Rosie Coloured Glasses

“Check it out, noodle,” Rosie said as she unfolded the mirror from the sun visor in front of Willow.

Willow looked at herself in that tiny mirror. She knew she looked so much like her mother with those bright red lips. Willow smiled a big, big smile as she hopped out of the car with only the tiniest stumble and walked toward the building door.

“Wait!” Rosie hollered after Willow as she marched away. “You forgot something.”

Rosie tossed the stick of lipstick through the passenger side window and right into her daughter’s hands.

“It’s all yours.”

And just like that, red lipstick was added to Willow’s permanent outfit.

“Oh! Willow. One more thing!”

Willow stumbled again when she turned back around toward her mother. You would have never guessed that Willow was feeling more confident than ever in her new red lips, the way she turned around with her knees and ankles wobbling.

Rosie held up her pointer finger and curled it back toward herself three times as she raised her left eyebrow. Willow smiled, ran up to the car and stuck her little head and big hair through the window.

“Yeah?” Willow asked.

And then Rosie leaned over and pressed a big kiss into Willow’s cheek. And she shook her head all around as she did it. It left a big blob of red on Willow’s cheek that Willow didn’t even consider wiping away.

There was a moment of quiet love as Willow and Rosie looked straight at each other. But then Willow snatched it up.

“Hey, Mom. Can I ask you something?” She was looking right into Rosie’s brown eyes. Right down into her full heart.

“Did you leave those Pixy Stix for me on the school bus from Dad’s?”

Rosie tilted her head to the side and scrunched her eyebrows.

“Hmm. I’m not sure about that, noodle. What do you mean?”

Willow smirked. It was so like her mom to pretend like it wasn’t her.

Willow turned around and walked into the building feeling a second wave of her mother’s love. But ignoring the sincerity of her mother’s confusion about those Pixy Stix.

* * *

Willow Thorpe had gotten a lot of things privately wrong about her mother. Her father too. As parents and as people. And Willow got a lot of things wrong about the ways in which her parents showed their love. But of all the things that Willow got wrong about her parents and about love, Willow’s assumption that those two Pixy Stix were another one of her mother’s displays of the right kind of love would turn out to be the most detrimental.

* * *

That next night at her mother’s house, Willow and Asher helped Rosie prepare for Spaghetti Sunday. Asher shoved his hands into a bowl and squeezed and smashed plump red tomatoes until he couldn’t squeeze or smash anymore. And then he thrust the bowl at Rosie and said, “Hewe’s youw tomato guts!” through his toothless smile. As Willow stirred the bubbling pot of tomato sauce, the house filled with the aroma of garlic. And as soon as Mom got her hands on the record player, the house filled with sounds of Elton John too.

Rosie danced around as she set the table, and then served big piles of pasta and tomato sauce on her children’s plates. Rosie hadn’t yet finished chewing her first bite of dinner when Asher announced to the table that he had something to say. Rosie put her fork and knife down and urged Willow to do the same so that they could listen properly to Asher.

Asher stood up, pushed his chair in and swallowed.

“I don’t weally like the colow of my woom,” he said nervously, wobbling over each mispronounced word.

“What?” Rosie yelled quickly as she slammed her fists down onto the dinner table. She slammed them so hard that their glasses shook and the soda in them fizzled. Willow thought for a moment that her mother might be mad. She had never seen her mad before.

“That is a terrible thing!” Rosie continued, fists still clenched in tight balls next to her bowl of pasta. Rosie paused for a moment as if she was contemplating the best and quickest way to indulge her son.

“We have to fix this right away.”

Another pause.

“Willow, Asher. Shoes on. We’re going to the store.”

And both Willow and Asher quickly, and excitedly, obeyed. Willow twisted her feet into her high-top Converse sneakers and then helped Asher tie his light-up shoes, bunny-ear style. And then Rosie whisked her children into the car and drove, windows down, Prince blasting, straight to the paint store.

She guided Asher quickly down the aisles by his hand as Willow jogged and stumbled behind them. And then Rosie stopped in front of a giant wall of every color paint in every size bucket.

