15. Patty

I flick on my turn signal and switch lanes. It feels good to be behind the wheel again. Just Adam and me on the open road.

I glance at the baby in my rearview mirror. ‘Where to?’ I ask him.

‘Gadget World, Jeeves,’ I respond in a squeaky baby voice.

Adam stares, but grins when I turn on the radio. He shares my love of eighties music. I begin a rousing rendition of ‘Didn’t We Almost Have It All’. I was distraught last week when I found out that Whitney Houston had died. Adam munches on his fist.

After over a month of being on my absolute best behavior, I’ve finally earned Rose Gold’s trust and convinced her to let me watch the baby while she’s at work. No more Mary Stone whispering nasty lies about me in my grandson’s ear. I’m sure Mary threw a fit when Rose Gold told her, but Adam isn’t Mary’s child, now is he? About time she stopped trying to take what’s rightfully mine.

‘You’ll spoil your appetite,’ I warn the baby. He keeps sucking on his fingers.

I’ve also convinced Rose Gold to let me drive her to work so I can have the van. She balked at first, but there’s no sense in leaving the car in a parking lot all day, when I can use it to take Adam to the doctor or to buy groceries. I suggested she jog home after work since she loves exercise so much all of a sudden. I’m not going to cart the little liar to and from work every day. I have better things to do with my time. Besides, the run only takes forty-five minutes.

Since Thanksgiving, Rose Gold has been even more attentive toward Adam, so my pep talk must have worked. With the increase in time spent with the baby, she has ceded bits and pieces of her life back to me. To be honest, I think she’s relieved not to have to make every decision for herself. Adulthood can be exhausting. Being cared for is much easier. I’m all too glad to provide my services.

Proof of Rose Gold’s need for help: she forgot her lunch today. She’s lucky to have a mother willing to drive it to her workplace for her. She didn’t even ask – I saw the brown-paper bag on the kitchen counter, bundled Adam up and got into the van. Though I’m not sure why I bother: inside are a handful of carrot sticks and an apple. She still isn’t eating.

I lift my foot from the brake to the gas pedal. The skin on my shins pulls taut. I wince. The wounds on both legs have scabbed over. The more I think about it, it’s ludicrous to believe Rose Gold had something to do with my treadmill accident. You can’t rig an old piece of machinery to work only when you want it to. I’m pretty sure you can’t, anyway.

I expect to find Rose Gold at one of the registers, but don’t see her. She told me she’s a cashier here but, come to think of it, I’ve never visited her during a shift. I wonder, for a second, if she’s lying about this job.

I stop at Register Two, where a gangly kid is playing imaginary drums on the counter with his eyes closed. He doesn’t see me approach.

‘Arnie?’ I say, glancing at his nametag.

Arnie’s eyes fly open. His set ends. I hope he got a standing ovation.

‘Is Rose Gold working today?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ Arnie stammers. He blushes. ‘She’s in the break room. Ever since she got back from maternity leave, our manager lets her take a couple of extra breaks during her shift.’

I sigh with relief. One household can take only so many lies.

‘She forgot her lunch,’ I say, holding up the brown bag. ‘I brought it for her.’

An all-too-familiar curiosity crosses Arnie’s face. ‘Are you her mom?’ he asks.

Warily, I say yes. I thought I loved any spotlight, but being the town scapegoat has gotten old. It’d be nice to run an errand without getting the stink eye.

‘Is that her baby?’ he asks.

I nod. ‘His name is Adam.’ Adam gurgles, as if to confirm.

Arnie smiles at Adam, but the baby doesn’t interest him as much as the woman holding him does.

‘How long have you been out of prison?’ he blurts.

The bar for manners is low, these days. ‘Five weeks.’

‘Is the food as bad as they say?’ he asks, sounding hopeful.

‘Worse,’ I lie, wanting a little sympathy.

‘What’s the worst thing they fed you?’

He’s enjoying this a little too much, methinks. I lean in and whisper, ‘Rat brain.’

Arnie scoots a couple of feet away from me, half horrified and half unbelieving. He shakes his head no, questioning.

I raise my eyebrows and nod.

He makes a disgusted face.

I could torture this poor kid all day, but I’d rather get back to my comfy chair at home. How long a break does Rose Gold need?

Arnie stares first at Adam on my chest, then at the brown bag in my hand. ‘Rose Gold has told us some things,’ he says. He wants to shock me back.

‘Oh, yeah? What kind of things?’ I ask, indifferent. I’m sure this twerp is the last person my daughter would confide in.

‘Well, that you’re controlling.’ He watches for my reaction.

