Rosie Colored Glasses

by Brianna Wolfson

  Before her alarm could even make a second beep, Willow was out of bed. She tiptoed into her bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were large and determined. Her shoulders looked strong. There was finally some pink in her cheeks. She looked ready. She looked different.

  With every action she moved through that Friday morning, she cataloged every step, every movement, every breath as she considered that this could be the last time doing all these things at Dad’s. The last time turning off that alarm. The last time looking in that mirror. The last time walking by the morning, and afternoon, and evening checklist on her wall. The last time walking quietly down the hallway on the way to wake her brother up. Because in less than twelve hours, she would be at 299 East 82nd Street with her hand around a cream soda and her head against Mom’s shoulder.

  Willow gently pressed into Asher’s room and tapped his shoulder with increasing force until her brother rolled over and opened his big, blue eyes.

  “It’s time, Asher. Come on, wake up. Before Dad does.”

  Asher rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He was still gripping his tattered blue blankie between his pinkie finger and palm.

  Willow wondered if her brother had the same dreams about waking up in Mom’s bed in matching pajamas. She wondered if he was also thinking about what flavor ice cream the three of them would share tonight. Whether he believed that Willow would get him to 299 East 82nd Street. Whether he believed Mom would be there at all.

  But Willow had enough belief and determination for the both of them. And after only a few minutes, Asher and Willow were standing downstairs by the back door with their backpacks strapped on. They stared at each other for a moment. They stared at each other and locked eyes as so many things flowed between them. Trust and apprehension. Fear and loyalty. Hope and love.

  And then, before either of them could change their minds, Willow grabbed Asher’s hand and burst through the door.

  Asher turned around and gave a full hand, five fingers outstretched, wave to Dad’s house as Willow dragged him along through the presunrise darkness. The walk to the bus station felt long as each of them watched one foot and then the other press into the ground. With each step, it got a little lighter outside. And with each step another few drops of dew evaporated into the spring air. And with each step, their pulses slowed.

  Love had prepared their hearts for the journey, but now inertia had taken over their legs.

  52

  Rex was dreaming of Rosie when he woke up to the sound of Willow in the hallways saying shh. And as he turned over in bed, he heard Asher reply with a familiar “sowwwyyy” even louder than Willow’s shh had been. Rex rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock next to the bed. It was far too early for his children to be awake.

  He rolled out of bed and peered over the balcony to find his children walking out of his house with their backpacks on. He could tell by the way they pressed through the door that they weren’t going to school. So Rex tied his sneakers and followed quietly behind them. Quietly and slowly fifty yards behind them. Quietly and slowly as the sun came up and the morning dew evaporated. Quietly and slowly and wondering with every step where his children were walking to at this time of the morning. And even though Rex did not know where his children would lead him, he felt assured the journey would help him understand them.

  Rex remained perplexed when they ended up at the bus station and Willow stepped up to the ticketing window with a pile of cash in her hand. But when Willow said, “Two tickets for New York City, please,” in her tiny, little voice, Rex knew exactly what had happened.

  He thought of the locket. He thought of the address engraved on the back of it. He thought of tying it around those grape Pixy Stix. Those sugar-filled tubes that were really meant to say “I love you.” The thing he never said to his daughter. The thing he had withheld from his daughter for so long that she thought they were from Rosie. Even after her death.

  And it made so much sense now that his daughter thought they were from her mother. The person who did say “I love you” all the time. With her words and her gifts and every teeny, tiny action. The person who gushed with the most manic form of it all the time. All the time until she didn’t at all.

  And at that moment, it was all understood. It was heartbreaking but it was understood. Rex knew they needed to complete this journey on their own. He knew they needed to get to that apartment themselves. Explore this fantasy, this need, all on their own. But he needed to ensure they could do it safely. And once they did, he could be there for them. Like the father, the man, he wanted to be.

  Rex sprinted home and straight into his office, where he checked the bus arrival times into Manhattan. He called up Roy and explained what had happened.

  “Can you have someone meet them at the bus stop to guide them into a taxi?” Rex asked his friend anxiously. “I need to be at the apartment when they get there. I need them to get there...and think they did it on their own. Can you find someone?”

  Roy, the dependable friend he always was, agreed. He would ask his friend Sasha who worked nearby. He would make sure his children got to that apartment. Rex knew that Roy would never make a promise he couldn’t keep.

  It was all Rex needed to hear before hanging up the phone and packing a bag for himself, and then Asher and Willow. He packed pants and shirts and sweaters. Action figures and superhero T-shirts for Asher’s. Even purple leggings and black shirts for Willow.

  He stopped in his office and there it was, the picture of Rosie he kept next to his computer screen. She was standing on the brink of the ocean with a paisley dress on. She was lifting the bottom of the dress so it wouldn’t get wet, but the ocean spray was getting to her anyway. She was laughing and bright in her oversize sunglasses. It was a different time. A happier time. For both of them. When Willow and Asher were just a twinkle in their eyes. When love was flowing all around them. Rex turned the picture frame over and opened the back, where he had kept Rosie’s note that was found in her room.

