Rosemary and Rue

Gillian was standing on the doorstep.

I hadn’t seen my little girl up close since she was two years old. She was just a shape through a telephoto lens, a figure that I took clandestine pictures of whenever I got to really feeling sorry for myself and used my old job skills to catch up with the daughter I’d lost. That didn’t matter. There are some people you know no matter how far apart you are.

She was taller than I was—just by a few inches, but still—with the coltish build of a girl who wasn’t quite done growing. She had her father’s thick, dark hair, with the slight curl I’d always loved, and his Italian complexion. Even her eyes were his. She didn’t look a thing like me, and I loved her all the more for that.

I must have made some sound of surprise, because she looked up and smiled. I would have given everything I had, and more, for that smile.

“Gilly?” I whispered.

Her smile grew. “Hi, Mom.”

“Gilly,” I repeated, like I was trying to convince myself. “You’re here.”

“I hope you don’t mind?” She bit her lip, smile dying as quickly as it came. “I got your address off one of the letters you sent to Dad. I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if I stopped by for a little while. Just to say Merry Christmas, and everything.”

“Mind? Why would I—no! I mean, no, I don’t mind a bit. You can stay just as long as you want.” The words were coming too fast, getting tangled around each other. I forced myself to slow down. “I mean, of course. Please, come in. Come in.”

Still smiling, she stepped past me into the living room. I closed the door, wanting to scream and laugh and cry and jump around. I settled for folding my hands behind my back, watching her avidly.

Gilly looked around the room, and frowned. “Mom? Are you okay?”

“What?” I followed her gaze to the couch and winced as I saw the mud and blood caked on the cushions. “Oh, that. Yeah, Gilly, I’m fine. I just got a little bit banged up at work and haven’t had a chance to call the dry cleaner, that’s all.” I hesitated. “Is it still Gilly? I mean, you’re a lot older now. Do you like Gillian better?”

She ignored my question, still studying the room. “At work? I thought you worked at a grocery store.”

“It can get pretty physical when you’re shifting crates in the stockroom.”

“Have you seen a doctor? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, honey, I’m sure.” I nonchalantly pulled my robe a little tighter, hiding the bruises around my neck. “It was just a little scrape that bled a lot.”

“Oh, okay,” she said, craning her neck to peer down the hallway. For a moment, I thought she sounded almost disappointed. “So, you live alone, right? Big place for just one person.”

“I got a good deal, and it’s rent-controlled. It’s just me and the cats. I like it that way. It’s peaceful.” I was lying, but I was hoping she couldn’t tell. I didn’t want to scare her away.

“Any close neighbors?”

“A few. I don’t really know them very well.” My shoulder was starting to throb. I tried massaging it with the palm of my hand. It didn’t help. “Can I get you anything? Milk? Coffee?” Do human teenagers even drink coffee? I didn’t know.

She shook her head, smile turning secretive. “That’s okay. I’ll eat soon. Can I see the rest of the apartment?”

“Sure, honey.” I started toward the hall, trying not to limp, and paused. Something wasn’t right. As much as I wanted this to be real, it wasn’t ringing true. “Gilly? Does your father know you’re here?”

“Oh, totally,” she said, looking toward to the kitchen. The cats had vanished, leaving their breakfast half eaten. That wasn’t a good sign. “He said I could come.”

“So he doesn’t mind spending Christmas without you?” Why was I finding that hard to believe? Oh, yeah. Because I’m not completely stupid.