “I can probably get you a free haircut at the salon, if you're ever interested.” It felt like silk.

“Not sure.” She fingered the strands around her face, then grinned. “I don't think I want her anywhere near my bangs.”

“Oh, come on!” Chase rolled onto his back. “The lopsided look is in!”

“Ah, ah, ah,” she warned, wagging her finger in his face. “Careful, or I'll think you're trying to get into my pants.”

Chase couldn't resist. He lunged for her finger and grabbed it in his fist, pulling her closer. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but your pants have been folded on the floor for the last hour and a half.”

Rose pulled her finger away, laughing, then pressed it into his bare chest. “That is for purely scientific purposes.”

“What?”

“Haven't you ever noticed how it's warmer under the covers without pants?”

“No.” It sounded like a load of crap to him.

“Yes. I'm conducting experiments. Measuring body heat and all that.” She let her skin melt into his. “See how warm this is?”

Her skin did feel toasty warm. It was all Chase could do to manage his impulses.

She chuckled, watching his face. “And I'm studying something else too.” She waited, but he didn't know. “I'm studying how long it will take you to make a move.”

“A move?” Chase complained. “I thought I wasn't supposed to make a move! You wanted to be in charge, right?” For a moment, he felt legitimately frustrated, until he realized her whole body was shaking with laughter.

“All right, all right.” Rose climbed on top of him and kissed him with little feather-like kisses. His forehead. His chin. His neck—that almost tickled. His chest … Chase closed his eyes. He felt her pull back. More discouraged than curious, Chase slowly opened his eyes. “I don't get it,” she said slowly. “You act like you're this big disappointment or something. Your parents sound more disappointing than you do.”

Chase closed his eyes again. “Can't you go back to what you were doing before?” No way did he plan on telling her about the fist he'd put through a wall.

She teased his lips with her finger. “Not sure if I'm in the mood. Come on, tell me what you've done that is so bad.”

“If I tell you, you'll do that thing again?” Chase cracked one eye open to see her nod, then he closed it again. “Okay, fine. I just disrespected my mom is all. And I promised myself I won't ever do it again.”

“Doesn't everyone disrespect their parents?”

Chase remembered the way his fist crunched through the wall. “It's just—she's been through so much crap with my dad. She doesn't deserve any more crap. And Daisy doesn't deserve to have all that drama up in her face. “ Chase held out his arms. “That's all you get—take it or leave it. Now kiss me!” he commanded, hoping she'd go back to the neck.

She did.