Rosie Colored Glasses

by Brianna Wolfson

  “Band-Aids?”

  “Yeah. Because your awms. All those things on thum. It looks like they huwt and maybe you wanted some Band-Aids.”

  Willow felt her eyes filling up with tears. They were tears of embarrassment. Embarrassment that she couldn’t contain how much she was hurting.

  They were tears of love. Love for her little brother who wanted to take care of her.

  They were tears of relief. Relief that somebody was looking out for her.

  Willow was quiet while she looked at her brother in the doorway and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.

  Asher was standing there fidgeting. And then he continued talking. “Well, I just didn’t know if we had any in the house ow not.”

  Willow’s mind went blank and her whole body relaxed. She looked straight into her brother’s clear, warm, loving blue eyes. And he looked right back at her. Into her sad, desperate, writhing brown eyes.

  “Hewe you go, Willow,” Asher said so simply as he pulled one Band-Aid, and then another, and then another, and then another Band-Aid out of his pocket. He created a big pile of them on the floor. And then took the final one from his pocket and unpeeled the waxy paper.

  Willow slowly and silently extended her arm out to Asher. Her thin arm covered in raw red sores. Her thin and needy arm. And she let her brother place one, and then another, and then another, and then another Band-Aid on her.

  She watched without a word as Asher was so gentle. So kind. So calm. So sweet.

  Willow silently wondered what kind of Band-Aids her brother needed. She wondered what was hurting him.

  It must be something.

  But when every Band-Aid was stuck on Willow’s arms, and their wax paper shells were scattered all over Willow’s bedroom floor, Asher smiled and skipped out of his sister’s room with his green hooded jacket in hand. His light-up shoes blinked as he made his way down the hallway.

  Willow went into the bathroom to look at her new Band-Aid armor in the mirror. She looked ridiculous all covered up in those sticky beige strips that didn’t quite match the color of her skin. Those sticky beige strips that Asher applied at random angles all over her arms. And she laughed. She laughed and laughed until she cried big and full tears. Big tears full of sadness and also full of happiness. Big tears full of anguish but also full of hope.

  This was the first time she had allowed someone that wasn’t Mom to love her so directly. This was the first time she had allowed someone else to care for her. Soothe her. Console her.

  And it felt good.

  Because for so long Willow had pushed everyone out if they didn’t love her, play with her, talk to her, love her in just the way she liked. She wouldn’t bend for anyone. But it was a tragic mistake. A mistake so many of the people around her made, as well.

  But some of that was starting to wash away. And it was exposing something beautiful and pure.

  46

  When Rex looked at his daughter, he felt lost. He wanted to help her, to heal her, so badly. But he just didn’t know how. He saw the hickeys and the scratches and bloodshot eyes. He washed her sheets in the mornings that were soaked with urine.

  He had a sense of the things that would help. A high five for a perfect score on a spelling test. A rub on the back when she walked offstage after a perfect performance at her piano recital. A good-night kiss. A fatherly hug. Any of those things could have reversed every rogue piece of hair and every red mark on her skin. Any of those things could have sent that invisible brick wall between Rex and his daughter tumbling down. But how would he even begin to do these things after all that had happened? After all that space he’d created between them?

  Of all the preparation Rex did to get ready for fatherhood, nothing prepared him to handle this. Any of it. The drug-addicted wife. The divorce. The drug-addicted ex-wife. The ex-wife that his children adored. Whom he once adored and still missed. The sudden and tragic death of that ex-wife. The son—the simple and innocent son—who showed no signs that he had internalized anything that was going on. The daughter who didn’t love him. And might never love him. The eleven-year-old daughter who still wet the bed and still had to bring a change of clothes to school. The daughter whose change of clothes was another set of exactly the same clothes.

  How was he supposed to know how to tell his children that their mother had died? He thought back to that moment in the car when he just told them plainly she was dead. He remembered the stunned silence, the thickness in the air, then the sound of tears. His heart ached for his children. His heart broke for them. He couldn’t even turn around and look at them. Come face-to-face with their sadness. Come face-to-face with his failures.

  How was he supposed to know what to do? How to be a father in that moment? How was he to forgive himself for the awful way he shot that delicate news out at them?

  And how was he supposed to know that a father should allow his children to mourn at their mother’s funeral? He so desperately wanted to spare them from any more pain. From seeing their mother in a casket. But when he found that puddle on the floor where he knew Willow had been standing, he knew his decision to shield them was wrong. He knew too late what a colossal mistake he had made.

  But how was he supposed to know how to be a father in those moments? How was he to forgive himself for depriving his children of a critical component of finding closure?

  How was he supposed to be a father to his children who loved their mother so, so much? How was he supposed to be a father to his children who couldn’t, and shouldn’t, be exposed to their mother’s flaws? How was he to forgive himself for not doing more? To save his children? To save their mother?

