+++
The song had a very low drum beat to it. Sutton described it as “tantric” and “subtle”. The song had changed hours ago, but I simply couldn’t unhear it now.
Sutton laughed drowning out the music for 6 seconds. He was reclined on the gray futon staring up at the exposed pipes and skylight. McKenna and Hunter are sitting cross legged on the floor leaning in and out of the smoke. Colbie is lounged on the Baracelona chair her feet on the leather. They all have interesting hair. Bright colors, straight and highlighted. They are all Sutton’s friends. I like Sutton. Sutton likes my studio apartment. It’s not like the dorms.
It’s private.
He said.
“Nice”, Sutton says as he takes my sketchpad and waves it in front of his friends, “Look.”
They admire it quietly. They don’t notice the letter I wrote on the last page. Sutton hands back the sketch and I deepen the lines. The dress is pretty and simple. That song comes on again. The one with the drums. I focus on the rhythm. Counting it down like I’m counting down the moments until they leave.
It’s 2 am.
They have been here 8 hours and counting.
A loud knock at the door makes them jump. Some people are sensitive to strange sounds. It’s . . . funny. Colbie curses and says something about police officers. McKenna does the same and they start to put things under the futon.
“Relax. It’s just cookies, guys”, Sutton says waiving his phone.
“You ordered food?” I ask quietly tilting my head.
“Yeah”
Oh, dear. They were going to be here a while.
I unfold my legs and adjust my calf length floral dress and short leather boots. Sutton said I looked like a 90’s princess. I didn’t know what that meant. At the door I take the top off the little ceramic Buddha on the side table and sorted through crumpled bills. Quickly tossing back in the crumbled hundred dollar bills until I find a twenty.
I opened the door and stopped.
I stared
I watched
I had to watch because you never knew if what you saw was really there. The image didn’t move . . . never changed.
“I found you.” he said very quietly.
“So you did,” I said even quieter
“Babe”. Sutton called much too loudly
Babe? Was I babe? I bristled. That would not due.
Sutton stood up, all 100 pounds of him and peered protectively from a distance.
I knew they saw what I saw. They saw a tall man maybe a decade or more years their senior with an even expression. Clear light eyes with a familiar bone structure and carefully styled hair in a cool toned tailored royal oxford, slacks and a light coat. I opened the door further and wordlessly invited him in.
“Who is this”, Sutton asked.
I turned and looked into the man’s face. I had decisions to make.
“. . . My dear Uncle”, I said affectionately, “He practically raised me”
“Oh…okay”, Sutton said.
He looked dismissively over the loft. 900 square feet of canvas sketches, a four poster bed, and boxes of tea and stacks of British and Australian biscuits, crisps and cookies all stacked up in the corner next to a tiny galley kitchen. He hesitates just slightly at the coffee table and the group surrounding it.
“Get your coat”, he orders..
“I have company”, I said.
“Get your coat”, he repeated
I sifted through the rolling rack for my thin coat, not that I’d need it on a cool Savannah evening. I hear voices murmur behind me as I leave, but Sutton speaks up
“You’re leaving? “Sutton said.
“Yes”, I found my keys in a teacup and tossed them to Sutton. The toss was weak and they landed on the floor, “Please lock up when you are all finished. I’ll get the keys form you in class tomorrow.”
“Rose”, he said startled, “I can’t let you go with some stranger in the middle of the night. I mean--”
“Honestly, Sutton.”, I said shrugging on my jacket and taking my father’s arm.
+++
We walked for a long time. I didn’t know where we were going . . . but I could assume.
We turned on River Street which to everyone else was quiet at 2am on a Wednesday morning. I looked out at the Savannah River wishing I could jump in and swim away. I’d never been out this time of night. It was quiet and so loud at the same time. I clicked on the wireless white earbuds which provided a dull shushing to lull all the unhappiness away.
“How did you find me?” I finally asked.
He stopped walking and faced me. Taking my face in his cool hands.
“You’re my daughter, Rose. I will always find you.”
I considered this and we kept walking until the street dipped into large concrete generic Best Western hotel that was no doubt packed with sleeping economic conscious tourist.
“When did you get in?” I asked amiably.
“35 minutes ago.”
I was quiet but not surprised. Patience wasn’t for everyone. We took the elevator the fifth floor.
The suite was very bland. Utilitarian. So very temporary and very tiny. I could hear the television playing softly in the bedroom on the other side of the room. Father escorted me into the monotone blue bedroom where a woman was fast asleep on one of the double beds.