I yawn. Not exactly a secret that Patty Watts craves control.

Arnie keeps at me. ‘And she can’t eat any of your food.’

Now he has my attention. Has Rose Gold told him about her supposed eating disorder? I have to tread lightly here. If I act too interested, he’ll clam up.

‘And why is that?’ I say, examining my nail beds.

Arnie is silent for so long I’m forced to look away from my cuticles and study his face. Some internal struggle is taking place. He mumbles something I can’t make out.

‘Speak up, Tiny Tim,’ I snap.

A little louder, he mutters, ‘She said you’re trying to poison her.’

So I was right – she is trying to make everyone think I’m guilty. But why? Is this a ploy for sympathy from our neighbors, or is she after something more serious? Does she really believe I want to hurt her?

I stare at this punk, unsure what my response should be. He could be lying. Maybe the whole town is baiting me, trying once again to get me to confess to a crime I didn’t commit. For all I know, he could be recording this conversation. When you’re not sure if you’re on firm ground, it’s best to move softly.

I smile. ‘I see why she likes you – same weird sense of humor. I don’t find jokes about poison funny, but to each their own, I guess.’

Arnie says nothing, just watches me. I give him a casual wave and make my best attempt at a mosey toward the DVD aisle.

I pretend to browse the selection. Clumps of staff members congregate nearby. Arnie has sounded the alarm, and now a dozen or so hoodlums want their turn to ogle me. Two older employees, disheveled and breathtakingly hideous, whisper to one another and jerk their heads in my direction. A teenage girl takes out her phone and starts filming me. A goateed man grimaces as he twists an extension power cord in his hands. The employees inch closer, none of them smiling. I hate their bold stares, their entitlement.

‘Mom?’

I swivel on my heel and spot Rose Gold at the end of the aisle. I have never been so relieved to see her ugly mug. The surprise is plain on her face. She looks so young, so innocent, standing there. Maybe she really is sick, and I’m the only one who can see it.

I stride toward her and hold up her lunch bag. ‘You forgot this,’ I say, conscious of her coworkers watching us. I hand it to her.

‘You didn’t have to bring that,’ she says, taking Adam from me, brushing his wispy hair with her fingertips. ‘I would’ve bought my lunch.’

Then she, too, becomes aware of the number of people hanging on our conversation. I watch my daughter transform. Her eyes move from my face to the floor. She hunches over, shoulders inching toward neck, like a turtle retreating into its shell. When she speaks again, her voice is a whisper. ‘Thank you,’ she says.

I lift a hand to tuck a messy strand of hair behind her ear, determined to demonstrate my maternal instinct to these people. Rose Gold flinches when my hand gets near her face. If I were a stranger watching this interaction, I would think she’s afraid of me.

Arnie’s claim runs through my mind again. Maybe he’s telling the truth.

I smile at my daughter, let my hand fall to her shoulder and give it a soft squeeze. ‘I’ll see you at home,’ I murmur.

Rose Gold nods, still staring at the floor. I take Adam from her and stride out of the store. Adam clutches one of my fingers the whole way. I speak silly gibberish to him. He grins when I talk – he recognizes my voice now.

In the car, I run through the possible scenarios in my head. Arnie could be lying, though it’s unlikely. Or he could be telling the truth: Rose Gold is sullying my name to him, Mary and anyone else who will listen. But why? Does Rose Gold have an eating disorder, or is she trying to fool everyone into thinking she does? If the latter, why lie about it? Maybe she got used to being the center of attention while I was gone. Maybe she likes playing the victim. Maybe she found the small brown bottle with the white cap in my purse and is paranoid. I reach into my bag, through a small tear in the lining, and root around until my fingers find it. I stroke the cool glass. My chest tightens. I start the car.

Maybe this is nothing more than a power play. It could be her way of getting back at me after I made that jab about her bond with Adam. I knocked her down a peg, so perhaps she’s knocking me down one to even the score. Silly girl. A rookie doesn’t challenge a master. This isn’t a game she can win.

I’m reminded of the summer when she was ten years old. We were bored out of our gourds on one of those boiling muggy days, when you had to sit so one fold of skin didn’t overlap any others, or they’d suction-cup together, then rip apart when you shifted. Without air conditioning in the townhouse, we were miserable. We took turns sticking our faces in front of the floor fan, making alien sounds into the blades.

Weekend activities required imagination. Options were limited with little money or mobility because of Rose Gold’s chronic fatigue. She was the one who suggested the lemonade stand.

