“You don’t deserve it. You’re the one that brought us here. You made him kill himself.”
She slapped me and my head flew back. She slapped me again; her ring cut my cheek.
I screamed, thrusting the notebook at her with all my strength.
Claude yelled for us to stop and grabbed hold of me around my waist. He yanked me to the side. I knocked over a vase. It shattered when it hit the coffee table, jagged pieces of porcelain flying everywhere.
Stunned silence followed. There was blood on my hands and cuts on my arms and legs. I touched my cheek and felt wetness, my fingers coming away painted red.
When she saw the welling blood from the cut on my face, made by her diamond ring, my mother closed her eyes, reaching behind her to try to find the couch.
Claude went to her. She was shaking, trying to breathe. I took one step, but Claude said, “Enough.”
His voice was like a hand against my forehead, and I stopped. I picked up the notebook from the floor and, despite Claude’s order, set it on her lap. She curled one hand around it.
Claude’s eyes passed over the shattered vase, rubbing at his jaw. “Christ,” he said. “You would do this to your mother? After everything?”
“Don’t,” said my mother. “It’s not her fault. Leave her be.”
Claude shut his mouth. He stood up and helped her stand. She started on her own for the stairs, not waiting for Claude.
“Help Rosie clean this up,” Claude said to Alex, watching my mother go. “And you—” He took a deep breath and turned to me. I braced myself for another hot bellow. Instead, he deflated to normal size. He put a finger under my chin and tilted my face up so he could see the cut on my cheek and the imprint of my mother’s hand on my face. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then turned and left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alex moved my limbs and guided me through the living room and up to the second-floor bathroom like I was a puppet. Pastel blue tiles, pastel blue walls. My breath wheezed. The chill that started downstairs disappeared, and I was left feeling sluggish and tired. My head drooped.
There was blood on my shirt. I was tired of blood and peeled the shirt off.
Alex wet a washcloth, turning to face me, but stopped when he saw me naked from the waist up. His pale cheeks flooded with color. He stood still. The air filled with the rasp of my breathing, with his. Then his eyes dropped.
Small lumps for breasts with dark nipples, and hips beginning to flare. My skin was peanut colored like my mother’s, but I had little of her beauty and even less of my father’s freckles or his long limbs.
I don’t know why I did it. I wanted to make him uncomfortable. To shake him up and have him really look at me. I took his hand with the washcloth, passed it over my face,then down my neck, over my chest. His body tensed and he stepped back, grabbing a towel from the rack.
“Clothes,” he said, throwing the towel around my shoulders, pulling me out of the bathroom and into my room. He searched through the piles of my clothing for underwear, for a shirt and a pair of jeans, remembering to fish out my shoes from the bathroom. He mixed up my carefully ordered stacks of clothing, putting the yellow skirt next to the green shorts and leaving my jeans in a heap. I would fix things later.
I pulled a T-shirt over my head. I thought he would turn away, but he didn’t. Together, we went downstairs. In the back of the kitchen, he opened the utility closet and handed me a broom. We got to work cleaning, and the only sound between us came with the low tinkle of the porcelain as we swept up the pieces of the vase into a pile.
Alex bent over with the dustpan. “That vase was expensive.”
“How expensive?” I asked, picking up one piece of porcelain that was larger than the rest. One side was white and the other had yellow and blue glaze, the suggestion of a pattern.
He shrugged. “Thousands,” he said. “You probably like that.”
“You’re right,” I said.
She slapped me and my head flew back. She slapped me again; her ring cut my cheek.
I screamed, thrusting the notebook at her with all my strength.
Claude yelled for us to stop and grabbed hold of me around my waist. He yanked me to the side. I knocked over a vase. It shattered when it hit the coffee table, jagged pieces of porcelain flying everywhere.
Stunned silence followed. There was blood on my hands and cuts on my arms and legs. I touched my cheek and felt wetness, my fingers coming away painted red.
When she saw the welling blood from the cut on my face, made by her diamond ring, my mother closed her eyes, reaching behind her to try to find the couch.
Claude went to her. She was shaking, trying to breathe. I took one step, but Claude said, “Enough.”
His voice was like a hand against my forehead, and I stopped. I picked up the notebook from the floor and, despite Claude’s order, set it on her lap. She curled one hand around it.
Claude’s eyes passed over the shattered vase, rubbing at his jaw. “Christ,” he said. “You would do this to your mother? After everything?”
“Don’t,” said my mother. “It’s not her fault. Leave her be.”
Claude shut his mouth. He stood up and helped her stand. She started on her own for the stairs, not waiting for Claude.
“Help Rosie clean this up,” Claude said to Alex, watching my mother go. “And you—” He took a deep breath and turned to me. I braced myself for another hot bellow. Instead, he deflated to normal size. He put a finger under my chin and tilted my face up so he could see the cut on my cheek and the imprint of my mother’s hand on my face. “I’m sorry,” he said, and then turned and left.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Alex moved my limbs and guided me through the living room and up to the second-floor bathroom like I was a puppet. Pastel blue tiles, pastel blue walls. My breath wheezed. The chill that started downstairs disappeared, and I was left feeling sluggish and tired. My head drooped.
There was blood on my shirt. I was tired of blood and peeled the shirt off.
Alex wet a washcloth, turning to face me, but stopped when he saw me naked from the waist up. His pale cheeks flooded with color. He stood still. The air filled with the rasp of my breathing, with his. Then his eyes dropped.
Small lumps for breasts with dark nipples, and hips beginning to flare. My skin was peanut colored like my mother’s, but I had little of her beauty and even less of my father’s freckles or his long limbs.
I don’t know why I did it. I wanted to make him uncomfortable. To shake him up and have him really look at me. I took his hand with the washcloth, passed it over my face,then down my neck, over my chest. His body tensed and he stepped back, grabbing a towel from the rack.
“Clothes,” he said, throwing the towel around my shoulders, pulling me out of the bathroom and into my room. He searched through the piles of my clothing for underwear, for a shirt and a pair of jeans, remembering to fish out my shoes from the bathroom. He mixed up my carefully ordered stacks of clothing, putting the yellow skirt next to the green shorts and leaving my jeans in a heap. I would fix things later.
I pulled a T-shirt over my head. I thought he would turn away, but he didn’t. Together, we went downstairs. In the back of the kitchen, he opened the utility closet and handed me a broom. We got to work cleaning, and the only sound between us came with the low tinkle of the porcelain as we swept up the pieces of the vase into a pile.
Alex bent over with the dustpan. “That vase was expensive.”
“How expensive?” I asked, picking up one piece of porcelain that was larger than the rest. One side was white and the other had yellow and blue glaze, the suggestion of a pattern.
He shrugged. “Thousands,” he said. “You probably like that.”
“You’re right,” I said.
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