I watched her dozing quietly. Reams of her black hair with its streak grayish purple covered the pillow. She was still fully dressed in a pair of violet capris and herringbone printed blouse. I sat on the edge of the bed. She slowly opened her dark eyes set into tan skin. She squints at me and puts her gold rimmed glasses on.
“Rose”, she said resigned, “What were you thinking?”
“I needed space.” I said, “I wrote letters I said I was fine. I made my way. I am quite content”
She sniffed.
“Here? In Georgia? It’s so far away and honestly Rose you can’t steal money“
“I didn’t steal anything . . . it is my trust fund and I just used a little.”
“It doesn’t matter, it wasn’t very nice leaving in the middle of the night.”
“Honestly—“
“It was Christmas, Rose.”
“I needed to get away”, I said. I’d said this a thousand times in my letters, “Please, Mother. I have class in the morning. I’ve had company all evening. You have seen me isn’t that enough ?”
She was quiet and considering. She thought if she wasn’t careful I’d be gone again. My leaving never had anything to do with her. Not when I went to Vancouver, or Casablanca or Sacramento or Savannah, Georgia as it were now. It was never about her.
Melbourne sounded lovely to me all of a sudden.
I’d always wanted to go to Melbourne.
“Let’s get breakfast”, she suggest.
“It’s 3am.” I said.
“Oh, there is always a 24 hour diner open somewhere in a college town. I’m jetlagged.”
And like that I find myself walking trapped between the both of them and the noisy quiet streets. The Waterway 24 Hour diner is slow this time of night. Students are crowded around the counter in modern late evening wear. Lots of pinks and purples.
They sit on one side, me on the other. The waitress seems very confused. I think about Australia again. Then I turn up my earbuds and take out my sketch book.
They are a study in contrast. Mother is on the right, she is noisy . . . busy. She flips through the waxy laminated menu, loudly weighing breakfast and dinner options. She keeps a hand on the local beer she’d ordered, tapping her long shiny magenta candy colored nails against the glass.
On the left Father is quiet. A white chipped round tea mug sitting on a white saucer covered in a thin layer of dust. The black tea is overbrewed and getting cold, which is just as well because he was never going to drink it. He keeps an eye on the world passing by out the window. It’s safer behind the glass, where no one asks questions and curses don’t seem real.
I find a pencil and deepen the lines on the sketch Sutton had liked.
“Let me see”, Mother says pulling the sketchbook from me with both hands.
She flips through my sketchbook like it’s the menu, she keeps flipping as she orders; Western omelet, French fries. I have a blueberry cheesecake waffle with ice cream and a glass of water
“I love this one”, she says and rips a page out of the book.
“That’s my homework.” I said. It wasn’t.
“Oh, it’s dated last year and I think it’d match the sitting room. I saw a frame shop when we came in. I can get it framed.”
My pen rolls off the table and I move to catch it, it almost slightly hovers there just an inch off the ground. I sit back up and Mother hands my sketchbook back in time for . . . whatever meal this is considered comes.
“This is nice. ... Isn’t this nice”, She says hesitantly then takes a blueberry from my plate, “I’ve been so worried about you Rose.”
“It was only 4 months and I sent a postcard.”
“How do you even know what a postcard is”, she takes a sip from the water that’s not hers. Then she pointedly places a few stray mushrooms on my plate, as if they were a vegetable.
“I like postcards”, I said. And they just sat there unbought and never properly used in gift shops. I put them to work."
“Where they your friends?”, Papa asks taking a sip of the black abyss of tea.
Mother looks up.
“What ?”, she says, “Who ? Where ? I mean are they aliv--”
“They are Sutton’s friends—“, I began.
“Sutton ?”, Mother says.
“He’s a classmate. We met in arts foundation. Those were his friends. They are not terrible people but—“
“Are you and Sutton dating?” Mother asks chasing a red bell pepper around her plate.
Papa has finally noticed the dust in his tea and ever so slightly pushes it away, giving up on the bell pepper Mother starts to fix her coffee; picking through the color coded packets thrown haphazardly in a metal dish.
I considered the moment.
This moment
“No”, I said prodding the remains of my waffle with a fork and knife, “I would never date Sutton. . . he’s a boy.”
Mother has a spoon in her mouth, she carefully pulls it out and puts another sugar into her coffee ad stirs it. She follows it up with pre-portioned cream and takes a sip.
“Oh God, this taste like tar”, she says, “It’s okay. I bought coffee at the airport. Are you still eating, Rose?”
“. . . No”.
“Come on, I need some real coffee. Jet lag is not getting the better of me.”
She raises a hand for the check and I pay because I am the only one with American money.
+++
It feels like a mad unending tea party. Once we get back to the hotel suite we wait patiently for a knock on the door. Mother jumps up and answers it. A sleepy front desk clerk has a drip coffee pot under one arm.