  My Willow. My Asher. And also my Rex.

  I love you oodles and oodles and noodle poodles.

  I am sorry for all of it.

  —Mom

  The note that Rosie left was so carefully written in purple cursive.

  Rex thought of that first time he saw that lively rounded handwriting on the card from Blooms Flower Shop. To the first time he felt the hate and love of all time washing over him. To the first time he felt all of those things simultaneously seeping into him and cleansing him. He brought the note to his chest and then to his lips. And then, with a tear in his eye, he placed it back into the frame.

  The Rosie that left this note would stay here. In a past life. Hidden behind the Rosie in that picture. Hidden behind the Rosie with sunglasses and laughter and printed dresses and sandy toes. This beautiful, effervescent Rosie hiding the Rosie with pills and pain and suffering. It was how it was all along and how it would continue to be now. It was the Rosie he needed to see there in that picture and in his mind. The Rosie Willow and Asher needed to see too. In their lives and in their memories.

  But before he walked out of the house, Rex paused to look at Rosie’s photo again. The longer he looked at that photo of Rosie, so happy, so alive, the more that note behind it dissolved into insignificance.

  It was nice to have a rare moment of calm, a rare moment of happiness, in the midst of all this chaos of the last few months. Chaos with Rosie. And then without Rosie. And with Willow. And now without Willow.

  And, finally, Rex exhaled.

  And then got into his car and drove as fast as he could to 299 East 82nd Street.

  53

  When they got to the bus station, Willow waited patiently at the ticketing window until it creaked open. A scruffy gray-haired man with tattered sleeves sat up in his chair to get a full view of the eleven-year-old girl whose coiled brown hair barely reached the heig
ht of the window.

  “Where are you two headed?” he asked through a mask of coffee steam.

  “Two tickets for New York City, please. The six-thirty bus,” Willow said surprisingly confidently. And, for the first time, there was nothing meek or insecure or awkward about Willow as she unrolled the stack of cash she had secured with a rubber band. She pushed the money below the glass pane and accepted her ticket from a man who had seen all sorts of people buying bus tickets to all sorts of places.

  And then Willow nodded to Asher, who followed her onto the platform for the bus. Willow’s right leg was vibrating vigorously and Asher’s whole body bounced up and down. But when the bus horn sounded and the bright headlights made their way around the bend of the road, both Willow and Asher were still. Still and ready.

  The doors opened with a whoosh of air and Willow and Asher walked onto the empty bus and gripped each other’s hand, tightly without even looking down at their fingers. They each took a giant step in tandem onto the steps and walked up toward the driver. And with another whoosh, the doors shut behind them and the bus creaked into motion.

  Willow and Asher walked down the narrow aisle and took seats next to each another. They placed their hands flat on the light blue patterned seats and let their legs dangle over the edge as they steadied themselves for the ride.

  And suddenly, Willow wasn’t in the past anymore thinking of what it used to be like when Mom was around. And she also wasn’t in the future thinking about what it would be like when Mom was around again. She had become acutely present. The future equal to the past. The past equal to the future. She was so close to Mom as she sat there feeling the excitement of nearing the end of a long and painful road. Feeling the bumps of the tires beneath her legs. Feeling the vibrations of the seats that were way too big for their little bodies too far into a plan that was way too big for their little minds.

  * * *

  Willow listened to her headphones and played her word searches while Asher twisted the limbs of his action figures. Together, they counted blue cars on the highway and alternated between playing rock, paper, scissors and tic-tac-toe.

  And then they got quiet. Asher leaned his head on his sister’s shoulder and closed his eyes for a nap. And then Willow leaned her head on her brother’s head and closed her eyes for a nap too. But they could each tell by the way the other was breathing that neither of them were asleep. They waited nervously and excitedly to get to Manhattan.

  And, then, all of a sudden, the road narrowed and buildings stacked up around them. And then, all of a sudden, their farness from home was all so real. It was real in the thick, city air. In the oppressive grayness of the streets, and the buildings, and smoke coming up from the earth. It was real in the density of buildings, and signs, and sounds, and people. It was real in the quickness with which those people stomped through the sidewalks. It was real in the tight straight lanes they moved along in and the black outfits they wore. It was real in the loudness. The flashing lights. The honking horns.

  This was a whole different world. Not Dad’s. Not Mom’s. Not school. Not the beach.

  Willow and Asher locked hands and they stepped off the bus into the big terminal. Then they followed a few passengers out the building and stood by themselves on the curb. Willow willed a taxi to stop in front of her and take her and Asher to Mom. But everything was zooming by. Gray and zooming by.

  And then a tall, slim blonde woman in a neat white dress tapped Willow on the shoulder.

  “You trying to get somewhere, sweetheart?” she asked gently. Maternally.