She’d seen other kids’ stands over the years. The concept delighted her: kids running a legitimate business, handling money, talking to customers. It all sounded very grown-up to her.

We had a few pieces of scrap cardboard lying around, so I figured, what the heck, and let her go to town. She lettered the cardboard first with pencil then colored in the business name with scented markers: ‘Rose Gold’s Lemonade Stand’. (She must have inherited her father’s creativity.) When she finished the sign, we made lemonade: a packet of Kool-Aid mixed with water. We didn’t have the means for fresh-squeezed lemonade or whatever exotic berries kids are putting in their juice these days. Our neighbors wouldn’t know the difference anyway.

After stacking the supplies in the backseat of the van, my daughter and I got in the car, excited for an adventure to break up the monotony of her illness. We set up the table and chairs in an empty strip-mall parking lot, affixed the cardboard sign to the front of the table, and unloaded the lemonade and cups. A quarter was Rose Gold’s asking price.

She was ecstatic at first, calling out singsong but questionable rhymes, like: ‘It’s a hot day, so get your lemonade’ and ‘Twenty-five cents makes a lot of sense.’ I didn’t have the heart to tell her the latter made no sense. Without a customer in sight, it didn’t take long for her enthusiasm to waver. After an hour with zero takers, she was using the cardboard sign to fan herself, head lolling on the back of her chair.

‘Where is everyone?’ she whined. ‘Four people have walked by. We’ve been here for hours.’

Rather than deliver dual pointed lectures on whining and patience – my natural instinct – I went around to the other side of the table.

‘Excuse me, miss,’ I said, ‘I’d like to buy a lemonade, please.’

Rose Gold rolled her eyes. She peered around to ensure no one was witnessing this embarrassing scene with her mother.

‘Is the lemonade still for sale?’ I prompted again.

Rose Gold narrowed her eyes at me. ‘You have twenty-five cents?’

‘Sure,’ I said, grabbing my purse from under the table and opening the pouch of coins.

Rose Gold reached for the filled-to-the-brim pitcher, using both hands to fill the red Solo cup, trying to pretend this task wasn’t important to her. I did my best to keep a straight face to maintain the decorum required of the occasion. She handed me the cup. ‘Here you go.’

I handed her the quarter. ‘And here you go.’

Lifting the cup to my lips, I took a long drink. ‘What did you put in here? Pixie dust? Sparkles? What’s your secret ingredient?’

In spite of herself, she laughed. ‘Mom, you’re blocking the sign.’ She swatted me out of the way.

From whom? I wanted to say, but bit my lip. I sat back in my chair, letting the lemonade’s tartness tickle my taste-buds. I offered my cup to Rose Gold. She guzzled the drink. Lemonade was one of the beverages her stomach tolerated. Sometimes.

After another half-hour, a total of ten cars had driven past us. Seven sped by, two slowed to read the sign before speeding away, and one dotty senior – that fossil must have been old when the Dead Sea was still sick – pulled up and tried to haggle over the price. He argued the lemonade wasn’t worth more than ten cents. (And it probably wasn’t, back in 1720 when he was born.) My daughter refused to grant him the discount. He left beverage-less. Served him right, cheapo.

Two hours of effort, with one sale to a blood relative, did not a happy girl make.

‘Let’s go home,’ Rose Gold said. ‘No one wants my dumb lemonade.’

I suggested we move the stand to Main Street, an area with more foot traffic. Nothing but stale air and leftover fish sticks awaited us at home, and it was not yet noon. I’d run out of ideas to entertain her, and was set on milking this one for at least another hour. She shrugged and agreed to the location change, indifferent by now.

I packed the table and chairs into the van. Rose Gold’s eyes lit up.

‘Why don’t we get my wheelchair?’ she said.

‘Why?’ I asked. My daughter never volunteered to get into the wheelchair.

She shrugged. ‘My butt hurts from the metal chair.’

I agreed to her request and headed home. I lugged the cumbersome wheelchair into the trunk, then drove to our new stand location, starting the entire set-up process again while Rose Gold sat in her chair.

True, the new area had more foot traffic than our previous spot. And it’s much harder for people on foot to ignore a child’s lemonade stand. But I’ve always wondered how many people stopped that afternoon because they saw a little girl in a wheelchair trying her hardest to sell some lemonade. More important, I keep returning to the question of whether Rose Gold was shrewd enough, at ten years old, to understand how to win sympathy. To use her disadvantages to her advantage, shall we say?

She sold two pitchers of lemonade in twenty minutes, for a total of $6.40. She bought a Beanie Baby with the money – Nuts the Squirrel, if I remember correctly.