  Rex saw so intimately what was happening that morning when he found his children so comfortable in Rosie’s bed with their caked-on makeup after what was undoubtedly a night dancing to The Rocky Horror Picture Show. He remembered being forced into this ridiculousness himself while living with Rosie in Manhattan—and yet loving every moment of it. He remembered having to wear nail polish and face paint and sometimes a boa, and feeling so uncomfortable in his outfit, but so happy with Rosie sprawled all over him. He could see so clearly that his children were experiencing this same sensation of being swept up and carried away by Rosie’s beautiful and terrifying tornado of love.

  He knew this tornado so intimately. He knew that now it would be fishnet stockings and glitter blue eye shadow and kisses and love. And that later, there would be pain and aching as she slipped away and took her love with her. Because that level of fishnet stockings and glitter blue eye shadow and kisses and love was not sustainable. Her tornado would always have its aftermath. Its heartbreaking wreckage.

  He knew because he himself was left broken from it once. Was still broken from it. And he was scared of what would happen to his children once Rosie’s tornado picked up momentum because he knew in his bones what would happen. He should have protected them. But how could he be a father that pulled his children out of the sky? Forced his children to run from their mother’s love? But how could he be a father who didn’t?

  There were so, so many chasms. So many bridges he would have to build from scratch. “How?” Rex asked himself with his chin at his chest. “How?”

  As an unfamiliar empathy moved around his body. Part of the sensation hurt, but part of it warmed him. This was a start.

  * * *

  As Rex paid more attention to his daughter in the weeks following Rosie’s death, he noticed a fire in his daughter he had never seen before. He saw intensity in her eyes. A seriousness in her chin. A firmness in her gait.

  There was sadness and anger in all of those places too, but those he understood. Those he expected. The fire and intensity he witnessed were new and surprising. But although Rex knew his daughter was in pain, he swelled with pride when he saw that Willow had these traits running through her. Traits that he valued. Traits that he, himself, contained. It was
the most connected he had ever felt to his daughter.

  He and Willow had both been so fulfilled by Rosie. They had both been so inadvertently dependent on her special, specific, unique kind of love. And then he and Willow had both had it pulled away from them. Slowly and painfully. They had it taken away just when they needed it most. And in the wake of losing Rosie, they had both hardened. With sadness and anger and hurt. So much sadness. So much anger. So much hurt.

  Yet they shared something now. Something so visceral. Something so real.

  And then a flood of guilt filled up inside of Rex. Guilt for the way he looked past Willow all these years. Guilt for the way he gave her up to Rosie so shortly after she was born. It was so naive to think that his daughter had no room for his love. Of course she did. He was her father. He just needed to carve out space for it. He had so much love he was ready to give her. He should have tried harder to give it. And his daughter was so young. She would have absorbed it so thoroughly from him. They would have all been so much happier. They could all be so much happier.

  And then Rex filled with hope. Hope that there could be a future in which they were so much happier. Separately and together. Separately by way of together.

  Some changes would have to be made. By Rex himself and by his daughter too. But he was her father and the first step would be his. He was determined in this. Resolute in this. His heart, his whole body, his whole being, felt it so strongly.

  It was always known that when Rex Thorpe wanted something, he made it happen.

  And he wanted so badly to be better. He needed to be better. So, so much better.

  Better than the man who walked away instead of helping his daughter kick a soccer ball.

  Better than the man who looked away when his daughter appeared downstairs in her favorite outfit.

  Better than the man who was so cold when he told his children that their mother had died. Better than the man who didn’t know to invite them to their own mother’s funeral.

  Better than the man who didn’t give his children enough kisses. Enough hugs. Enough love.

  Yes, he would be so much better.

  More available. More open. More free with love.

  More like Rosie.

  For the first time in many months, Rex thought back on his ex-wife fondly. He wanted so badly to get through to Willow. And no one knew how better than Rosie did. It was true when Willow was just a little girl and it was still true now. Even in Rosie’s death.

  Rex closed his eyes, inhaled and thought of Rosie. Admired Rosie. With her quirks and her floral-printed dresses. With her silliness and red lipstick. With her coolness and flowery skin. With her bounce and curly hair. With her special kind of nuanced love that she offered to everyone, everyone, around her. With her special kind of nuanced love that she so beautifully sent straight into the bones, the hearts, of her children. Especially Willow.

  He closed his eyes even tighter and channeled Rosie.

  Even if she couldn’t be his wife, even if she could no longer be Willow and Asher’s mother, and even if she could no longer be here at all, he still wanted a piece of her inside of him. He still needed a piece of her inside of him. He had been better with her. Lighter. Happier. Even if it was by accident.

  And he could be better again. He just needed a little Rosie. And Willow did too.

  47

  When Rex put their car in Park in front of their mother’s house, Willow’s stomach turned. The facade of the house looked as it always looked. The unruly flower beds. The ivy climbing up the brick. The red door with its chipping paint.

  Rex turned toward his children in the back seat and handed Willow and Asher two empty cardboard boxes each.

  “You can fill those two boxes and bring them back home. The rest of the stuff in the house will be taken care of.”

  These two simple sentences boiled Willow’s blood. They boiled her blood so furiously that she had to grip onto the door to keep from screaming. Willow sat in a silent rage as so many thoughts exploded in her mind.