“All right, sweetie. Up to you. What color do you like?” Rosie said to her son so earnestly.

Asher’s eyes stretched all the way up to his hairline and his jaw fell all the way down to his belly button. And then his lips tightened as his nose crinkled.

“I have an idea,” he said firmly.

It was rare that Asher found a sentence without an R to fumble over. It gave his words a certain un-Asher-like seriousness.

“What if we get a lot of diffewent kinds of colows and put ouw hands in thum, and then put that on the walls?”

And just like that, Asher was back to Asher. And Rosie was ecstatic at the idea.

“Yes!” she cheered. “Let’s do it! Pick out all of your favorite colors. This is going to look fabulous!”

It was only natural that Rosie said yes so passionately. So openly. Because the list of things that Rosie said yes to was infinite. It was infinite on top of infinite. And whenever Willow or Asher wanted to have something or wanted to do something, their mother said yes and piled another thing right on top of it. Yes, you can play. And I want to play too. Yes, you can have candy. Have you ever put a Rolo inside of a marshmallow? Yes, you can have ice cream. Do you think it would taste as good with Swedish Fish and cookie dough on top? And, tonight, yes, you can paint your room. And you can do it all different crazy colors.

She kissed Asher on the cheek. Hard. Hard enough to make his lips look like a fish. And then Asher ran up to the paint chips and started pointing.

After only a few minutes of Asher running and pointing and comparing colors, Rosie, Willow and Asher were walking out of the store with five new buckets of paint.

When they got back to the house, Rosie tossed Willow and Asher some old T-shirts she had in her closet so they wouldn’t ruin their clothes. The T-shirts smelled like Dad. And everyone noticed, but no one said a thing about it. They just walked over to Asher’s room and pushed his solar-system themed rug into the closet and spread newspapers across the floor. And then, the paint cans were opened and Prince’s “1999” came on full blast.

All three of them stood on opposite sides of the room, shirts rolled up to their elbows, and prepared for their fun.

Rosie dived in first, but it wasn’t even a full second before Willow and Asher had their arms elbows deep in paint too. At first, Willow and Asher were deliberate with each stroke of the paintbrush. Each handprint on the wall. Each little detail by the doorway. But they changed their style as soon as they noticed the way their mother had slipped right into creativity. The way she twirled around the room. The way she fanned her brushes causing the spray of paint to add a gentle dusting to the wall. The way she threw handfuls of paint at the wall, creating bursts of color. She did it so effortlessly. And the walls looked so good. And soon Willow and Asher were following Rosie’s lead in ignoring boundaries. In accessing an internal kind of freedom. In living fully and blindly immersed in the things you love. In doing the crazy things that made you happy even if they were temporary. And in this moment, dancing and singing with paint on their hands and faces, it could not have been more apparent just how wonderful all of those feelings were.

And once the walls were covered, everyone signed their name in their favorite color paint and lay down in the middle of the paint-colored floor. It was the kind of tired that only happened after an hour of laughing and dancing. It was the kind of tired that hit your bones all at once. It was the kind of tired that allowed you to keep smiling even though your eyelids were getting heavy.

As the three of them lay there quietly on their backs, the track changed to “Purple Rain.”

Willow wasn’t used to hearing slow songs from Prince. She was used to the kind of Prince song that begged you to dance all around or sing at the top of your lungs in the car with the windows down. But she welcomed the restrained drumming and intermittent cymbal chime. She imagined what purple rain might actually look like. The sky dripping with little beads of her favorite color. Nothing in the world scared Willow more than a thunderstorm with its whipping wind and relentless rain and sharp cracks of lightning, but a purple one might be okay.

And then, just when Willow and Asher thought the night was winding down, Rosie broke the silence with an offer of ice cream and a wink on the way downstairs to get some.

In no time at all, Willow, Asher and their mother were huddled together in Rosie’s bed, scooping Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food with every topping in the pantry straight from the container. And then Rosie put on The Twilight Zone episode she had recorded and her children sank into her.

