Rosie

by Anne Lamott

  “Good. About time.”

  “He didn’t understand. He was unhappy. I feel sorry for him.”

  “You felt sorry for Claude Rains at the end of Notorious.”

  “Well.”

  “Try to forget about him. It takes a while for your psychic bones to knit after a breakup, but they will.”

  “You promise?” Elizabeth nodded. “Right now I feel like I’ll never get him out of my mind. Now, in my stomach, when I think of him, I get rocket-fueled butterflies.”

  “It’ll pass. You’re addicted—you’ve got a Jones’ for the guy—it means your habit. Your addicted craving.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m hooked. And it was doomed from the start, because he panicked at the idea of commitment.”

  “Doom is erotic.”

  “Yeah.”

  Was the house on fire, Rosie alive, the iron unplugged? She remembered Rosie dawdling that morning, a spoon of honey held six inches over her cereal, creating fine golden coils; Rosie, watching Elizabeth apply mascara; Rosie, watching so intently that she seemed to be memorizing her face; Rosie, flopped on the easy chair, spindly legs draped over the velvet armrest, baby finger hooked over her bottom lip, reading A Wrinkle in Time, slowly slowly raising her eyes when Rae stepped into the house.

  “Last night I almost went crazy,” said Rae. “It was very late, well after midnight. I was totally obsessed and hyped up, scared that if I went to Santa Fe I’d die. I felt crazy, dangerous, like that guy in the motel room in Saigon at the beginning of Apocalypse Now.... There were so many voices, talking in my head, like, you know, Nurse Ratchet—no-nonsense, diabolically patient—and my spiritual director, who’s sort of a cross between Hanuman and Lenny Bruce, wise and snappy—you know, like, ‘Be here now, baby, avoid the rush.’ And so on. It was like a bunch of speed freaks doing Spoon River flnthology. Then all of a sudden, clear as a bell, I heard my mother’s voice; it was like she was in bed with me, soothing her small worried child. It was so real, in the way that a hallucination is real, that I felt like crying and found myself hugging my shoulders. It was unconditional, the hug: I felt like I was home.”

  “Yeah? Rosie had one of those bouts with existential dread the other night. She was scared to go to sleep because she might have a nightmare, and when she’s dreaming it feels exactly like it’s really happening, and she couldn’t tell what was real, because dreams feel real. And so, that night, everything felt meaningless.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Lay down beside her and listened.”

  “You’re a wonderful mother.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You hungry yet?”

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  “Holding up okay?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “We there yet?”

  Rae smiled. “Not yet.”

  Elizabeth was looking straight ahead at the path, and did not see the look of misery that crossed Rae’s face. Pretty Boy Meadow was in fact a good six hours away.

  Elizabeth felt strong and free, calm and in awe of the forest, the creek, the birds, and the flowers, felt that having only just tasted backpacking, she would never be able to get enough of it.

  But she had gotten enough by the end of the second hour, when the straps began digging into her shoulders; her feet, in hiking boots, were on the verge of going numb but were, in the meantime, aching and swelling and probably blistering.

  “The honeymoon is over,” she announced.

  “Then we must stop immediately and eat. You’ll see.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “We’ll sit down for a while, eat chocolates and lunch. You’ll get a second wind.”

  “I hate backpacking.”

  “There, there.”

  “I knew it would be like carrying boxes to a U-Haul. I can’t believe I let myself get sucked into this. When will I learn?”

  They had stopped walking. Rae began to help Elizabeth off with her pack. “Matron is here; we’ll eat a nice lunch. After we rest, you’ll want to go on.”

  “I seriously doubt that.” I have to go home. I have to.

  Elizabeth sat with her back against the trunk of a massive redwood, hugging her knees to her chest.

  “Hors d’oeuvres?” Rae asked, handing a box of See’s chocolates to Elizabeth, who shook her head. “Look!” said Rae, withdrawing a tin of smoked oysters from her pack, opening her mouth in happy mock surprise. “And Wheat Thins! And liver-wurst! And mayo!” She held up each item and looked at Elizabeth as if they were playing peek-a-boo. “Mandarin oranges! And Italian peppers in wine sauce.”

