The Opposite of Love (8 page)

19

CHASE

Run!
Chase barrels toward Rose's house, wearing what he'd worn to bed—his flannel pajama bottoms and a mismatched sweatshirt.
Faster!
He barely feels the burn in his calves, quads, and chest, even though his legs have never pumped so hard. The streets of Simi Valley blur past. Cracked sidewalk lined with trees, and blocks and blocks of tract housing all melt together as if he's riding a motorcycle, maybe because of his speed or maybe because he's crying. He wipes his arm over his eyes, pumping faster.

His thoughts zip past, one after another, misfiring, ricocheting around his brain. Chase nearly skids to a stop in front of the Parsimmons' porch. Once there, though, sweaty and panting like a dog, Chase panics.

What's he gonna do now? It's the middle of the freaking night, somewhere between Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. Last thing he needs is Mr. Parsimmon coming after him with a shotgun or something. Shotgun. Maybe Rose
does
have access to a gun. Crap.

Chase edges around the back of the house, looking for Rose's window. He cups his hands around his eyes and presses them to the glass. Blackness. Double crap. He raps his knuckles against the glass softly.
Come on. Open the window
. No answer. Too bad he can't don a Santa suit and slide down the chimney.

He balls his fists and presses them against his temples.
Shit. Time for a judgment call.
If Rose isn't dead, now she'll hate him more than she already did. He makes his way back to the porch, gritting his teeth, and rings her doorbell. The
ding-dong
echoes through the house, loud. Loud enough to wake the neighbors. Then other sounds. Shifting, creaking, padding of feet, clicking of the screen door.

Mrs. Parsimmon peeks out, her hair standing up at all ends. Her eyes widen. She hesitates, looking around and taking in his whole appearance. Chase touches his hair. He must have a windblown, curly bed head of his own, and his eyes must be bloodshot from the crying. “You look a mess, young man.” She holds the screen door in front of her like a shield. Like she isn't sure if he'll attack her. “It's the middle of the night. Does your mother know where you are?”

“Rose,” he blurts out at first, like an idiot. “I've come about Rose. I think she's going to hurt herself. Maybe she already has.”

Shock registers in Mrs. Parsimmon's eyes. It lasts a good sixty seconds, while she ushers him into the house. She flings open Rose's bedroom door. The shock hardens, then crystallizes. Because the room's empty. Bed made, neat and smooth. Closet closed. Walls bare, but with tiny holes, as if she'd tacked things up with pushpins and then pulled them all out. Desk straightened. A pile of sketches stacked in the corner. Mrs. Parsimmon takes a deep, jagged breath in, like she's stepped in a pool of freezing water.

Chase stares at the room, trying to interpret this sick gut feeling, this intuition that floods his senses. The room doesn't have Rose's energy at all. It feels barren. Empty.
Dead.
No trace of her personality. He remembers the way Rose looked when he'd last seen her mother escorting her to school. Zombie-like, as if she'd retreated into herself. Man, is that how she's been for the last eight months? Like a shell?

He turns to Mrs. Parsimmon. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Mrs. Parsimmon's upper lip trembles—not in an about-to-cry way, but rather like she's about to combust. A fine line of sweat gathers along that upper lip. “Why do you care?” she accuses Chase sadly, but she doesn't wait for an answer. “I have been trying to get that child on the right path for the last eleven years.” She flings open the door to the closet. Half empty. “But she blocks me at every turn.” She sighs, long and deep. “Sometimes it feels so personal, like she's just looking for ways to hurt me. And what's this? Running off on Christmas? That's a royal slap in the face if I ever saw one.”

Chase tries to keep her focused. “Where do you think she'd have gone?”

“That child hasn't spoken a word to me since we pulled her out of school.”

“That was like eight months ago.” He hears panic in his own voice.

“Not a word. I have never seen anyone so stubborn.”

“She hasn't spoken for
eight months
?” In a weird
Twilight Zone
–like role reversal, Chase is the parent, and Mrs. Parsimmon the child. She even looks like a child, sitting there slumped on the bed all forlorn, as if she's being punished. “Are you
serious
?”

The sarcasm jolts Mrs. Parsimmon out of herself. “Don't you dare judge me! It's not like I didn't try to get her help! She spits any
help
back in my face!” she cries. Chase just stares back at her with even eyes. “You have no idea what I've gone through with that girl. What she's put us through. I know she makes us out to be jail wardens, but we have done our best. We've given her everything she could have ever wanted.”

Maybe she wanted more than things. Maybe she wanted to feel loved. Maybe I made her feel loved. But if so, why did she push me away?

