The Truth about Mary Rose by Marilyn Sachs Page B

over, listening in.
    “Mary Rose,” I yelled, “you’ve been listening in to my dreams.”
    “Well, you’ve been listening in to mine,” she said.
    She walked into the room, and looked at everything—at the curtains, at the bed, at the chest, at the mirror.
    “You’re not real,” I said. “You’re black and white, like in the newspaper. You’re just a dream I’m having.”
    She was looking all around. “Where is it?” she said.
    “Where is what?”
    “My box.”
    “It’s at Uncle Stanley’s house.”
    “I want it back,” she said. “That’s why I came.”
    “I don’t have it,” I said. “You’ll have to go there to get it.
    “OK.” She started walking out of the room.
    “Mary Rose!” I called, “Mary Rose!”
    “Yes?” She turned around, and waited for me to ask my question. I can’t really say what she looked like. She was smaller than me, but she was like that picture in the newspaper, so nothing was clear about her, except I knew she was Mary Rose.
    “Why do you need that box?”
    “It’s the only one I don’t have.” She sounded impatient.
    “But why do you need it now?”
    “You really are stupid,” she said. “Now is the time I need it, not any other time.”
    “But why?”
    “Because I’ve got everything set up right. The countries, the houses, the clothes—everything I need, except for the jewelry and my picture.”
    “Your picture? You mean the newspaper picture?”
    “No! No! My picture of me, my real picture. It’s in my jewelry box.”
    I knew she meant that picture of the sexy, redheaded woman with the big, fake diamond ring on her finger.
    “But Mary Rose, you didn’t look like that,” I told her. “You didn’t look anything like that.”
    “Yes, I did,” she said. “I looked exactly like that. And once I get my box back, I will look like that again.” She pointed a finger at me, and her voice sounded frightened. “You didn’t do anything to it, did you? Is it still there?”
    “Yes, it’s still there. Everything is still there. I didn’t hurt anything. But, Mary Rose ...”
    “What?” She was moving out of the door.
    “Mary Rose, please, just tell me, is it true what Uncle Stanley said about you? Is it true what he said about that night?”
    “What night?” She was moving quickly through the door.
    “The night of the fire.”
    “What fire?” she said, and then she was gone.
    I called, “Mary Rose! Mary Rose!” after her, but she didn’t come back.
    My mother came back the next day. She didn’t tell me what happened to Mary Rose’s box, and I didn’t ask. She did say that she didn’t mean to rub it in, but she hoped I understood now how wrong and dangerous it was to listen in to conversations not intended for my ears. I said yes I did understand. That was good, she said, and she also hoped that meant I wouldn’t do it again. But she didn’t wait for an answer. She is not the kind of grownup who likes to trap people. I am glad I have her for a mother and not somebody like Aunt Claudia.
    My mother said she thought maybe the best thing would be to talk about Mary Rose, and discuss exactly what Uncle Stanley had said. But I said no. I told her not to worry, I wasn’t going to say anything to Grandma or to anyone else for that matter, but I told her I didn’t want to talk about Mary Rose.
    “You will when the hurt wears off a little,” said my mother, “and you’ll feel better when you do.”
    But she didn’t press me.
    She’s wrong. I don’t think I ever will want to talk about Mary Rose. Even though I am hurting. But it’s not for me I’m hurting now. It’s for Mary Rose. The way I hurt for Pam or Grandma or somebody I love very much. When they feel bad I feel bad too, and now I’m feeling bad for Mary Rose. Because she was a person. I know that now, and I know that there were lots of times that she felt bad, and whatever she was or is, I can feel that hurting even after thirty years.
    My mother is wrong and my father