45.

Cocooned in a blanket at a comfort level that will dissipate the moment she moves, it takes a while before the rhythmic thudding penetrates her brain. Her eyes open on the clock: 6:45. She nudges Zack. Empty space. He must be in the bathroom. The thudding continues. Someone’s banging on the door, and no one’s responding. Damn. She slips on a robe and shuffles through the hallway. Zack appears and follows her. Coming up from the basement, Casey beats them both to the door.

“Ask who it is,” she calls.

“Who is it,” Casey says with little gusto.

“Who’s there?” she shouts.

“Rosie.”

Stunned, she watches Casey unlock the door and pull it open. Her daughter in sundress and flip-flops, wearing a backpack and carrying a small bag, offers her presence wordlessly, then announces to no one in particular, “I came because Dory’s sick. I’ll put my things in with yours, Casey, okay?”

Rosie walks past them. Casey follows her. She makes a move to follow them to the basement, but Zack puts a restraining hand on her shoulder. “I was going to tell you this morning,” he whispers.

“Tell me what?”

“I went to see Rosie late last night, told her she had to come home. She told me to get lost, said I wasn’t a good father, and that nothing I said mattered. For some reason, she changed her mind. Are you mad that I went to see her without telling you?”

“No. It worked.” Still somewhat stunned, she wonders what to do next.

“Lena, she isn’t the same kid who left our house. She’s lived with a man. Who knows what other experiences she’s had? She’s not going to toe the line easily.”

“I just wish I knew what she might need from me.”

“Give it time.” He strokes her hair. “Last night … making love … I didn’t expect … well … it made me so happy.”

She smiles. What can she say? She did it for him? It was comforting to feel him take her in so easily. But Stu was present as well, not a shadow on the wall but a physical weight inside her.

“I need to finish dressing. I can’t be late for work.” He grins and heads back to the bedroom.

Almost instantly, she starts for the basement. Zack’s probably right. It’s too soon. It could be the world’s stupidest move. Still, she’s the girl’s mother. She has to try.

She pushes open the basement door. “Rosie, Casey, is it okay to come down?” She descends the few steps without waiting for a reply.

Rosie’s on the futon sofa, remote in hand, surfing channels. Casey, on the floor, propped up against the sofa, is watching something on his laptop. Her eyes sweep the room, two floor lamps, red director’s chair, red-and-black striped rug, two windows, and a small A/C unit. Decent enough. A white curtain across a ceiling rod hides the washing machine and dryer.

“You both look comfy,” she begins.

No response. This is all on her.

“What are you watching?”

“Mom, I’m going upstairs to get some breakfast,” Casey says. She feels a wave of empathy for him, avoiding what’s to come. If only, she thinks, and takes a seat on the chair facing Rosie, whose eyes remain on the screen. “So you heard about Dory?”

“You mean when Casey phoned? Or when Dad made his middle of the night visit to Mirabelle’s? I’m sure he was afraid to wait for morning because by then Dory could be dead. Really, how dumb is it to barge into someone else’s house at that time of night? What’s going on with him? He was all confess-y.”

“Confess-y?”

“Yeah, wanted to let me know that he’s no longer the father I knew. He’s a new man and some other stuff, the kind of stuff you tell your shrink not your daughter.”

“He was trying to let you know that things are changing.”

“Are they? How?”

“Well, he has a job,” it’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“Great, my father finally got a job, which most fathers already have. What does that have to do with me?”

“We’re not going to be at Dory’s much longer.”

“Oh? Just a year or two or three?”

She tries to locate the hard sarcasm in her daughter’s face, but it’s as lovely and unblemished as ever. “Can’t you just talk to me?”

Rosie mutes the TV. “You should’ve thought of that before stalking me. I cared about Sonny. You scared him away. You didn’t let me have my experience. You made me unhappy. My own mother! I still miss him. Though I’m furious at him as well for being such a wimp. He should’ve stood up to you or ignored you instead of buckling. Now you expect me to slide into an easy relationship with you?”

Of course she’s right, this oh-so-smart girl of hers. How can anything be easy with all that’s happened? “He wasn’t good for you,” and even she can hear how lame it sounds.

“I’m not in the mood to rehash it, especially with you.”

Remembering the little girl who loved telling her stories about every possible thing, at times boring her to sleepiness. “Tell me about your time away, where you were, what you did …”

“You mean how did I spend my summer, or what did I think of Mirabelle’s parents?”

She doesn’t reply to her daughter’s taunts.

“I drank whiskey and vodka. I smoked fairy dust, that’s drugs. Each time I did, it felt so good I wanted more and had more. Nothing mattered but the moment and the moment was happy. You should try them. And then with Sonny there were all the times of day when he would begin to undress me. He would …”

Leave now, she thinks.

“Poor Mom. Cat got your tongue?” Rosie’s eyes blaze at her.

“You’re here. You’re safe. I’m grateful, relieved and I wanted to reach out to you.”

“Reach out to me? What does that mean? I’m not across the ocean.”

She turns away before Rosie can see her distress. There’s so much she wants to say to this girl, that the future is hers, that whatever’s happened will be superseded by the things, good and bad, still to occur, that she’s sad about the time they’ve lost and wants to make up for it. Yet she can’t bring herself to say any of it, too afraid her words won’t matter one bit. “Rosie, just know I love you,” is what she settles for as she leaves the room.

Her mother’s bare feet and slim ankles disappear up the stairs. The basement door shuts. What did her mother expect, a grand reunion? And if she’s so delirious about having her back, why not admire her spunk and determination? Nothing, she fears, will change. She powers off the TV.

Why is she here? Yes, Dory? But no, Dory, too. So what is it? Mirabelle couldn’t understand why she would leave her guest room only to be a guest in someone else’s house. A point well taken. She gazes at her phone on the sofa and has a quick chat with herself. Go ahead. Call him! Why the hell not? Because he won’t want to talk to her? Of course he will. He’s not an asshole. And if he picks up, what’ll she say? It’ll come to her. She dials the number. He does pick up. His voice sounds so the same.

“Hi, it’s me, Rosie. Are you surprised?”