9

Twelve Years Ago

Rex impressed Rosie that fall in Manhattan. He did it with his firmness. Because in every interaction, big or small, meaningful or trite, Rex was firm. And Rosie admired his commitment to it.

Rex was stubborn and he grumbled and stomped his feet even when he just meant to walk. And he was easily agitated. By a taxi driver taking a questionably efficient route or someone blocking the entrance of the subway. By the checkout lady at the grocery store taking more than one try to slide a quarter out of the register. By long lines and oversalted soup. And whenever Rex was agitated, he made it known. He would huff and tap his foot and tense his shoulders. He would chomp down on his Bubblicious gum so hard his temples flared. He would jut his lower jaw out to expose his crooked bottom teeth. And although all of these things were unpleasant, Rosie loved how people responded to Rex. She loved that baristas made his coffee with exactly the right amount of milk. That barbers never left a piece of hair out of line. That waiters never made him wait too long for his dinner. That Rex got everything he wanted from his world by the force of his will. Rosie admired his high expectations for his world and those around him. She liked how he pressed firmly through the day. She liked that if you were on Rex’s side, mountains would be moved for you.

Rex emitted strength and Rosie liked nuzzling up next to it. She was flattered at the idea that someone like Rex might want to take care of someone like her. But most of all, she liked being taken care of.

She felt a change within herself. She had never found stability interesting before. She used to pick up books and put them down. Eat a few bites of a sandwich, and then forget about it. Talk briefly and intimately with a stranger she knew she would never see again. She took up odd jobs, and then quit them without warning.

But with Rex, she craved his steady presence. She felt a visceral urge to pull him in so close and never let go. She loved the feeling of safety when Rex was around. She loved his strong back and arms. His tough eyes that turned so loving when they got into bed. Not all women, not all people, could put up with Rex, but Rosie liked that she was strong enough, perhaps even aloof enough, to handle this caliber of man.

By Rosie’s definition of love, she loved Rex very much. And while she desperately hoped she could stay still enough to find a great, enduring love with this man, she knew in her bones that it could never be. She knew in her bones that one day she would want to twirl her way into a whole new orbit. That this love was most likely the transient kind.

She wondered, but doubted, if Rex would be willing to come on her life’s adventures with her. She wondered what she might say or do to try to convince him.

For now, however, Rosie would sink into her love with a man who was the opposite of everything she was.

* * *

Rosie entranced Rex that fall in Manhattan. She did it with her funkiness. Because in every interaction, big or small, meaningful or trite, Rosie was funky. And Rex admired the magic in that.

Rosie never matched her socks or cleaned the windows in her apartment. She ate pizza for breakfast and fell asleep in the middle of movies. She would casually put on a white T-shirt but cut off the sleeves or bedazzle the cuff before leaving the apartment. She refused to set an alarm, or the microwave timer, or the volume on the television to an even number. She was distracted by graffiti and never exited a subway car without saying goodbye to the person standing next to her. She waved and smiled as she did so even if they hadn’t exchanged a single word or glance.

Rosie had a simple laugh and she was quick to it. She never wanted to make anyone work too hard for it. She always had a dozen things in her bag she would have trouble keeping track of. And she would dig through her tote for her wallet to no avail to find her sunglasses already on her head, a pen already in her mouth, or the book tucked precariously under her arm.

And although all of these things might seem bizarre to Rex, he loved how everything dazzled when Rosie was around. He loved the way that sullen man in the subway car would smile as the doors closed on Rosie’s waving hand. How she’d share a park bench with a homeless man without hesitation. How an old piece of chocolate dug up from the bottom of her purse still tasted delicious.

Rex enjoyed getting into the crannies of the world with Rosie. He liked the sensation that the air was clearer and the sun was warmer when Rosie was near him. He felt a change within himself. He spent so much time glossing things up—his shoes, his résumé, his apartment—that he didn’t know until he met Rosie that things could be so beautiful, so raw. He felt overwhelmed with desire to see things through Rosie’s eyes. To explore all the tiny, forgotten corners of the universe with her next to him. Guiding him.

