Hugo & Rose

by Bridget Foley

  This was a mistake, thought Rose. You should go. Take the child and get back in the car. Come back another time, when you’re free, unfettered …

  But it was impractical. Too far a drive. She was already here.

  “What did you want to show me?”

  Hugo’s eyes snapped back to life, suddenly present. “Uh…”

  He glanced back toward the hallway … almost as if he expected someone to step out. He was holding his breath. Deciding.

  Penny grabbed his pant leg and Rose caught his visceral flinch at the touch.

  “No kitty?” Pen wanted to be sure.

  Rose swept her up. Carrying her away from Hugo and his discomfort. Setting her on the couch. “No, honey. No kitty.” She handed her a pile of books. “Here, you read.”

  Rose perched on the edge of the sofa next to her. Placing her body between Hugo and the girl. She wouldn’t let Penny touch him again. She didn’t want to see him cringe again at her daughter’s touch. Didn’t want to explore what such a reaction could mean.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Hugo shook his head. “No, I…”

  “Why don’t you show me, while she’s occupied?”

  Hugo hesitated. He glanced back at the hallway. This was not quite what he had planned. But then:

  “Stay here.”

  * * *

  The albums he brought out were large. Leather bound. Their spines were rounded and wide, four inches at least, enough to accommodate the hundreds of pages inside.

  Hugo had handed her the topmost of the first stack, before leaving to get a second pile. “Here, this has the oldest ones.”

  Rose opened it.

  On the first page, carefully wedged between two sets of photo corners, was a child’s drawing. A picture of a beach, ocean, sun, clouds. Two smiling stick figures sat upon it, a triangle and two lines flanking the head of one of them, signifying its female gender.

  It could have been one of the drawings Adam taped so faithfully to the wall above his bed.

  But in the lower right-hand corner, in a careful black crayon scrawl, it read:

  “Hugo.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Rose heard herself say.

  She turned the page. Another. Another. The book was filled cover to cover with drawings, scenes from their dreams as children.

  Rose heard a thump as Hugo set down another stack of portfolios.

  “I put them in the books a few years ago. There were a lot and most of them weren’t dated.… I did what I could.”

  Rose looked up at him. His mouth was closed. Waiting.

  “This is every picture you ever drew of us?”

  He shook his head. “Just the ones I kept.”

  Rose gasped. “I remember this!”

  On the page, a crude drawing of Rose as a child dangled from a vine strung between two cliffs. Above her, the meaty legs of a giant Spider reached down from the cliff’s edge.

  “I was at sleepaway camp when I had this dream! I woke everyone up when I started screaming in my sleep … they didn’t leave me alone about it all week.”

  Hugo leaned against the wall, grabbing his wrist. “I drew that one a lot. You’ll see, I wanted to make sure I got it right.”

  Rose flipped a few pages, and indeed there they were. Multiple studies of the same scenario, all in a childish hand: from below, above, elevations that removed the second cliff.

  “Wow.”

  Rose reached the last page and closed the portfolio. She grabbed the next one. The work in this one was older, more mature, the crayons giving way to colored pencils. A few pages in she found a self-portrait of Hugo.

  “Oh, my God! You used to look like this!”

  It was Hugo at about twelve, his face just starting to lose its roundness. His eyes large and chocolate. Lips coral. Hair curled above his eyebrows.

  “I don’t know if I ever actually looked like that.”

  Rose looked up at him. “You did. You were beautiful.”

  He smiled at the compliment. Shy.

  Rose turned back to the portfolios. Engrossed. The drawings matured, Hugo’s birth as an artist. Line drawings became sketches, bringing dimension to the paper. Soon the planes of her own face began to emerge, the bridge of her nose, the curve of her smile. They were very definitely Rose, so like her that they could have been copied out of her parents’ photo albums.

  Rose sighed. Once there was a time when what I looked like in my dreams and what I looked like in real life weren’t so far apart.

  But she didn’t say it. She didn’t need to.

