kitchen, my pack slung over my shoulder. What was I doing sitting around like the battle was won? She knew about me now. Aunt Ulla was giving her a play-by-play of all my antics over the past year, including the incident from this morning. Rosalee would be more desperate than ever to send me away. I had to move quick and stake out a bit of earth for myself before Rosalee got off the phone.
I found a switch on the wall that lit the living room: one chair and one footstool, but no futon or foldout couch. No couches, period. Down a hallway to my left was a bathroom, a linen closet, an office the
size
of a closet, and finally Rosalee’s bedroom, which housed a twin-size bed.
I went back to the living room, worried. One chair in the kitchen, one chair in the living room, a twin bed in the bedroom. It wasn’t that Rosalee didn’t have room in her life for me; Rosalee didn’t have room for
anybody
.
Opposite the front door was a staircase. I went up expecting more of the same antisocial layout, but on opening the single door at the top of the stairs, I discovered a large, empty attic space shaped like the top half of a stop sign. The wallswere white and the same blond wood from downstairs covered the floor. A large window with brass-handled casements overlooked the dark, dreaming street.
Such good bones this room had. Such potential. It even had its own bathroom with a shower, sink, and toilet so white I doubted they’d ever been used.
A guest room. Empty because Rosalee clearly didn’t want any guests. Luckily, I wasn’t a guest.
I was family.
I set my bag on the floor and unpacked: seven purple dresses, purple underclothes, my purple purse, the big wooden swan Poppa had carved for me, and my cell phone. Since the room had no closet, I placed everything on the built-in shelves along the wall opposite the door, including my pills, which took up almost all the top shelf. I put the few toiletries I’d packed into the medicine cabinet. And that was it.
I was home.
We’re both home
. Poppa agreed, satisfied. He had been waiting to reunite with Rosalee even longer than I had.
I went downstairs and paused for a bit outside the kitchen door. When I heard nothing but Rosalee’s sporadic murmurings, I continued down the hall to the linen closet andcommandeered several thick blankets and one purple bath towel.
The purple I took as an omen—a good one.
I hadn’t packed any nightgowns, so after I undressed and washed up, I wrapped myself in the towel and combed out my hair, which was always a chore. Island-girl hair did not like to be combed.
“What’re you doing?”
Rosalee stood in the doorway of the attic room, staring at my belongings on the shelf and at her blankets on the floor.
Staring in horror.
I untangled the comb from my hair and knelt next to the pile of blankets. “I’m nesting.”
“Like hell you are! You can’t stay here!”
Aunt Ulla
had
poisoned her mind against me.
“Yes, I can.” I unfolded the blankets and piled them atop one another. “What you mean to say is, you don’t want me here.”
“That’s right! I don’t!”
I sang, “You can’t always
get
what you want.”
Rosalee stared at me as though she’d never seen anything like me before. “Are you even gone ask how your aunt’sdoing? Least you could do after what you did to her.”
“You said she’s alive.” I tested the softness of the pallet and found it lacking. I added two more blankets. “What else do I need to know?”
“It took
eleven stitches
to put her head back together. She only just got home from the hospital. You’re lucky she didn’t call the cops. You’re lucky she didn’t die.”
When I didn’t say anything, Rosalee knelt across from me, keeping the pallet between us. A shiny red bracelet encircled her left wrist, a bracelet with an old-fashioned silver key as long as my pinky dangling from it. I wondered what she’d do if I touched her hand, touched her anywhere, to see what it felt
I found a switch on the wall that lit the living room: one chair and one footstool, but no futon or foldout couch. No couches, period. Down a hallway to my left was a bathroom, a linen closet, an office the
size
of a closet, and finally Rosalee’s bedroom, which housed a twin-size bed.
I went back to the living room, worried. One chair in the kitchen, one chair in the living room, a twin bed in the bedroom. It wasn’t that Rosalee didn’t have room in her life for me; Rosalee didn’t have room for
anybody
.
Opposite the front door was a staircase. I went up expecting more of the same antisocial layout, but on opening the single door at the top of the stairs, I discovered a large, empty attic space shaped like the top half of a stop sign. The wallswere white and the same blond wood from downstairs covered the floor. A large window with brass-handled casements overlooked the dark, dreaming street.
Such good bones this room had. Such potential. It even had its own bathroom with a shower, sink, and toilet so white I doubted they’d ever been used.
A guest room. Empty because Rosalee clearly didn’t want any guests. Luckily, I wasn’t a guest.
I was family.
I set my bag on the floor and unpacked: seven purple dresses, purple underclothes, my purple purse, the big wooden swan Poppa had carved for me, and my cell phone. Since the room had no closet, I placed everything on the built-in shelves along the wall opposite the door, including my pills, which took up almost all the top shelf. I put the few toiletries I’d packed into the medicine cabinet. And that was it.
I was home.
We’re both home
. Poppa agreed, satisfied. He had been waiting to reunite with Rosalee even longer than I had.
I went downstairs and paused for a bit outside the kitchen door. When I heard nothing but Rosalee’s sporadic murmurings, I continued down the hall to the linen closet andcommandeered several thick blankets and one purple bath towel.
The purple I took as an omen—a good one.
I hadn’t packed any nightgowns, so after I undressed and washed up, I wrapped myself in the towel and combed out my hair, which was always a chore. Island-girl hair did not like to be combed.
“What’re you doing?”
Rosalee stood in the doorway of the attic room, staring at my belongings on the shelf and at her blankets on the floor.
Staring in horror.
I untangled the comb from my hair and knelt next to the pile of blankets. “I’m nesting.”
“Like hell you are! You can’t stay here!”
Aunt Ulla
had
poisoned her mind against me.
“Yes, I can.” I unfolded the blankets and piled them atop one another. “What you mean to say is, you don’t want me here.”
“That’s right! I don’t!”
I sang, “You can’t always
get
what you want.”
Rosalee stared at me as though she’d never seen anything like me before. “Are you even gone ask how your aunt’sdoing? Least you could do after what you did to her.”
“You said she’s alive.” I tested the softness of the pallet and found it lacking. I added two more blankets. “What else do I need to know?”
“It took
eleven stitches
to put her head back together. She only just got home from the hospital. You’re lucky she didn’t call the cops. You’re lucky she didn’t die.”
When I didn’t say anything, Rosalee knelt across from me, keeping the pallet between us. A shiny red bracelet encircled her left wrist, a bracelet with an old-fashioned silver key as long as my pinky dangling from it. I wondered what she’d do if I touched her hand, touched her anywhere, to see what it felt
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