He loved the feeling of ease when Rosie was close by. The feeling that the next adventure, the next thing of beauty, was right around the corner.

Not all men, not all people, could put up with Rosie, but Rex liked that he was curious enough, perhaps even aloof enough, to handle this peculiar type of woman.

By Rex’s definition of love, he loved Rosie very much. And while he desperately hoped he could remain engaged enough to find an all-encompassing, enduring love with this woman, he knew in his heart that it could never be. He knew in his heart that, one day, he would want to be still again. That this love was mortal.

He wondered, but doubted, if Rosie would ever sit calmly next to him in bed on a Sunday morning. He wondered what he might have to say or do to stay true to himself.

For now, however, Rex would sink into this love with a woman who was the opposite of everything he was.

10

Willow found it peculiar when she came home from school and found her father in jeans and a T-shirt waiting on the front steps. He was usually locked away in his office with all of his buttons still buttoned and his tie still tied at his neck.

There were two brand-new bikes leaning next to Rex on the front steps. Asher hopped on the silver-and-blue bike immediately and zoomed away on his new toy, training wheels included. Willow assumed that the purple one was intended for her, but was unnerved to see that it didn’t have any training wheels.

“Hop on, Willow,” Rex said. “Want me to teach you how to ride this thing?”

Dad always asked questions that had an answer he wanted and an answer he didn’t want. Are your teeth brushed? Are the dishes clean? Did you finish your homework? But Willow found herself delighted that Dad wanted her to say yes to this. She was happy to spend some time together. She was happy her father wanted to spend some time together too. She was happy that she would be a girl who learned how to ride a bike from her father. She was happy that she would be a girl with a father who taught her how to ride a bike.

She was happy at the vision of her future self, zipping down the street on that purple bike.

She wondered how long it would take to bike to Mom’s.

“Sure,” Willow responded shakily to her dad.

Rex held up a helmet and some knee pads and wrist guards. And Willow put them on and pulled the Velcro extra tight on each piece of protective gear. She saved the helmet for last, but her hands were too encumbered by the plastic protrusions of the wrist guards to properly pull the chin strap. She tried a few times, wrist guard clicking against the base of the helmet until Rex noticed what was happening and gave a hearty chuckle.

A chuckle.

Willow smiled sweetly at the sound of that rare noise escaping her father’s mouth. And then she felt her heart speed up and her cheeks tingle as her father bent down in front of her and pulled on her chin strap until her helmet was just the right amount of tight. It was the closest her father’s face had ever been to hers as Willow could remember it.

Willow loved how her father looked when she was up close. His skin was tan and smooth and his eyebrows were unruly and excited. Willow had noticed the creases between his eyebrows before, but the creases in his cheeks were new to her. Because while the eyebrow creases were undoubtedly a sign of how hard he was always thinking, the cheek creases must have been a sign that he used to smile. Perhaps even a lot. When Willow gazed down, she loved seeing how her father’s big hands tugged at her helmet strap, ensuring her safety. Caring about her.

Then, right before Rex pulled away, Willow and her father made eye contact. It lasted for only half a second, but it happened. And it made her heart speed up and her cheeks tingle even more.

Willow floated on top of her bicycle seat and felt ready to learn. And ready to be taught.

Her dad told her how to swing her left leg over just as the bike started moving. And then Rex did what dads are supposed to do. He told her to pedal, pedal, pedal. He told her to try again. And again. And again. He told her not to give up. Not to worry about falling. He told her he wouldn’t let go of the handlebars until she said she was ready. He was energized and encouraging. Willow’s heart was in her throat over the thought of crashing down onto the concrete, but she was having a version of fun. Because right there on the road outside of Dad’s house, something was happening. Something unlikely. Something unusual. Something meaningful. Something important. Something between Rex and Willow. Between father and daughter.

“Go over there and try pushing off the curb,” Rex suggested to Willow when she was so close to balancing herself.