  She kept turning pages. The pencil sketches gave way to watercolors, and here it became clear that young Hugo had found his medium. The colors washed across the bumpy paper, pulling together the pink and green hues that saturated their dreamworld. Each page was a memory, something from her past. A hand buried in sand. A still life with a Tickle Crab. The blue cast of the Blanket Pavilion in the sun, set against the blowing saw grass.

  “It’s like watching myself grow up.”

  “Well, we grew up together.”

  Rose looked up at him. “We did, didn’t we?”

  He smiled at her and Rose felt that syrupy feeling rise. This man knew her, had always known her.

  It was such a lovely sweetness. To feel known.

  Rose kept flipping. Hugo brought a chair in from somewhere, so he could watch her go through the albums.

  Penny had found her way back to the diaper bag and was entertaining herself by pulling out its contents: bags of snacks, wipes, changes of clothes. Every once in a while there was a bleep or a blorp from one of her toys or books, but Rose ignored it … awash in the sea of memories Hugo had drawn.

  Rose paused, unfolding a charcoal sketch that had been folded to fit in the album. It was another self-portrait. Hugo facing off with Blindhead, a grass sword in one hand, the other braced against the lip of one of its jagged glass mouths.

  “These are incredible, Hugo.”

  “I just drew what happened.”

  Rose turned the page. “Now, I know this never happened.”

  Hugo leaned forward in his chair to see the contents of the drawing. He blushed.

  Unfolded on Rose’s lap was a pencil sketch of her at about age sixteen. She was lying on bent grass, her eyes staring directly at the viewer … and she was nude.

  Hugo cleared his throat. “I was a teenager.”

  Rose laughed. “I wish I had an actual picture of myself from when I looked like this.”

  The portrait was beautiful. Tendrils of her hair brushing the skin just above her nipple. Her hand casual on her hip, fingers touching the slope of her belly.

  Had she ever been this sexy? This assured or relaxed? Rose didn’t think so … not even in her dreams with Hugo was such a thing possible.

  She could only look this way in the fantasies of a teenage boy. Not even in her own dreams.

  Hugo got up from his chair. Uncomfortable. Rose sighed and turned the pages to a series of unpopulated watercolor landscapes. The Lagoon. Spider Chasm. Castle City.

  “I wish I could show these to my boys. I try to tell them what it looks like … but I never get it quite right.…”

  “What did they think of the comic I sent you?”

  It took a moment for Rose’s mind to jump from her thought to his. The comic?

  The book he had sent her. The pen-and-ink drawings she revisited daily, locked behind the bathroom door, hidden from the boys in her bedside drawer. If she wanted so much to share with them, she could have shown them that.

  Rose stammered, “I—”

  “You haven’t shown it to them.” She could see the disappointment in his face. He deflated a little. Grown shorter.

  “I thought about it. I thought about showing it to Josh.”

  “Josh.” His voice was flat.

  “My husband. He’s been hearing about you since college.”

  “But…”

  Suddenly Rose was very aware of Penny. She had pried one of the bags
open and was munching loudly on snap-pea crisps.

  Hugo was waiting.

  “I can’t figure out a way that it doesn’t seem crazy. It’s one thing when it’s just us … but other people … what it sounds like…”

  Rose watched Hugo closely. She didn’t want to hurt him.

  Finally he shook his head. “I haven’t told anyone either.”

  Rose let out her held breath. “So you understand.”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course.” His voice was pitched high as he said this, waving his wrists and sitting back in his chair.

  She gauged him for a moment. Unsure.

  On the floor, Penny rocked a small baby doll, her torso twisting with the motion as she sang, mouth full of fried snacks, a lullaby about silver planes and pyramids, photographs and souvenirs. Her high-pitched voice ended each refrain with her favorite line: “You bewong to me.…”

  Rose giggled. Why was she so nervous?

  “Sorry. It’s her lullaby.”