  Put my stuff in two boxes? TWO BOXES?! You want me to fit everything in two boxes, Dad? I had a life in that house. I had toys that I played with. I had art on my walls. Books that I made notes in. Letters from Mom that I’ve saved. I had things in that house. Lots and lots of things. And I know that you think the things that Mom and I like are stupid, but I like them. I like my collection of skipping stones and I like all the misshapen bowls that I made out of clay and painted all sorts of colors. I have lots of things that I want to keep with me. Two boxes is not enough boxes for all those things.

  Bring them back home? HOME?! You call your house home, Dad? Your house is not home. Your house is a house. Because the air-conditioning is always on too high and you’re always saying shh. Because sometimes you bring strangers into it when you think I am sleeping. Mom’s house is home. Because love and laughter were alive in there. And singing and dancing and cooking and art. Life was exciting in that house. In that home. And even if Mom isn’t in there anymore, there’s still life in that home. It’s nothing like your house.

  The rest will be taken care of? TAKEN CARE OF?

  What does it look like for you to take care of something, Dad? Does it look like forcing your daughter to empty the dishwasher every night?

  Does it look like requiring your daughter to place a quarter in a mason jar every time she says like or umm?

  Does it look like turning your daughter’s bedroom lights off without a good-night kiss? Sometimes without even saying good-night at all?

  Does it look like pressing and pressing and pressing your naked body into a woman’s body in the middle of your bathroom without noticing that your daughter is standing right there watching it happen? I don’t trust you to take care of something, Dad.

  I don’t trust you to take care of Mom’s stuff. And I don’t trust you to take care of me.

  I want Mom here. I want her here so bad.

  Her whole body tensed in the back seat of that car, and then melted at the thought of missing her Mom. At the sight of her house out the car window. And as Willow’s heartbeat slowed and her lungs calmed, she relinquished her grip on the door. Rex stayed seated in the front seat of the car as his son and daughter dragged their feet up the driveway and through the front door.

  As soon as Willow opened the door, the floral scent of her mother washed over her. Even though Rosie was gone, Willow could still feel her in every cranny of their home. The worn hardwood floors. The paintbrushes in pick-up-sticks formation on the living room floor. The abstract mural on the hallway wall. The half-read, half-annotated books on the kitchen table. It almost seemed as if Mom would walk in any minute and finish her painting or book or concoction in the kitchen. And then Willow imagined it happening. She imagined her mother skating right through the door and picking up a paintbrush like nothing happened. Turning over the book and reading every word to her. Tossing a wooden spoon to her and motioning for her to mix the batter.

  Willow spent an hour placing things from around the house into her two boxes. And then removing something she thought she might be able to part with. And putting something new in its place. And then putting the original item back in. And then taking it out again to make room for another something. And then trying to rearrange the makeup and jewelry and books and toys and markers and pictures and purple leggings and black Converse sneakers in her two boxes to make room for more makeup and jewelry and books and toys and markers and pictures and purple leggings and black Converse sneakers.

  But there was no combination or orientation of things in those boxes that would have satisfied Willow. And Willow knew that. So after another hour, Willow bent over, turned backward, curved her little fingers over the opened edge of each box and dragged the only remaining relics of her mother she would be allowed to keep down the hallway. As she moved past the white door of her mother’s bedroom, Willow couldn’t resi
st the urge to walk in one more time.

  The king bed that she had fallen asleep in so many times was still unmade. There were candy wrappers on the bedside table. And two ripped-open Pixy Stix at the top of the pile. The sight of those thin purple-and-white-striped wax paper tubes caused a tightening in the back of Willow’s throat. It caused pressure against her heart. Willow felt tears forming. Forming and preparing to drip out of her.

  But what would happen if she were to keep crying? Keep feeling sad? Or scared? Or mad? Who would listen to her? Who would hug her?

  Without Mom there, Willow knew the answer was no one.

  And so Willow, by her own force of will, untwisted the knot in her stomach, waited a moment for the teary wells in her eyes to evaporate and resumed dragging her boxes down the hallway. This kind of independent determination was brand-new to Willow Thorpe. It felt strange as it coursed through her blood, fortified her muscles and strengthened her soul. But she knew she needed it. She knew she would continue to need it. And she let it seep into her as she dragged her boxes all the way down the stairs and out the door.

  When Willow emerged from the house, Rex grabbed her two boxes and then Asher’s and piled them into the trunk of his car. Then they drove off without saying a word.

  Willow sat quietly and tearlessly taking inventory of all the things that she wished were in the trunk of Dad’s car with her two boxes. The old chest full of sequin jackets. The pink wigs and floral headdresses. The cowboy hats and fake glasses and feather boas that were in the bottom drawer of Mom’s closet. The charcoal drawing hanging on the living room wall that she, Asher and Mom made one day when it was so snowy that you could only see white when you tried to look out the window. The sculpture in the hallway that Willow picked out at a craft fair in a warehouse somewhere that took an hour to drive to one afternoon when she should have been in school. The camera with all of her pictures of the waves crashing against the rocks at sunrise from the time Mom woke her up before even the sun had risen and brought her to the ocean. The silly shaped cookie cutters that made desserts they would eat before they had their vegetables.