Suddenly Mrs. Parsimmon seems to see the sketches on the desk for the first time. She reaches for them, holding them in trembling hands. Chase leans in to get a good look. The one on the top had been sketched entirely in pencil, but it is soft and detailed. Chase feels like he could almost step into the picture.

It appears to be a family portrait of some kind. A delicate-looking elementary-aged Rose sits in the middle of a strawberry patch, covered in strawberry juice or mud, or both—difficult to tell since there is no color. She holds in her hands an enormous basket of strawberries, almost bigger than her own head, and she appears to be giving it, offering it to younger, thinner versions of the Parsimmons.

What strikes Chase the most about the picture—besides how freakishly good it is—are the facial expressions. He sees in the Parsimmons' eyes something that looks like hope, and maybe affection, even. And on Rose's face, there's a joy, a pure joy he doesn't think he's ever seen before, like she's been caught up in the moment and just allowed herself to feel good.

“She looks so happy,” he whispers, thinking he's never seen her draw anything like this. It seems out of character, almost, and he wonders why she did it. Until he turns to look at Mrs. Parsimmon's crumbling face, and then he knows.
This is a gift.

Tears stream down Mrs. P.'s cheeks, and she adds, whispering too, “Here's the craziness of it all. Ninety-nine percent of the misery in her life is misery she's created for herself. Why does she only see what she's lost and not what she's gained?” Her voice solidifies, gathers strength, and now she's no longer whispering. “Let's face it—if we hadn't adopted her, she'd have wound up turning tricks on Hollywood Boulevard just like her mother.”

Chase's blood starts to sizzle. He needs to get out of there, get moving, before he says something he shouldn't. “Look, I've got to find her before she does something stupid. If she comes back here or if you think of where she might be, call me.” Chase gives Mrs. Parsimmon his cell number.

He leaves her sitting there on the bed, holding the picture in her hands and crying. Chase runs down the porch steps, not sure which direction to go. He looks around and up, seeing the mountains that hug the edge of the valley. On a whim he decides to jog past the nearest bus stop and, if she isn't there, to hit the train station. He dials Daniel's number as he runs. “What happened?” Becca picks up right away, breathless. She must have been holding the phone.

“She's gone. The room is all clean and empty. No note.”

“I should've gone over there months ago, Chase. I knew she wasn't okay. I just didn't want to deal with her parents.” Becca's voice breaks.

Chase doesn't say anything for a while. “I could have too. I let her push me away because I didn't want to deal with it.”

“Oh, come on, you two,” Daniel's voice butts in. “Get a grip. Rose is a tough girl. You both tried to connect and she didn't let you. So stop blaming yourselves and let's focus. At least you didn't find her hanging from a noose, right?”

“Thanks, Daniel. I really needed that mental image.” Chase stops running and leans over, his cell-phone-free hand on his knee. “And what are you doing anyway, listening over Becca's shoulder?”

“It was that or putting you on speakerphone. What's wrong with your voice? You're all out of breath.”

“No shit. I'm running.”

“Running where?”

“I'm going to hit the bus stops and train station. I still think she just took off. She wouldn't hurt herself. She would think killing herself was chicken shit.” Chase isn't sure if he's trying to convince them or himself. Every time he closes his eyes to blink, he sees that image of Rose in the strawberry patch and wonders if that was the last time she'd really felt happy. The thought scares him.

“I hope you're right.” Becca's voice again. “We'll come meet you. We can use Daniel's truck. It'll be faster than you running all over town.” Chase agrees. His legs are already feeling rubbery from the combination of running at high speed and the cold night air. He gives them directions and hangs up.

Once his lungs no longer feel like they're on fire, Chase begins running again, this time at a more reasonable speed. Picking the bus stop is a crap shoot, but Chase figures Rose won't be expecting anyone to be on to her so quickly. She probably sent her good-bye email moments before she left the house, thinking her friends wouldn't get the message until morning.

So in all likelihood, she would have picked the bus stop closest to her house. But are the buses even running in the middle of the night on Christmas morning? And what are the chances of him finding her in time?

20

ROSE

“Our five minutes in the coat closet are nice and all, but I'm ready for something more,” Rose whispered in Chase's ear, while Becca finished up a mini story-time with a circle of kids.

“My thoughts exactly,” Chase whispered back. “I have an idea.”

“Me too. Come over tonight. I'll sneak you through my window.” Rose looked at his tousled hair and his “Procrastinate Now” T-shirt that matched his eyes perfectly, and wanted nothing more than to have him waltz in like Prince Charming and rescue her from her life.

“Are you insane?”

“A little.” Rose sighed. “Look, Chase. I
like
you. More and more every day.”