And so she did. Willow gripped her handlebars, pushed off the curb and was suddenly in full motion. She felt the wind passing through her helmet. She felt the uneven surface of the street beneath her wheels. She felt fast and competent. And although she looked neither fast nor competent as she wobbled around on her seat with her arms rigid with fear, Willow also felt graceful and in control. And graceful and in control were brand-new feelings for Willow Thorpe. And she felt happy, so grateful that her father had drawn these feelings out of her.

“Dad! Dad! I’m doing it!” she shouted as loudly as she could with the air whipping by her. Willow picked her head up, looking forward to seeing her dad as excited as she was. Looking forward to him jumping up and down on the grass. She imagined him running over to give her a high five. Picking her up and swinging her around in circles. Kissing her on the face and telling her how proud he was.

But when her eyes found her father, he was staring down distractedly at his notepad and chomping down on a new piece of Bubblicious gum. Rex looked up to give his daughter a brief closed-mouth smile and a silent thumbs-up, and then he scribbled something on his notepad as he stormed back inside.

Willow rode her bike all around until she was alone in the dark and the trees were starting to creak in the wind. Then, when she was ready to go inside, she made sure to remove her wrist guards before attempting to take off her helmet by herself.

11

Eleven Years Ago

Rex was accustomed to elevators and doormen, and so he tensed up the first few times the stairs creaked as he climbed the flights to Rosie’s apartment. But it wasn’t long before he found the smell of musk by Rosie’s doorway profoundly alluring. The palpable dampness. The dusty crannies. The hum of the flickering light. The sticky crackle of the floor. Rex enjoyed his ability to access this kind of rawness when he was with Rosie. He was saving clean modern lines and well-dusted corners for another life.

After a year of dating, Rex already knew that the heart of all things beat more deeply when Rosie was around. Even her apartment vibrated. The walls were covered with annotated Polaroids and handwritten notes from friends. The refrigerator door was collaged with old ads featuring Cheryl Tiegs and Faye Dunaway. The walls were covered with posters of Elton John and Prince and Blondie. The corners of the couches had stuffing coming out the seams ineffectively covered by discolored pillows. There were markers and paintbrushes sprawled across the table. It was so clear to Rex that this was a place where art was made and drinks were spilled. It was a place where friends put their feet on the table, and no one bothered to replace old light bulbs. It was a place where people breathed and moved and talked and created. It was a place where people lived. And were happy. And he could see it in Rosie’s face that this was where she lived and was happy.

Rex took off his scarf, kissed Rosie gently, and then the two of them sank into her worn-in couch. They oriented themselves on the cushions as if they had been doing it just this way for years; Rex seated upright, shoes on, while Rosie placed her head in his lap and stretched her ankles over the arm of the sofa to let her clogs fall to the ground. This had already become Rex’s favorite part of the day, inhaling all of the scents of Rosie’s life—the flowery scent of the beautiful world around her lingering on the surface of her skin. It was no surprise to Rex that beautiful things clung onto Rosie and didn’t let go. It felt good being close to her. So good and so warm and so comfortable.

Rex wondered how he would eventually let go of all of the beautiful sweet things Rosie Collins was, but the thought quickly burrowed itself in the back of his mind when Rosie reached back and, without looking, wrapped her fingers one by one around Rex’s bicep and squeezed it enticingly.

Rex swept Rosie’s bangs away and traced his pointer around her temple, across her forehead and along the bridge of her nose. Rosie tried to follow his finger and giggled when she found herself cross-eyed as a result. Rex was a serious man and always assumed his girlfriend would be equally so, but Rosie’s quirky style of intimacy fulfilled him in a way he’d never thought possible.

* * *

And just as Rex was about to bend over and kiss Rosie, Rosie’s roommate Chloe burst out of her room, spewing on and on about the attractive man she’d locked eyes with at the café down the block, and ignoring Rex’s presence entirely. Rex did everything he could to keep from staring at Chloe’s nipples plainly visible through her sheer white shirt as she spoke. Rosie just half chuckled and shook her head as Chloe’s small breasts bounced up and down while she gesticulated her way through another mundane story.

And when Chloe finally exhaled, she lifted Rosie’s legs, wedged herself under her knees and pulled out a marijuana joint. Rex’s belly tensed at the sight of it.