“Is this what you wanted Mrs. Fierro ?”
“Yes”, she said exchanging the single serve machine. She closed the door with her foot not even bother to correct the clerk, somewhere along the way she’d given up on correcting people.
Mother tears apart her suitcase until she finds the coffee. She watches it brew going on about how she simply cannot fall asleep. She takes out three foam hotel cups and pours.
“I don’t drink—“, I begin
“I know”, she says pulling a packet of hot chocolate out of her oversized bag.
Papa is so quiet I nearly forget he is sitting next to me. Though I suspect he thinks the same of me.
“Papa”, I ask, “. . . Are you upset with me?”
“I would have like to have spent Christmas morning with my only daughter”, he said adding an extra sugar to the coffee Mother prepared.
Christmas? Were they still going on about Christmas? That was four months ago. It hadn’t even been about Christmas, it was just the ideal day to catch a flight. I need to know who I am without them . . . if I can even be without them. I just need space. Why couldn’t they understand that?
Two vintage Louis Vuitton suitcases are propped up next to a single leather carry on and garment bag. What was that a week maybe two?
Focus
Focus, Rose
“Did you hear me? At the restaurant? I didn’t. . . I just want to.... that is I simply . . . did you hear me? Do you know what I am telling you?”
“Yes”, my mother said and Papa nodded in agreement, “But does that have anything to do with you running away?
“No . . .”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Mother asks tilting back her mug.
“I—no...”
“Then why do you keep leaving?” she asks, settling in a chair across from where Papa and I on the couch.
Wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t they see what a strange little picture we are, were . . . always would be. That there was barely a speck of normal between us and sometimes when I was alone, there was hope for normal. Where I didn’t have to ignore the impossible things around me. Or the look of guilt Mother sometimes got because I was a blemish on her otherwise outstanding record.
“I’m 19. I don’t know. . . . I think wanderlust simply runs in the family.”
Mother considers this and start flipping through the movies on the TV, choosing a Hepburn picture. Mother moves to sit on the floor, kicking off her shoes. Papa uncharacteristically falls asleep first nearly dropping the book he was reading. I slide down to join Mother on the floor. I’d made a dress just like Audrey’s in Roman Holiday for my final at Montreal Art and Tech. I tell her this and she wants to see pictures.
When the film is over Mother wants to straightened my hair, but when we get into the bedroom she lays down on one of the blue stoic double beds. She yawns and pushes around the rough comforter.
“Come on, let’s take a little nap first. Wake me up in 30 minutes.”
I fold myself under the comforter, for some reason she always smelled like tea and lavender. For as long as I can remember. Longer than I should.
“Take your make up off first”, she says yawning.
“I’m not wearing makeup”
“Oh”, she says closing her eyes, “Okay.”
They were both asleep. I could leave now, but against my better judgement I don’t. I simply give in. Just this once.
At 9 am my eyes slide open, Mother is slightly snoring and turns into her pillow. I slip out of bed and pad my way to the living room
“Are you leaving?”
My father is of course awake and sitting up on the couch half way into a cheap history book on Savannah from the gift shop downstairs.
“Yes. I have class and—“
“Rose, we’ve traveled a long way to see you—“
“Please”, I said, “Please I need to make my own way, I need space. I am content. I love you both. I’ll write often but please Papa, just leave me to it. To my life. To explore. We’ll be together for Christmas. I promise I’ll be there for Christmas. All the holidays.”
A silent look passes between us.
“You are our only child Rose. We worry about you.”
“Tell Mommy I said good-bye and I’ll be in contact. Less you want to walk me to school”
He nodded. He was resigned but I knew he would always understand me.
“Wait”, He said.
“Honestly, I—“
He wordlessly signs his name to a check and hands it to me.
“Remember what I said”, he says handing it to me.
.I stepped out the door and closed it again. I felt lighter as I walked to campus. I grabbed my keys from Sutton in class and went back to my apartment. I gathered a bag and passport the headed for the airport.
Author's Note
So, I this never started as a “coming out” story. This is something I’ve known about Rose since I first started writing her and I put it in the Epilogue for JNRR.
Yes, Rose is an irresponsible teenager with access to a ton of money and is looking for some independence. She doesn’t feel the need to close things out herself leaves a mess of thing to be sorted out later. She and her parents are close but have a way of wandering in and out of each other’s life because strange things happen around this family. I promise this is just phase she goes through for a few years.
Again this was something I wrote before I knew how PLT was going to end and I couldn’t figure out why Clara and Fierro were so distant and why I couldn’t write them as “married”