Chase studied her, his eyes soft.

“If you come late enough, they'll be asleep.” Rose tried not to sound like she was pleading. “And if they catch me—I'm pretty much grounded from the world already. What else can they take from me?”

Chase scanned the room. “Come help me set up the art easel.” He led her outside, past the water table and tricycles. He busied himself unscrewing paint caps and clipping up oversized pieces of butcher paper. Finally, he brought his eyes to hers. “I like you too, Rose. I like you enough that I don't want to screw this up.”

“I won't let you. Just let me be in charge.”

Chase gave her a funny look. “I know your biggest goal in life is to be a rebel. To pay your parents back for whatever they've done to you—but I don't want a part of it. I want your parents to like me. Plus even if we were sitting in your room doing homework, I'd be scared shitless that they'd catch me there.”

Rose started to interrupt.

“Just listen for a sec.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “I
really
like you. I want to get to know you better, if you'll let me.”

“That's what I'm talking about. I want you to
know
me better.” She dipped her voice seductively and looped her arm around his neck. “Come over tonight.” Rose wasn't used to anyone turning her down.

“I'm not talking about sex. I'm talking about really getting to know who you are.”

“I don't let anybody know me that way.”

“That's what I thought.” Chase moved back and straightened the sand table. “But there's a first for everything. Remember when you took me to buy that gift for your mom? You'd never taken anyone with you before.” He waited while Rose nodded. “That went okay, right?” She nodded again. “So I've been thinking—maybe I could walk home with you and your mom today. Introduce myself.”

“You must be suicidal.” Rose got a strange feeling in her chest and throat, a tightening almost.

“No—just really into you,” Chase said under his breath.

That afternoon, Rose hung back as they walked home, leaving Chase and Mrs. P. to walk on ahead. Rose put on her headphones but turned the music low enough to be background noise. She wanted to be able to hear what they were saying.

“So where's your little hat?” Mrs. P. asked in a tone that sounded almost friendly.

“My what?”

“Your Yamaha.”

Chase put his hand to his head as if he'd forgotten what was up there. “Oh, you mean ‘yarmulke.' I'm not Jewish.”

Rose watched as Mrs. P. leaned away from Chase so that she could get a better look at him, far sighted as she was. It was fun to watch her struggle to change and rearrange her thoughts before they settled into concrete. Kind of like a game show. And for three hundred, can Hursula change an opinion? “Well, then what're you doing working at a Jewish day care?” She stage-voice whispered, “You gay?”

Rose smiled in spite of herself. She hung her head low so that her hair covered her face. Chase didn't answer at first. Then, “No. No, I'm not.” Chase's voice sounded tight. “I just like little kids.”
Thank god he knew enough not to say he liked me
.

Mrs. P. sucked her breath in loudly. “You
like
little kids? What exactly do you mean by that?” she asked in her you-might-be-a-pedophile-and-I'm-a-TV-show-cop kind of way.

Chase made a choking noise.

Serves you right, Rose thought, for walking and talking with the enemy.

“Nothing, ma'am,” he said. “I just like working with kids.”

“Well, then.” Mrs. P. brushed her hands together as if they were covered with chalk. “You from around here?”

“Born and raised. You might know my mother. She works at Salon Joli.”

Mrs. P. wrapped her button-down sweater tighter around herself. “I prefer Fantastic Sam's myself. They do a perfectly good job for half the price.”

Chase stared straight ahead. Rose watched his back stiffen. “So, uh, I think I had some of your coffee cake at the Boys and Girls Club Halloween dance in middle school,” Chase managed finally, turning his upper body slightly back as if he wanted to check in with Rose, but he never made eye contact.

“Bundt cake. Everyone thinks it's from a bakery, because I dust that powdered sugar over it just so.” Rose could see Mrs. P.'s whole body react, like a plant growing toward sunlight.
Damn, Chase is good
. “You've either got quite a memory, or that cake was better than I thought. I haven't baked anything for the Boys and Girls Club in a couple years.”

“Yeah, I stopped going in the seventh grade. I thought I was too cool, I guess.” Chase chuckled, but in a self-conscious kind of way. “I saw Rose there sometimes.”

If asking about her baking was like a beam of sunlight, mentioning Rose's name brought on a thick, gray thundercloud overhead. Mrs. P. turned back to eye Rose, scuffing her feet along the ground, hair covering her eyes, earphones on. “Unfortunately, Rose was
excused
from the Boys and Girls Club.”

“Oh.” Chase slowed at the stoplight, leaning over to press the Walk button. At first Rose wondered what he was thinking, but then he said, “Rose is pretty good with those kids at the day care.”