  Elizabeth smiled, happier now to be sitting down, weightless, about to eat. Now, here, midway (she thought) between the meadow and trailhead, she simply was: she would be a good sport, gracious, adventurous.

  After they ate, they lay with their heads touching—thick black coils and soft reddish-brown ripples—staring up at the sky through the treetops, daydreaming. This was, Elizabeth realized, extraordinary.

  “Hear that high, melodious bird above the others?” Rae asked. “It’s a hermit thrush. But doesn’t it sound like a nightingale?”

  “‘The nightingales are singing in the orchards of our mothers.’”

  Rae sat up and reached for her pack of cigarettes in the side pocket of her backpack, lit one, and inhaled deeply. Elizabeth’s eyes were closed; Rae watched her, lovingly and then with panic. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Elizabeth?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rae stared at the silver-white ash and, when she inhaled, at the burning ring of orange. “Nothing.”

  Elizabeth opened one eye and looked at her.

  “Well, I just thought that if you were ready, we should start up again.”

  “Okay. In a few more minutes.”

  They helped each other on with their packs and headed north. “This time we’ll take it more slowly. And if you get real tired, we’ll do the Indian shuffle. My dad taught me how to do it; it’s the way the Indians crossed the Bering Strait, thousands of miles.”

  “But we’ve only got a couple more to go.”

  “Anyway, it’s like this.” Rae stopped, then ever so slowly took a baby step, and then another, for fifteen feet. “See? It’s great; takes forever to get anywhere but you’re not tired when you do.”

  They walked along, talking of mothers and Rosie, books, and insanities, and, inevitably, Brian.

  “One more thing, Elizabeth. Then, I swear to God, I’ll shut up about him.”

  “Oh, Rae. I’m so sick, so sick, of Brian. He’s an asshole. And here you’ve got yourself on trial, and you’re the judge, and the prosecution, and the defense, and the audience, and the jury....”

  “And the media coverage.”

  “And the media coverage. And your jury is not made up of peers, it’s made up of all those voices you heard last night in your head.”

  Rae walked along silently.

  “You just don’t have to hurt so much.”

  “I don’t?”

  “No! You’re like the mad king when you’re with him, bursting into spontaneous weeping, first of sorrow, then of joy, celebrating your death and rebirth, over and over again.”

  Elizabeth began to hate backpacking after another hour on the trail. The pack was too heavy for words. Her back and feet ached. All that kept her going was the thought of rest—and rum. She and Rae had run out of things to say, and Rae looked increasingly nervous, which Elizabeth attributed to her concern with Elizabeth’s mood. Be a good sport. It will be over soon. That’s it, one step after another. I really want to go home, want to be home, but since I’m here, with Rae, I will try not to be a bitch.

  “God, the air smells good,” she said. “Clean and sweet, like creek water.” Half an hour more, I figure, of birds and flowers and trees. “And pine: God, these woods. I know why you love it so much now.” Friendly as possible.

  “You are undergoing the great rewards of what we call the Backpacking Experience—the air, the freedom, the landscape. Don�
�t you feel you could keep walking forever?”

  “No.”

  Rae’s face fell.

  “I am suddenly happy with the anticipation of completion; like when I’m stuck for a long time with people who bore me, or who are beginning to get on my nerves. Up until the last fifteen minutes or so, I’m tight and judgmental and desperate to leave, but then, when the end is in sight, I feel such relief that it makes me act friendly.”

  “Oh.” Shit, thought Rae.

  “I figure we’ve got about half an hour to go. I’ve got exactly thirty-six minutes of backpacking enjoyment left in me.”

  Rae took the deepest possible breath; Elizabeth didn’t notice. They walked along.

  “Oh, my aching back,” said Elizabeth.

  Rae groaned. “Elizabeth?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

  Elizabeth stopped and looked at her, kindly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  They looked at each other for several moments. Rae looked miserable.

  “Did you forget something? Did you forget the rum, Rae? Goddamn it—”

  “Brought the rum,” Rae said hastily.

