Chapter 48 Rosalie
Chapter 48
Rosalie
Rosalie’s drifting through the farmers’ market in a daze, checking and rechecking her phone for the time. There’s no sense in rushing. They said her mother would be in recovery for a while. Jean-Paul’s up ahead, testing the firmness of the squash and avocados, but she hangs back, not really in the mood to squeeze vegetables. What would she do without her mother? The question kept her up late into the night, sleep a futile effort with her mother’s room empty across the hall. She hadn’t expected to feel such loneliness, but there she was, back in their Chicago apartment, waiting for Cassidy to wake up from a drunken slumber. She’d been alone (and afraid) for some time.
And now she has a name. A face. A living, breathing human being with her DNA.
Jean-Paul finds her sulking by the fresh flowers. Her head feels so foggy that the bright petals and stems blur together.
“Let’s grab a bunch for your mom,” Jean-Paul says.
Jean-Paul is always so nice to her. She isn’t sure why. Not when she’s grumpy and standoffish and pissed at the world. But lately, she hasn’t been feeling that way. In fact, she feels a change, a subtle shift, as though her steps are lighter. Something about Vis Ta Vie softened her. Maybe the bright surroundings and pale hues have reached inside her. Or maybe it’s something else. Henry said they are all made of stars, and despite worrying about her mom, she’s beginning to feel a tiny glow.
Jean-Paul pays for the flowers, and Rosalie offers him the emergency twenty in her pocket. She may be the youngest one at the table, but she’s not an idiot. She heard how the De La Rues lost a lot of money to Henry’s father. This is why, when she gave up on sleep, she researched Michael Wall on the internet, browsing through pages of his offenses, apologies, and later his incarceration. Rosalie doesn’t know anyone who’s gone to jail, but she suspects—well, she knows—that Henry’s embarrassed to be related to someone so awful. She understands. They’ve both lost parents in some regard. And she shakes the negativity from her head because she has this idea that doing so will prevent her mother from dying. Positive thoughts.
After researching Michael Wall, she did what she told herself she wouldn’t: she googled brain injuries. And what she read terrified her. Sure, her relationship with her mother is tenuous, but she doesn’t want her dead. And if she does live, what if she wakes up a different person? What if she doesn’t remember Rosalie and their life together? The possibilities are terrifying.
“Put your money away, Rosie.”
She’d forgotten she was holding the bill in her hand, and she stuffs it in her pocket.
“Only my closest friends call me that.”
“Haven’t we become friends?”
She looks up at him. “Do you always do this ... Are you always this nice to guests?”
He laughs. It’s a deep laugh, and she wonders what it would have been like to grow up at the inn with people like him and Renée, Jean-Paul’s happy laugh dancing through her ears. She likes that about him.
“I wouldn’t call punching Henry nice.”
She can’t stop what comes out of her mouth next. “Why didn’t you and Renée have kids, Jean-Paul?”
“Ah, the million-dollar question, Rosie.”
“Is that a terrible thing to ask?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes the question makes people sad.” And then he adds, “But asking questions is good. It shows you’re curious about people. Too many people only talk about themselves.” He runs a free hand along his beard and shakes his head.
She thinks about her own recent search and the way Henry described family, like planets floating around the sun. She wants the entire sky and all the stars. “I just think you would’ve been great parents.” She feels the blush crawl up her cheeks when she says it.
“That’s nice of you to say, Rosie.” He knocks into her. “I think this makes us officially good friends.”
The woman at the flower stand hands Rosalie ranunculus wrapped in brown paper and a raffia ribbon, and Jean-Paul hoists the bags of fruits and vegetables. It begins to drizzle as they walk to the car, and Rosalie raises her head up to the sky to let the cool liquid tap her cheeks.
“Not everyone is meant to be a parent ... to have children.” His lips press together in a tight line.
“Does that make you sad?”
“For some, it’s a personal choice.”
“Was that yours?”
He nods. But she doesn’t believe him.
“Our guests become our children. And their children too. What we do requires tremendous responsibility. It’s a mere week, but they entrust themselves to us.” He unlocks the car, and Rosalie settles in the passenger seat, the flowers on her lap. They’re pale pink. Her mother will hate them. She likes bright hues, jewel tones.
She watches his hands maneuver the steering wheel, and he catches her staring. “You must have your learner’s permit by now, right? You’re fifteen.”
She slinks back into the seat. “I have my permit, but I don’t get a lot of practice.”
Outside the window, the pastures and farmhouses fall away, and Jean-Paul says, “I’ll tell you what, if you’re feeling up to it ... and your mom’s okay ... I’ll take you for a lesson.”
She brightens. The offer makes her weepy. And the words spill out.
“Jean-Paul, I found my father.”
She wishes he’d say something, but he doesn’t. In the last few days, she’s begun to read his expressions. He’s thinking. Intently. So unlike Cassidy. But she again banishes the negativity and bad karma. Luke Combs plays softly on the radio, and Jean-Paul tightens his grip on the wheel, waiting for her to continue.
“I made contact. Through one of those ancestry sites.” She pauses, picking at a nail. It felt good to say it. “Cassidy said it was a one-night stand, you know. I thought maybe I could find him.” Her voice trails off. “There he was: a 50.2 percent match.”
She studies his nose, the salt-and-pepper beard, when he replies, “Does your mother know about this?”
“Not yet. But my plan was to tell her this week.”
“That’s quite a bit of grown-up stuff to tackle alone.”
“I’m used to being alone.” She peers out the window. “And a grown-up.”
He finally asks, “Did you hear back from him?”
“Not yet.” And then: “But I’m patient.”
She’s caught between these two worlds—the one where she may gain a father, and another where she risks losing her mother. She’s holding on to both, unwilling to give up either.
“Cassidy and I ... we’ve just never seen eye to eye. But I’m scared, you know. What if he doesn’t want to know me? What if he doesn’t like me?”
They’re at a stop sign, the bright red blaring a message. He turns to her. “How could anyone not like you, Rosie?”
She doesn’t know how to respond, and she wants to say more, but she doesn’t trust herself. So she whispers, “Thank you,” but he can’t hear it over the song playing on the radio. “When she told me ... I was only ten ... I really didn’t understand ... one-night stand.”
“Tricky. But that means he never knew you. Because if he did—”
“What if this isn’t what he wants? What if he’s not interested in me?”
“What is it you’re looking for, Rosie?”
She sniffs at the flowers. “I don’t really know. I just feel displaced. Like there’s this missing piece.”
“Oh, Rosie. That’s what it means to be a teenager. Everyone has felt that way, even the ones who seem to have it all.” He continues, “You have to tell your mother. This isn’t something you can manage on your own.”
“I’ve done so many things on my own, Jean-Paul.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s right. Or that it should continue.”
And then she finally says it: “What if she dies? What if she doesn’t wake up?” And with each question, she feels her mouth go drier. “Or what if she wakes up and she’s someone else? I’ll have to tell him. I’ll have to do it on my own.”
“That’s not going to happen. Your mom is going to come out of this stronger than before, and you’ll talk to her. You can’t just show up on someone’s doorstep declaring you’re a long-lost child. That can be traumatic for someone your age. And for your father.”
But she’s not listening. They’re at the hospital, and everything he’s saying is wrong.