“She probably is. She's got a young heart, that's for sure.” Mrs. P. held up a warning finger to Chase.”And that, by the way, is part of the reason she's not allowed to date.” She narrowed her eyes and raised her voice. “Got it?”

Chase nodded, his shoulders slumping. When they reached Rose's house, Chase turned to her and gave her an awkwardly curt wave with a “see you at school tomorrow.” He shook Mrs. P.'s hand. Then he headed off, with “discouraged” written all over his hunched shoulders.

“See?” Rose wanted to scream. “See what I put up with?” Rose could've told Chase an hour ago that talking to Mrs. P. was a freaking waste of time. So why did her chest feel so heavy?

Then inspiration hit. She'd just have to take this into her own hands. Stop waiting for his approval. She'd been sneaking out since the age of eleven. She had the technique down. She'd go to
him
.

The Purim carnival at Temple Beth Shalom seemed like a Cinderella's-ball-meets-Halloween party. Little girls ran around in princess costumes. The boys dressed as kings. And every time someone said the word “Haman”—who Rose learned was the bad guy from the Bible story of Purim, people twirled noisemakers made of metal or banged their fists. The sweet smells from triangle pastries with jelly-filled centers reminded Rose of misshapen jelly donuts. The synagogue had roped off the parking lot, and set up tents and booths throughout.

Rose stood watching. The Parsimmons let her out of the house to “help” with the carnival, 100 percent clueless about her real purpose. Nala nestled in her sweatshirt, keeping her warm.

Chase stepped up to her elbow in his comfortable-looking dark green sweater. He waited next to her for a moment before either of them spoke. “Some holiday.”

“Agreed. Religion is not my thing,” Rose said. Chase placed his hands on her shoulders and spun her to face him. “I think I just question everything too much. I'm not even sure I believe in God.”

Chase's eyes studied her. She'd always thought they were brown, but up this close she could see tiny flecks of green. Maybe the green of his sweater made them stand out. “Really.” A comment, not a question. “That's sad.”

She'd never thought of it as sad. “What kind of God would keep a child separated from her mother?”

“Depends on the mother. Maybe a kind God.”

“What if the mother was good? Just poor. And young. Couldn't afford to buy her child much,” Rose said.

“Could this mother feed her child?” Chase's eyes stayed focused on her own, as if he was watching her reaction.

“Mostly. Not real healthy crap, but food. Day-old donuts. Bread. Crackers.”

“I don't know, Rose.” Chase laced his fingers through hers and led her away from the carnival toward the street. Rose could've sworn his fingers were charged with electricity. It raced through her body. “I mean, a lot of shitty things happen in life. That doesn't mean there's no God.”

“Well, he's not doing a very good job if shitty things are happening all over the place, is he?” Rose turned again to those eyes, the green flecks jumping out at her. She wanted to dive into his eyes.

“Maybe he's not that involved. Maybe we're like ants to him. Maybe he doesn't try to manage each of our lives. Maybe he just tries to keep things running smoothly. Like maybe he only looks at the big picture, not individual people.”

Chase took big steps. He didn't seem to be
trying
to walk quickly, but Rose had to take two small steps for every one of his big steps, so she felt like she was hurrying. “Or maybe he's trying to teach us something.” Pause. “Like if a parent was abusive or something. Doesn't seem like there's any good in that. But maybe he wants those kids to learn something.”

“Sounds like a load of crap, if you ask me. I have no interest in a God who lets me hurt so I can learn something. I'd rather be ignorant.” Rose noticed Chase's pace had slowed. “So where are you taking me?” she asked.

“Don't look at me.” Chase laughed. “I'm not taking you anywhere. You're in charge, remember?”

Rose lifted her face to the sun. She breathed in, thinking. This was her chance to make things happen. On her timeline. “Take me to your house.”

“Really?” Chase's voice jumped an octave, and he dropped her hand. “Are you sure?”

“Don't get your hopes up, Chase. You're not getting any.” Rose stared him down. “I just don't want to be out. My parents have spies everywhere. Nosy do-gooders from PTA or the neighborhood watch. They'd like nothing more than to report to my parents how Satan is corrupting my body and soul.”

“Well, we can't have that. No do-gooders. And no more corruption for you either.” Chase touched her cheek softly.

Rose smiled. “The good news is that I don't believe in Satan either. I am in charge of my own corruption. Come to think of it … I better get back to work corrupting
you
.”

“So corrupt me,” he said, before grabbing her hand again and leading her down the sidewalk. Out of the corner of her eye, Rose thought she saw him smile.