Rose

This story is part of my short stories that will someday all fit together. This is the first in the series. Buzzard Bend comes next. I believe Joan is the next in line and then Dirty Laundry.

Rose

 

 

My name is Rose. I was born in San Francisco.

I live in Rockaway Beach, a small town outside of the city.

I was ten years old when my parents moved me further north to Buzzard Bend, Northern California.

 

Why my parents thought it would be a good idea to move, I will never understand. I was getting ready to finish the fourth grade and looking forward to an exciting summer with my best friend Matilda. We had been friends for as long as I could remember and she was as close to a sister as I would ever have.

Mother said she was not having anymore children, since I was almost the death of her.

I never really understood, but I felt bad about it nonetheless.

Father tried to make me feel better about it by saying, “Rose, you were a blessing from the heavens and don’t you ever forget it. You insisted on coming into this world rear end first.”

 

School was getting ready to end and summer was in the air, Matilda and I had been busy planning her 11th birthday party.

 

On this particular day I had returned home from school, excited to tell mother about the party plans that Matilda and I had made. I wanted to get her new roller skates to match mine.

 

Both of my parents were sitting at the kitchen table talking quietly when I entered.

Mother rose from her chair, straining to smile as she took my hand and said “honey come sit with me and daddy.”

 

Reluctantly, I followed her to the table and sat on my dads lap. He held me closely so I could smell his sweet aftershave. “Hey Rosey,” he said, “how would you like to go on an exciting adventure this summer?” This caught my attention, as my caution disappeared.  An adventure I thought. Disneyland, No, maybe Disney World! My mind was racing and I asked “where daddy?”

 

“Rose, your Father and Grandfather have purchased a business in Buzzard Bend, where Nana and Granddad live,” chirped Mother.

 

My heart was pounding and my mind was racing. Moving? “We can’t move!” I yelped. I have Matilda’s birthday party in three weeks, and I am going to start fifth grade this year! I’ve already signed up for dance and started girl scouts. I can’t move!

My parents must be teasing, I thought.

 

Pulling away from my father I ran to my room and threw myself onto my canopy bed.

I cried for what seemed like hours. Now curious I went to join my parents on our deck. The sun was setting and I could hear the Pacific Ocean waves hitting the rocks below our house. The wind chimes, a gift from my granddad on my 10^th birthday danced and sang in the evening breeze.

I would miss the time we spent on our back deck. Playing back in my mind the nights we played dominoes while daddy barbecued hot dogs and hamburgers. We spent a lot of time laughing and talking on that back deck. Mother would light the abalone shell candles when it started to get dark and we would stay out there until it got too cold.

 

I could hear the neighbor kids being called in for dinner and it made me sad to think about leaving this small town. Rockaway Beach was all I had ever known.

 

A lot of changes had happened this last year. Mother finally allowed me to walk to the library alone, or ride my bike to the five and dime. She even allowed me to walk with a group of kids to the skating rink on Sunday afternoons. I was getting some independence and now we were going to move, and she would take it away from me. Why she was always so afraid I would never understand.

 

The next morning Mother woke me, “Rose, honey wake up.” She started singing that silly Mocking bird song she had sung to me as a baby. “Mom, I am too old for that” I snapped.  Stepping back, hands on her hips, in a sing song voice said “Alright, Ms. Rose, get up and come get some boxes, you are going to start packing your room today.”

 

Oh no! I thought. It’s real, we are moving! Groaning, I rolled from the bed onto the floor crumpling as if my bones had been removed. Rolling her eyes and spinning on one foot mother glided out of my room. “Five minutes Rose,” Mother demanded.

 

I looked around my room. My ruffled canopy bed, pink flowered flip-top record player and white vanity covered in pink hearts all look childish to me as I grabbed my ballet barre and pulled myself up. Father had installed the barre for me when I was 6 and it was my prized possession. I thought to myself, “I am not leaving without this barre!”

 

My old doll house had belonged to my mother when she was a girl, and seemed silly now. I would ask mother to give it to my cousin Abbey, who was 6. I was just too old for dolls now.

 

Father poked his head into my room and announced, “Handy man Joe at your service.” He was always the steady; level headed one in our family. Mother and I were aloof and flighty.

As if he knew what I had been thinking he pointed to his bright red toolbox in his hand and calmly started to disassemble my dance barre. “Thank you Daddy,” was all I could manage without crying. He winked at me and went back to work.

 

 I walked into the studio where Mother was working; she never looked up, just kept sorting through her jars of paint. I stood and watched her. She was average height with long graceful legs of a dancer. Daddy said she had the best legs in San Francisco, which always made her blush. Mothers left leg and hip had been severely broken 8 years ago in a terrible car accident and she still walked with a slight limp. Her slender arms were toned and graceful. Mother kept her hair long, but always wrapped up in a bun covered with a colorful scarf, like a gypsy. She was probably the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. People fussed over her wherever she went. Even in her casual old blue jean cut-offs and bare feet, she was spectacular.

 

I stood silently, looking at myself in the long mirror that ran the entire length of the studio. I was too tall for my age. My arms and legs were thin. I had big feet and wore glasses. My long hair was mousy brown and it was always in the way. Mother had started me dancing at a very young age, hoping it would help with my clumsiness. My feet always seemed to be in the way. Nana said I was the spitting image of my mother when she was young.

 

The spacious studio overlooked waves crashing on the rocks below. I can’t believe she would give this up. Her studio was an exciting place to be. There were different sized canvases expertly painted, jars of paint, brushes, easels, clay and tables filling the room. Her large kiln was in the corner next to her pottery wheel. Mother was a well rounded artist. Everything she did was beautiful. Sadly, the one thing that she loved most was taken away after the accident. Mother was a trained dancer. She had danced around the world, charming audiences and in the end mesmerizing daddy while she was performing in Berlin.

 

Mother was graceful and could be very charming; she had no idea of the effect she had on people. She could be aloof and distant too. This was when she produced her most beautiful work.

 

After the accident she would spend all day in her studio, not seeing anyone but Daddy and me.

 

I think the art was a consolation to what she loved most. Even tough her work was colorful and bright, it had sadness to it.

 

Mother turned and saw me staring at her, flashing me her bright smile she handed me a large box with several smaller boxes inside. Silently she went back to sorting her brushes.

 

Author's Note

I am in the process of doing some rewriting. It needs a lot of editing but I have lost my helper. I am very new to writing and love the process. These short stories just rolled out of my head one day and I can't stop!