  “Brought the rum?” Rae nodded. “Then it doesn’t matter what else you’ve forgotten.”

  “We’re an hour and a half away,” she mumbled.

  “What? We’re what? Just what the fuck do you mean by that?” She had her hands on her hips. “I don’t fucking believe you, Rae.”

  “I lied. I knew you wouldn’t go if I said it was six hours. I was surprised you came at all.”

  Elizabeth was all but baring her teeth and snarling. “We’re an hour and a half away?” she asked coldly. Rae nodded. Elizabeth turned away and began walking quickly forward, so furious that her eyes didn’t focus.

  Rae jammed her hands in her pockets and walked forlornly behind, with her Stan Laurel face on. Elizabeth was seething, hiking rapidly, angry about the pains in her legs and shoulders and back, at her bad mood, at being trapped with Rae, whom she was temporarily hating, backpacking, a million miles from nowhere. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs.

  Rae caught up with her after ten minutes. Her eyes looked as if she had been crying, but Elizabeth didn’t soften.

  “Don’t talk to me.”

  “Listen.”

  “No.”

  “You’ve got every reason to be mad and I’m sorry.”

  “Just shut up.”

  “So we’re an hour and a half away, and then we’ve got a long evening ahead of us, and then a long hike tomorrow, and I’m going to go nuts if you hate me the entire time.”

  “You should have thought about that before you lied.”

  “I did think about it, but I lied anyway because I wanted us to do it so badly.”

  “What if someone did this to you?”

  “I’d be mad. But then I’d figure that what was done was done, and I might as well have a decent time instead of a shitty time.”

  “Well, I feel like having a shitty time.”

  “It’s your funeral.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Let’s stop and have some juice and a few See’s Bordeaux, then take the next hour slowly. Then it’ll only be as far as walking from your house to town, which we’ve done dozens of times.”

  “Never after having walked for four hours with thirty-pound packs on our backs.”

  “Elizabeth, I am really, really sorry.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I made a mistake. I’m only human.”

  “Rae, why don’t you grow up.”

  They walked along in silence for a long time.

  “Is there anything in the world I could do right now to make it up to you?”

  “No.”

  “Are you ever going to forgive me?”

  “I suppose you think it’s funny, in some way, one of your cute kooky Rae trips, but I don’t. I’m sore. I think I’m going to be sore for quite a while.”

  “But then dinner will be no fun, and the campfire will be no fun, and walking tomorrow will be no fun. I think you might as well forgive me. It’s in your best interests.”

  “Rae? Shut up.”

  “I’m throwing myself at you. I’m pleading for mercy.”

  “I don’t think you’re funny.”

  Elizabeth had moved into a more controlled phase of her anger; icy, condescending.

  “There’s nothing I can say or do to make things better?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. Rae reached her arm around and deftly unlaced a side pocket of her pack, from which she extracted the flask of rum. She stopped. Elizabeth continued a few feet and then stopped too, turning to face Rae.

  Rae unscrewed the silver top. “This is all the alcohol we have. It is eight ounces of one-fifty-one rum. We will be perfectly high after we finish it. All our troubles will disappear. Imagine that first sip tonight, Elizabeth, how strong it’s going to taste, how warm in your stomach.” She tilted the flask slightly. Elizabeth watched, disbelieving. “But if you’re going to hate me all night, four ounces isn’t going to make a dent in how badly I feel. So I am prepared to pour it out.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I have nothing to lose. I have been forced to resort to coercion. Either you forgive me or I pour it out.” She looked at Elizabeth searchingly. Elizabeth glared.

  Rae raised the flask to her nose, inhaled appreciatively, then lowered and slowly tipped it.

  “Stop!”

  “Do you forgive me?”

  “This isn’t funny, Rae.”

  “You keep saying that.” Rae tilted the flask until one drop trickled out.

  “Give me that!” She stepped and reached toward Rae, both hands out.

  “Get away from me,” Rae screamed, jumping back, holding the flask as if it were a Molotov cocktail. “I’m just crazy enough to do it!”

  She made her eyes look wide and crazy, made her hand shake visibly.