I am not the only manipulator in my family.

Later that night, I wake to the sound of glass breaking outside. I swat at the clock face: 3:35 a.m. Yawning, I sit up in bed and shuffle to the window. I rub my eyes and let my vision come into focus. When it does, I yelp.

Something on our lawn is on fire.

The blaze is closer to the sidewalk than to the front door, but big enough to be a legitimate concern. I run to Rose Gold’s bedroom and try to open the door. Like always, the door is locked.

I knock. ‘Rose Gold.’

Stepping back, I expect the click of the lock, the door to swing open at any second. But nothing happens.

‘Rose Gold!’ I pound my open palm against the door.

I put my ear to the door and hear Adam start to whimper. No sign or sound of my daughter.

I run back to my bedroom and gawk out the window. The fire has gotten bigger. Panicked, I pound on her door one more time before running down the hallway and outside. A freezing gust bites my bare feet and arms. I reach for the side door to the detached garage. I throw it open and flip on the light, eyes scanning until they find a fire extinguisher in the back corner. Tossing junk out of my way, I scoop up the extinguisher and run back out of the door toward the driveway.

The sensor floodlights come on and illuminate the front yard. Now I can see it’s our trashcan that’s on fire. On my way to the flames, I notice a big chalk drawing on the driveway. The pink lines cover the entire asphalt surface. I step around it, trying to interpret the meaning. Then I see it: a skull and crossbones.

The universal symbol for poison.

The heat on my back reminds me of the flames. I turn and pull the pin from the extinguisher’s handle. Aiming the nozzle at the base of the fire, I squeeze the lever. Liquid shoots out and douses some of the flames. I keep at it, sweeping from side to side for what feels like hours, but couldn’t be more than thirty seconds. When the last flame is gone, I sink to my knees in the grass, staring at the charred trashcan and listening to my shaky breaths.

The smell of gasoline lifts me from my stupor. Someone started this fire, I think stupidly. I squint into the darkness toward my neighbors’ houses, searching for the culprits. There’s no sign of life out here except my own. I shiver, my brain registering how cold my body is.

I find a flashlight in the garage and sweep it along the sidewalk and up the trees. I’m too scared to leave our property. Maybe in the morning I’ll do a more thorough search for evidence. For now, I want to get back inside, safe behind a locked door.

I hurry into the house, closing the door behind me. I stand there for a few seconds, soaking in the strength of the door at my back, then take another unsteady breath.

At the end of the hallway, I pound on Rose Gold’s bedroom door again. This time, the door opens right away.

Rose Gold stands there, blinking with bedhead. ‘What time is it?’ she asks, groggy.

‘How did you not wake up?’ I cry.

‘I took a sleeping pill.’ She yawns. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Someone set our trashcan on fire,’ I say. My voice sounds hysterical, unfamiliar to me.

Rose Gold raises her eyebrows, starting to wake up. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I just put out a fire in the front yard!’ How can she be so dense?

Her jaw drops. ‘Are you serious?’ Finally, the reaction I’m looking for. The two of us stare at each other for a moment with matching agape expressions.

Then Adam lets out a shrill cry. Rose Gold fixes me with a glare and goes to the crib to get him. How dare I wake the baby in the process of stopping her lawn going up in flames?

I forget the fire for a second and peer into the dark room, searching for the reason my daughter needs to keep this door locked all the time. But the bedroom looks the same as the day I moved in here. Nothing is out of the ordinary.

Rose Gold comes back to the door, yawning. ‘Would you mind getting him to sleep?’

Is she going back to bed right now? I won’t be able to sleep for weeks.

I take Adam from her. She smiles before closing the door gently in my face. I carry the baby to the living room, rocking him in my arms until he stops crying. He sticks his tongue out. I laugh in spite of the situation. My heart pulses against his small body.

Someone has taken their anger too far this time. I figured the people of Deadwick might be petty when I got out of prison, but I never thought the town would become unsafe. Yet unsafe is exactly how I feel. I rack my brain for who’s behind this: Mary Stone, Tom Behan, Bob McIntyre, Arnie, the other Gadget World employees? Any of them might be playing white knight, might be hell-bent on teaching me a lesson.

I gaze at the innocent bundle in my arms. He’d be much better off growing up somewhere else, far away from the maniacs of Deadwick.

With a sigh, I try to enjoy these last few minutes of rest. I’ll stay up all night if that’s what it takes to scrub every remnant of chalk from the driveway. None of Rose Gold’s crusaders will get the satisfaction of seeing their threats in the light of day.

Nor will Rose Gold.