Mom and I shared a look. Then she reached down and ruffled his hair.
Under the starry sky, gunpowder missiles flashed into giant Epcot spheres with sizzling spider legs. I felt the cannon explosions reverberate in my chest cavity. As I looked at my mother and brother bathed in white light, I thought I understood what the psychic meant.
TWENTY-THREE
THE NEXT MORNING, I GOT UP EARLY TO HELP MOM CLEAN THE CAFé. IT wouldn’t solve the problems she faced, but I hoped it would at least ease her workload. It also gave me time to consider my options. I knew Rose would be at Hilltop at noon, but I couldn’t wait that long. I’d been lying in bed since before dawn rehearsing my apology. I couldn’t show up at the nursing home and apologize in front of everyone though—what if she didn’t accept my apology? Stormed off? Wasn’t there? What if I made things worse? They all seemed realistic, if not likely, possibilities.
No, if I wanted to apologize to Rose it would have to be somewhere private.
In the café kitchen, Mom sang to herself while washing vegetables. The doors wouldn’t open to the public for another hour. The aroma of dark, organic coffee brewing smelled tempting, but caffeine seemed like a bad idea. I didn’t need to end up chattering like a wind-up set of teeth.
Across from me, Grub drew a map. I leaned forward to take a look. He’d drawn a building next to a small battlefield. Little trees and bushes lined the field’s perimeter, and Xs had been circled at various locations, like a treasure map. A big dog that looked suspiciously like Agatha stood guard.
For a brief moment, I wished I were eight years old again, lost in my own imagination. No time for wishful thinking though; time for action. Waiting until the afternoon—even if I could get Rose away from the crowd at Hilltop—was out of the question. Showing up at Rose’s house without warning also seemed like a bad idea.
That left one option.
I burst through the kitchen door, making Mom jump like she’d been tased.
“Mom, can I use the phone? Real quick. One text.”
“Sure thing,” she replied, pulling it out of her back pocket. A gold corona of light shone around it as if she were unsheathing Excalibur.
Okay, not really. But I’d gone over a month without using it for the most part, as “just a week or two” had turned into “indefinitely.”
Before handing it to me, she said, “I want you to know how much I appreciate you loaning me this. It’s been a lifesaver. Thank you.”
Part of me wanted to say, “What choice did I have?” The other part knew better.
“No problem,” I said. Truthfully, it had been liberating to be phoneless. After the post-phonum depression and phantom-limb feeling went away, it hadn’t been a big deal at all.
I returned to the booth and scrolled through my contact list until I came to Rose Santos. I stared at the number with trepidation before opening a text message. The cursor blinked back at me, daring me to type. I began a message, then deleted it. Another, deleted it. A third, deleted it.
Stop it, I told myself. Just keep it simple.
I typed a message, shut my eyes, and hit send. I hovered over the phone for several minutes in anticipation, praying for a response. I’d typed: So sorry about the other day. Need to see you.
A minute passed by.
Another.
When the phone finally dinged I nearly fell out of the booth.
Need to see you too. :)
I breathed a sigh of relief. She needed to see me too, and had even added a smiley. Best. Smiley. Ever. I replied and told her to sit tight because I’d be there in twenty minutes.
I gave the phone back to Mom and asked her if I could have two triple chocolate brownies and two coffees to go. She smiled and said, “I see I’ve taught you well.” I bagged everything up, promised I’d be back for Grub soon, and headed out.
Before crossing the bridge, I stopped at home to grab one more last-minute item.
Nineteen minutes later, I stood in front of Rose’s door catching my breath. It felt like weeks had passed since we’d seen each other, even though it had only been two days. My heart pounded in my chest as if trying to escape. I breathed deeply to compose myself. I knocked. A moment later the door opened and Rose stood before me.
I launched into an incoherent monologue like a pull-string doll with a faulty speech setting. While I’m pretty sure I blacked out for most of it, I think it went something like: “Rose I’m so sorry about the other day I was a total jerk I can’t believe I said those things to you I should have been more understanding of your situation I’m sorry you didn’t get into the school and I’m sorry I didn’t pay attention to you at the Open Mic I just had to make new friends because I thought you’d be leaving at the end of the summer and I need to have some friends after you’re gone I’m so sorry I’m a jerk I understand if you never want to see me again but I just had to apologize I brought you a present.”
I held out the box containing the two brownies and the tray with the coffees. “I’m sorry,” I said again.
Rose took the peace offering. “I’m sorry, too,” she said softly.
“You are? Thanks.” I wondered if thanking her for a mutual apology was weird.
We stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment.
“What is it?” she asked, peeking inside the box.
“It’s a brownie,” I said, experiencing intense déjà vu.
Rose’s mouth hinted at a smile. “Turn That Frownie Upside Brownie?”
“That’s the one,” I replied. “And cold coffee. Sorry it’s only half-full, the rest of it is on the sidewalk between here and downtown.”
“It’s okay, I’ll go lick it up later.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be, the dirt adds flavor and texture.”
I grinned, then shoved my hands in my pockets. “About the other day, I mean. I can’t believe I said those things to you, Rose. I was totally inconsiderate. Can you forgive me?”
“It’s okay, I was really emotional. I shouldn’t have told you to leave.”
We stood in the doorway. My eyes darted around, trying to find anything to settle on. I don’t think either of us had prepared for what to say next. Rose finally broke the silence. “Come on in.”
Relief—decidedly the best of all feelings—flowed through my veins. I could breathe again; think again.
Inside, Rose sat on a couch and I on a wooden chair.
I noticed a stack of library books on the coffee table between us. I read the titles: Museums of New York City; So Now You Live in NYC, What Next?; From Cave Paintings to Modernism: Art History; The Impressionists; and on top, Sacré Bleu: A Comedy d’Art.
“Have you read all of those?” I asked, pointing to the stack.
Rose looked at the books the way one might consider a pair of dirty underwear. “Not yet,” she said. “I started to, you know, before I found out . . .”
. . . that you’re not going to New York City, my brain finished her sentence.
“You were really looking forward to going, weren’t you?” I said.
She nodded.