Chapter Fifteen
As soon as I get home I charge into the kitchen, drop my bag on the floor mid-flight, and open the connecting door into the garage. I say garage loosely. It’s huge, as in the size of a small aircraft hanger.
Ever since Lori gave me the invitation this morning I’ve been itching for a nose into Rosie’s boxes of clothes. We’re virtually the same size and build so there’s bound to be something really cool I can borrow. I vaguely recall last year seeing photos of her when she went to a rich guy’s party and wore a black clingy dress—very tasteful. It would be perfect, if I can find it.
Rosie’s things are stashed right at the back, which means clambering over years of accumulated trash before I can get to them. Whoever designed the garage as a place for keeping the car clearly doesn’t know our family. The only car in here is Rosie’s, an old mini so doesn’t take up much space, and the rest is family junk. You’d have thought moving might have encouraged us to pare down our belongings. But no. I come from a family of hoarders and unfortunately both Rosie and I inherited the hording gene.
Rosie’s boxes are all sealed with brown parcel tape. Luckily Mom labeled them so I can ignore the ones not containing clothes. Even so, that still leaves about ten for me to look through.
Trembling slightly, from excitement or anxiety I’m not exactly sure, I pull one toward me and begin to carefully pull back the tape. Suddenly I’m hit by a pang of guilt, and I freeze. Should I leave Rosie’s things alone? Mom put them here out of the way for a reason. If she’d wanted me to go through them she’d have said, wouldn’t she? Unless she was so upset at the time she didn’t think to say anything. She packed up all Rosie’s things only a couple of weeks after the accident. It bothered me at the time, it was as if Mom wanted to put Rosie in a box too. So we didn’t keep bumping into her, if you get what I mean. I wanted to say something, but couldn’t bring myself to. Then other events took over and Rosie’s clothes were the last thing on my mind.
If only Rosie could give me a sign. Let me know it’s okay. Maybe the fact Lori gave me the invitation is the sign. Because Rosie knows I’d straightaway come to look at her clothes. Yes, that’s definitely it.
I give the tape one more gentle pull and as the top begins to part the smell of Rosie hits me and I reel backward, scraping my arm down a treadmill keep fit machine Mom bought, and is determined not to give away because she will definitely use it one day, and landing awkwardly on the floor.
My head pounds and I close my eyes. Images of Rosie dance before me. Rosie as a girl, Miss Perfect I remember Dad calling her. Clothes always immaculate, food never daring attach itself to her cheeks, and nothing but a smile on her face. And she didn’t change as she got older. Teenage tantrums weren’t for her—though I more than made up for that. Whenever I’d done one of my famous stomps up the stairs declaring my hatred for everyone, she’d knock on my door, come in and placate me—not that I’ve had a tantrum since I was about fourteen. Well, maybe only the odd one every now and again, when it was something I felt strongly about—like the time Mom and Dad refused to let me go to an all night party held in an old warehouse one New Years Eve.
I clasp my legs and lean forward, resting my head on my knees. Why? What did she ever do—
“Suzy?” My head jerks upward at the sound of Mom’s voice. I must have been in here longer than I thought, she said she wouldn’t be home until after five.
“Over here. At the back” I stretch out my legs in front of me.
“What are you doing?” She sounds cross. A shiver runs down my spine. I can’t face an ear-bashing. Not now. Maybe I should pretend I was doing something else—what exactly I don’t know. Except she’ll see the open box. Unless I can quickly push it to one side before she gets here. I glance across at the box and notice all the other boxes are out of place.
“Suzy. Answer me.”
I guess I better tell the truth. Before she starts accusing me of all sorts. Maybe I’m being a bit melodramatic. She trusts me now. At least I think she does.
“Looking through Rosie’s clothes, but—” My words are lost as suddenly a huge lump forms in my throat and all that comes out is a strange choking noise.
From behind me I hear her scrambling over the boxes. When she gets here she drops down and squeezes in next to me. “Suzy, are you okay? Is it Rosie?”
I nod slowly and she wraps me in her arms.
“Mom. Why?” I say my voice all muffled as I bury my head.
“I don’t know love,” she says quietly over the top of my head.
I can feel her shoulders gently bobbing up and down and I know she’s crying. Which sets me off. We stay like this for ages, neither speaking, both absorbed in our own thoughts. Suddenly Mom gently eases me away and she pulls out a couple of tissues from up her sleeve and wipes my eyes with one then her own eyes with the other.
“Thanks,” I say sniffing. “I better put this box back.” I lean over and bring the tape back across the box and start to push it along the floor to where the others are.
“Wait,” Mom says. “What made you want to look at Rosie’s clothes?”
“I wanted something to wear for Lori’s parents’ silver wedding party. I thought Rosie might have something I could borrow. But I think I’ll just buy something, if that’s okay with you.”
“You can do either, love. If Rosie was with us now she’d let you borrow whatever you wanted.” The wistful tone in her voice set me off again and tears spill furiously down my cheeks.
“I know,” I say between sobs. “She was so perfect wasn’t she?” Mom frowns and opens her mouth as if to speak then changes her mind. “What?” I pause for a moment waiting for her to reply but she remains silent. “Mom? What were you going to say?”
“Suzy. As much as I love your sister with all my heart and nothing or no-one could ever replace her. She did have faults. She wasn’t perfect. She was human.” She reaches out and rests her hand on my arm.
“No.” I shake my head. “She was perfect. Dad used to say so. Miss Perfect was what everyone called her, including you.” I don’t get it. Why would she say that about Rosie?
“That was a nickname Suzy, something your dad said in fun when she was a tiny girl. No-one is perfect. Everyone has some failings. Remember the time Dad caught her smoking in the shed at the bottom of the garden?” I shake my head. I’ve never heard that story. “Well he did. And the night she came home drunk and threw up over Dad’s roses?” Well, I do remember that. It was so funny. Dad got really cross. I don’t know why, he could have started a whole new craze with vomit smelling roses. You could send them to people you hate.
“Come on,” she continues. “Let’s get a cup of tea. We can look at the dresses later.” Oh yes, a cup of tea. The answer to everything. Well, it is in our household. Personally it’s times like these when a stiff drink would be of more use. Except bearing in mind my past behavior I don’t think suggesting that would go down too well. Plus Mom and Dad don’t drink, if you don’t count the odd beer and sherry at Christmas.
Mom pulls me up and keeps hold of my hand while we make our way back to the kitchen—which is a mission in itself as it makes it even harder to balance.
My mind’s a mass of thoughts. Rosie was perfect. I don’t care what Mom says. And I know that deep down she believes it as much as I do. And those silly smoking and drinking incidents are so trivial they don’t count.