  Hugo lifted his eyes. “I like it.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then, “I wish I could meet them.… I know you can’t tell them. But they’re part of you.… I know it’s stupid.”

  Suddenly Rose was jumping on, her thoughts and her words tumbling over one another. “No! You should meet them! [What?] I want you to! [You do?] I can’t tell them. [Never. No. No.] But you should come to Isaac’s birthday party. [No. No. No.]”

  “Really?” Hugo’s eyes grew wide at this idea. Softer.

  “Yes! [No.] I want you to meet them. [No.] Really I do. [Liar.]”

  But then Hugo was smiling … really grinning. Like a child who has been given the toy he most desires.

  And all he wanted was just a glimpse of her life. Just a fraction of what she had taken from him for all those weeks without asking, following him. But he politely had requested it and she had volunteered it. Rather than what she had done—stealing information about him. Stalking him.

  She had just gone through pages and pages of documents proving that she had grown up with this man. That she knew him.

  Why the hesitation to let him in? Why should her life, her privacy, be a higher value than his?

  On the drive home, Rose’s mind was filled with thoughts of the particulars of Isaac’s party: where she would order the cake, whether or not they would get balloons, and how she would explain Hugo’s presence there.

  * * *

  Josh called on his way home from work. He had picked up chicken from that place the boys loved, couldn’t wait to have dinner with everybody.

  Rose sighed. The children were already at the table, bites already taken from their mac and cheese, nibbles in their carrot sticks. Their schedule never changed, but Josh could never quite hold it in his head. Dinner at six, bath at six thirty, stories at seven, lights out at eight.

  But still, dinner with Daddy was a rare treat.

  Rose cleared away the dishes (they could eat this tomorrow) and sent the boys to run their bath. She read picture books on the couch while they waited, Adam’s and Penny’s damp pajama’d bodies under her arms, their tiny tummies growling. Isaac rolled on the floor in front of them all, pretending to be too big for baby stories.

  Josh came in with a grin, wielding the oily bag of chicken high in the air. The children ran to greet him, grabbing at his legs. The hunter returns triumphant.

  Rose tried not to chide the boys for wiping their greasy hands on their clean pajamas. She left Josh with them to put Penny to bed; her sweet girl had started to nod off in her booster.

  When she came down she saw all three of them laughing together at the table. Josh was blowing bubbles into Adam’s milk with his straw … the boys were doubled over with giggles.

  Little Boy. Littler Boy. Biggest little Boy.

  Rose spoiled their fun, sent them to bed. It was already late. She’d be up in a minute to make sure they’d brushed their teeth.

  “And make sure you do a good job! I’ll know if you just used mouthwash!”

  Josh shot her a grin. “Can you really tell?” he whispered.

  Rose shrugged. “Not by their teeth. But their faces always give them away.”

  “When I was a kid I always used to wet the toothbrush.”

  “Don’t tell Isaac.” She smiled.

  Josh helped Rose clear the dishes from the second dinner of the evening. She ran the faucet, loading the dishwasher.

  “They posted the new residents today.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Our department is getting two more than we did last year.”

  “Oh, gosh. I’m sorry, honey.”

  But Josh didn’t look displeased at all. “No, it’s good news. It means less scut work. More hands.”

  “More competition. More people coming up from behind.”

  He shook his head. “More time at home.”

  “That is good news.”

  Josh fixed Rose with a look. “I miss you.”

  Rose rolled her eyes and kept loading the dishwasher. “I’m right here.”

  He grabbed her shoulders … ceasing her motion. “I miss you.”

  He had that hungry look. That seeing look. The one that made Rose so uncomfortable in bed.

  She tried to make him laugh. “The last time you said that I got pregnant.”

  “I mean it. I’m tired of only seeing you when I stumble in at midnight. I want a date. I want grown-up drinks and cloth napkins. I want to know what’s going on with you.”

  Rose shook her head, her mind full of the earlier events of the day. Of Hugo and his albums.

  “Nothing’s going on with me.”