  Elizabeth stopped. This is nuts, she thought.

  Rae began tipping the bottle again.

  “Stop it,” Elizabeth said. She held her palms open, close to her body. “If you pour that out, I’m going to kill you with my bare hands.”

  “No, you won’t. Say you forgive me.”

  “But I don’t.” Rae poured an almost imperceptible amount out. “All right, I do.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not just saying that?”

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  “Okay then.” Rae screwed the top back on and clutched the flask to her. Then she beamed at Elizabeth.

  An hour later, they reached the meadow, a vast expanse of green dotted with flowers alongside the Pretty Boy River, full and rushing, pale icy green in some parts, turquoise in others, whitewater crashing onto rocks on the shore. They were greeted by a hysterical fist-sized bird which dashed to within ten feet of them and then, in a staggering, ground-level flight, dashed twenty feet to the right.

  “It’s a killdeer,” Rae whispered. “See the black and white stripes on its neck?”

  “I know killdeer.”

  The bird was flapping and fluttering and screaming as if in great agony.

  “It’s the mama—it means the babies are somewhere close. It’s trying to distract us.” The poor bird seemed to be going out of its mind. Rae tiptoed forward. “Look!” she said in an urgent whisper. Elizabeth crept forward and looked down to where Rae pointed. Two tiny, fuzzy baby killdeer were flopping around in the grass, while over to one side the mother screamed and gyrated. “She thinks we’re monsters. Aren’t they adorable?” The babies peeped and flopped, and Elizabeth looked at them, in awe, and then over at the mother.

  “Come on,” she said. “The mom’s freaking out.”

  “You ladies here for the night?” a man behind them asked.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Rosie, my darling, we’re so happy to have you. Come in, come in.”

&nbs
p; Rosie shuffled despondently behind Sybil Thackery to the kitchen, where Sharon sat at the table eating blueberry pancakes. She waved her fork in greeting, and Rosie instantly forgot her mother’s impending death, smiled, and sat down at the place that had been set for her, where a marshmallow was melting on top of some cocoa in a blue Wedgwood teacup. Mrs. Thackery, at the stove, flipped pancakes with the graceful wrists of the former ballerina she was, looking as if she were on the verge of a sweeping plié.

  “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Starving to death.” Earlier Rosie had eaten two bowls of Irish oatmeal, but there was a hole in her that needed to be filled, and in a moment a stack of pancakes studded with bright blueberries was placed before her on a floral-etched Wedgwood plate, while Sharon passed her matching pitchers of hot butter and syrup which she poured liberally over the pancakes. Sweet buttery steam and the elegance of the place setting; this must be sort of what Heaven is like, but one bite later Rosie began to mourn the eventual end of breakfast.

  “I don’t have to go to my violin lesson today, because my teacher’s gone to San Diego,” Sharon announced. “Mommy? Can we go to the zoo today?”

  “No, not today. I’ll take you to the pool later. I’m just not feeling up to much. I have—my period.”

  Oh, God, oh, God. Rosie got a look in her eyes such as a cat gets before a fit, and both girls gobbled their pancakes. She has the Curse. Rosie and Sharon had vowed that they would never do it, have it. The girls had pored over Elizabeth’s Tampax instructions, furtively, as if the diagrams were scientific pornography; essentially Rosie viewed the Curse as some sort of recurrent voodoo infirmity rather than a biological function.

  “Will you have some more pancakes?” Mrs. Thackery swiftly changed the subject.

  “Yeah.”

  “Not me,” said Sharon.

  Rosie could see that it pleased Mrs. Thackery to feed her, and she felt moved to making her feel good. “These are the best pancakes I’ve ever eaten.”

  Mrs. Thackery sat down with them and ate one pancake, with only the tiniest bit of syrup, and then sat with her plump, pink hands on her rounded belly, which pushed out against her striped shirtdress.

  Hyped up on sugar, the girls tore through the house, unable to settle, chattering dervishes who managed to get underfoot even after Mrs. Thackery had sunk into a chair as if her backbone were made of rubber. Her eyes, small and brown, did not quite focus.