  Willow uncurled her hand and showed the woman the locket with the address on it. And then the woman in white stuck her long and narrow arm out toward the street. A dirty yellow cab pulled up underneath it. She handed the driver a few green bills and told him the address. And Willow watched the woman in white’s red nails retreat out the window, and then wave to her and Asher as they drove away.

  With every jerky right turn, every red stoplight and narrowly missed car next to them, Willow filled with excitement. She filled so thoroughly that she was ready to burst with it. And when the cab came to a stop in front of a short brown building with a rusted golden number, Willow almost couldn’t breathe.

  The moment she was waiting for was right in that building. The moment her mother would scoop her into her arms was right behind that door.

  54

  Rex thought of Willow and of Asher the entire drive up. He trusted they would be safe. What they would think when they saw him. How they would react when Rosie was not there. What they would feel. He thought of Willow. How much she would love the apartment. How much she would be able to feel Rosie’s presence there, even if she wasn’t there herself. How much he would allow Rosie’s presence to wash over him too. How he would love and love and love his children as much as they needed him to. How he would tell them and show them and kiss them every day from now on.

  How he was so sorry. For every last instant he was detached. For every last moment he didn’t protect his children. And protect them not with force or strength or toughness. But with love. Pure, raw, unabashed love.

  He waited and waited and waited in that apartment for his children to arrive.

  And when he heard a knock at the door, his stomach twisted and he lost his breath for a moment.

  55

  Willow’s stomach twisted and she lost her breath for just an instant before she tapped her small knuckles on the door three times. The buzz of the streets faded away and Willow heard movement behind the door. Every inch of her tingled. It tingled and danced and filled right up.

  And then the doorknob turned and the crack in the door grew more and more spacious.

  And then she saw her father.

  Her tall, broad, father looking right at her.

  There was so much stillness and so much quiet. So much surprise. So much disbelief.

  So much disappointment.

  And then, without a word, Willow’s father reached into his back pocket and pulled his arm back to the front. He was holding two grape Pixy Stix. And from those grape Pixy Stix hung a typed note that said, “For Willow,” in the same font she had seen on those notes for months.

  Willow’s knees loosened. They loosened more thoroughly than any other time before. Because this wasn’t gravity. This was sorrow. And it was all at once and it was overwhelming.

  Willow dropped to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Her legs and arms bent out awkwardly and her chest folded on top of them. She cried. And cried. And cried. She cried loudly and deeply. She cried big, full, wobbling tears until her face was wet with them. She inhaled choppy inhales as she cried some more. And then more and then more.

  Her chest bounced up and down on top of her crooked legs as she cried some more. She let her arms dangle next to her as she cried some more. She inhaled more choppy inhales as she cried some more.

  And then she felt her father’s strong, capable hands under her. The same hands that picked her up and brought her to the beach in the middle of the night. The same hands that had been wrapping notes around those Pixy Stix all this time.

  And then her father dropped onto his knees and dragged her body onto his. Her father dropped onto his knees and pulled his daughter’s lifeless sobbing body straight onto his strong and sturdy chest.

  And Willow let the weight of her body drape over her father’s shoulder as she cried more and more and more. Willow felt her father’s hands rubbing her back. Rubbing her back from the very top to the very bottom. Over and over again. It was so rhythmic. So steady. So dependable. So soothing. And Willow let herself sink into that rhythm. That steady, dependable rhythm. She let herself be soothed by it. She let herself feel the love behind it.

  And slowly, her breathing and her heart hushed. Her chest and muscles calmed. Her tears dried. And then she felt Asher’s little hand on her back too. And j
ust as it was about to get quiet, Asher’s voice was in the air.

  “Can we live hewe now?” he said through that enduring gap in his front teeth.

  Willow peeled her chest off her father’s shoulder and looked straight into his eyes. His big, brown, serious eyes. And then her father laughed. With full belly and full smile. And it made Willow laugh too. With full body and full heart.

  “I think that sounds like a great idea, Ash,” Rex said as he rubbed Asher’s straight blond hair back and forth.

  “I brought your stuff. It’s in the other room.”

  And then Willow sank right back into her father’s shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled them in so tightly. So, so tightly. And her father’s arms pulled her in so tightly back. So, so tightly. Willow let herself sink even more deeply into her father’s shoulder and closed her eyes. She did it with all the love—past, present and future—on her mind.

  56

  When Rex opened the door and watched his daughter fall to the ground in sadness, his heart broke. It broke so much it hurt. He scooped his daughter into his arms and let her cry on top of him. And into him. And he rubbed her back and cried too. For Willow. For Rosie. And for Asher.

  And for himself. And for everyone in the whole world that has ever loved or lost.

  And when his daughter’s breathing and tears finally slowed, he felt the warm tingle of fatherhood. He felt the pride of consoling his daughter. The power of love flowing so truly, so wholly, from him into her, and from her into him.

  He could not help but laugh at Asher when he excitedly yelled, “Can we live hewe now?”

  And he could not help but agree to the idea when he looked into his daughter’s longing eyes.