  He seized her, swinging her into a hug and spinning her around. “Then I want to hear about nothing.”

  eleven

  It was decided that Isaac would be getting a large Lego set for his birthday.

  This, of course, meant Rose decided what Isaac would be getting and informed Josh of the expense of said gift.

  “One hundred and twenty dollars!”

  “Plus tax,” added Rose.

  This was a common refrain for the two of them. Josh had no idea of the actual cost of many of the items in their household. This was not because of any willful dissembling on Rose’s part, but more because it had been quite some time since Josh had been in charge of any purchases save for the lunch he bought for himself in the hospital cafeteria.

  “It’s just a bunch of plastic blocks! It’s not even assembled!”

  “Josh, the whole point is assembling them yourself.”

  “Still, it’s ridiculous.”

  Among the other things Josh found ridiculous: the cost of karate lessons, the price of new couches, and the hourly rate of babysitters.

  “Look, I finally got him to say he might want something other than a bike. I don’t want to push it.”

  Josh sighed. The bike again. A boy should have a bike. He had a bike when he was Isaac’s age. Hell, he had one when he was Adam’s age.

  “Sure, honey.” He kissed his wife on the forehead. “If you think it’s worth it.”

  “I do.” She smiled at him, knowing the price of Zackie’s gift was but a fraction of the total it would run them to celebrate their oldest’s birthday. The bounce house rental, the cake, the snacks, the party favors and decorations … it would cost them just under four hundred dollars.

  But most of the expenses would be hidden. A higher grocery bill. An expensive trip to Target.

  Sometimes it seemed to Rose that Josh thought she made the substance of their lives appear out of thin air and that her ability to do so had nothing to do with the line items on their bank statement every month.

  * * *

  But Josh and Rose had plenty of money.

  Each month Josh earned enough to pay their mortgage, their loans, the property taxes, insurance, utility bills, and credit card balance. They had enough so that Rose could stay home for the children, a luxury they felt, but a necessary one to ensure the proper care of their progeny. Though this was a choice they had
made together, there was a certain resignation that both felt upon opening the envelope containing the balance due on Rose’s school loans. It was, it seemed, a very high principle to be paying for an education that was currently being used for dramatic readings of Pat the Bunny.

  Josh even made enough to sock away for their retirement, those investments he tracked religiously while thinking of how lovely Rose would look with streaks of silver in her hair.

  No, Josh and Rose had plenty of money.

  Odd word that, though … plenty.

  Because while they certainly had enough, neither Josh nor Rose felt the plentifulness of their financial lives.

  The world seemed to them fraught with economic disaster. A local surgeon Josh did not know was sued for malpractice and lost his house. One of the mothers in Penny’s preschool had pulled her son from the program for a less expensive (and less prestigious) one across town.

  And then there was the ever-growing list of must-dos:

  Isaac looked like he would be needing braces. Adam’s penchant for art needed to be encouraged with classes. Penny was starting to show an interest in ponies. Family vacations were needed to build happy memories and sibling bonds. Toys and birthday parties were to be acquired and planned so that none of the children felt any less worthy than their peers who had had the same.

  And then there was college, of course. Three college educations would not be cheap.

  So even though they had enough of it, Josh and Rose worried constantly about money.

  * * *

  Every night while Rose tripped about the island, Josh lay next to her, his mind filled with fantasies of insufficiency.

  Most of these he could not have relayed, forgotten as they were upon waking from his too-short spans of sleep. But they were played out for him nonetheless. Josh dreamed of letting others down, of forgetting essential articles or information. In one dream a surgery went on forever, organs changing as he repaired them, until finally he was staring at a body cavity that resembled nothing human.

  And though these may seem to be nightmares, they were in fact something of a mental exorcism for Josh. His dreams repurposed the stress and strain that during his waking hours had the name of “never enough” and played them out in ways that made sense to his dreaming mind. He awoke with only fleeting images and feelings about his dreams, but his mind had done some of the work of lessening the impact of the “never enough.”