A White Rose Page 10

  That's why I'm throwing in the towel.

  Dakota had reached the end of the page. With trembling hands, she flipped it over.

  I'm not saying I would be happy if I still had my looks or anything like that. I'm just saying that the way things are now, my looks and my health and stuff—they're pretty much the result of things I did years ago. “You only get to live once so you might as well live it up” was pretty much my motto. But here I am, about to tell you something I thought I'd never tell anyone. I'm HIV positive. Yes, you read that right.

  Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like now if I'd been faithful to your father. He was a real sweet man when I first married him. But I broke his heart I guess, or something like that. I was too selfish to “settle down.” I just married him so I'd always have a roof over my head and money in the bank. I used him from the get-go.

  Anyway, find yourself a good man, Rose. Marry someone for love and be a faithful wife. None of this, “Hi, I'm Dakota” nonsense. Lose the goofy name and come back down to reality. Be all the things I never was. Please listen to me, Kid! The thrill of living it up wears off. Take it from me, all that's left is miserable, rotten spinsterhood.

  Never was good at showing it but, I do love you. Forgive me for this last selfish route I have to take. This diagnosis is something I just can't face. I know I could probably get away with many years without getting AIDS, but I refuse to die a long, drawn out death in the end. You understand. I'd rather just get it done and over with quickly. Not like I have anything left to live for anyway.

  Mom.

  The letter slipped from Dakota's cold hands and fluttered to the ground. Her clothes and hair were damp from the spitting rain, but she didn't notice. Reaching forward as though in a trance, she tried the latch on the trailer door.

  It was unlocked.

  She couldn't bring herself to call 9-1-1. Not yet. Fierce and wretched curiosity propelled her forward and she opened the door in slow motion, subconsciously expecting a pungent smell to overwhelm her.

  A stuffy scent of unwashed dishes flitted through her senses but nothing more. She mounted the metal step beneath the door and climbed inside.

  The living room and kitchen were dim, surfaces blanched by shadow. Beads of rain slipped down the window panes, blurring the view outside. No one was there.

  Beyond the kitchen, the bathroom door was closed.

  Dakota stared at the door, her feet frozen to the vinyl floor. To the left of her, a tap was dripping in the kitchen sink, its rhythm steady and penetrating in the still quiet. Pluck… Pluck… Pluck…

  She stepped toward the bathroom door and paused, white noise roaring between her ears. The door was only a foot away now. Her cheeks grew hot and flushed, throat closing in on itself. A tickle skirted down her back, arms and fingers. She swallowed with difficulty.

  As though watching from a distance, she saw her hand reach out and try the latch. It slid open an inch with the movement and a dull scent of rusted metal wafted out, turning her stomach. She slid the door open another inch, the first half foot of counter top appearing. Though the light was off, her eyes refused to look into the mirror above the counter, fearing she might see the rest of the room before she was ready.

  It wasn't too late to turn around and call 9-1-1, but like a magnet, she couldn't stop herself. An unseen force pulled her forward and she pushed the door open a little more, her gaze sliding to the floor. She froze, heart pounding like a jackhammer in her ears.

  Thick, black blood formed a congealed pool on the floor beneath the vanity.

  Chapter 16

  In one swift, determined movement, Dakota thrust the door all the way open—bracing herself for the worst.

  In the shadows of the narrow room, Mona lay hunched over the toilet seat beyond the counter, her black hair covering her face and hanging down over her shoulders. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, legs tucked beneath her in a kneeling position. A tiny window above the toilet lighted the room faintly with the gray glow of an overcast, evening sky.

  A gold bracelet around one of Mona's ankles drew Dakota's eye. Her mother's feet nearly touched the tub in the tight quarters of the bathroom. Beside her bejeweled ankle lay an empty bottle of hard liquor and a bloodied kitchen knife. Black dots splayed the area around the knife suggesting it had been dropped or thrown.

  The pool of dried blood at Dakota's feet curved around the vanity and filled out the space surrounding the toilet. Mona's left arm was folded beneath her face, painted fingernails protruding from beneath her hair. More blood, trailing from her fingernails, had covered the closed lid and flowed down the side of the toilet where it had since dried. Mona's right arm hung to the floor, forearm facing inward, jelly-like blood puddled in her palm.

  Numb all over, Dakota took a stiff step backward and then another. Unable to peel her gaze away from her dead mother, she continued to walk backward out of the bathroom and into the living area until she bumped into a recliner. The slight jolt made her blink and she whipped around, losing her balance and landing hard on her hands and knees. She grasped the trailer door frame and pulled herself up, carefully stepping down to the metal step beneath the open door and then to the ground. Somehow she made it to her car, though she almost collapsed twice, where she pulled open the door with both hands and grabbed at her purse. Though she fumbled blindly, she managed to extract her cell phone.

  With wooden fingers, she dialed 9-1-1 and choked out what she thought was an intelligible report. She then slid to the ground, sharp gravel biting at her backside through her jeans.

  ***

  It wasn't long before the flashing red and blue lights of two police cars swarmed about the trailer, though Dakota hadn't actually registered the sound of sirens; and with the approach of the cop cars and one ambulance, lights flicked on in neighboring trailers like a slew of camera flashes in a burst of media frenzy. Curious residents stepped out onto their lawns and crept down their driveways and onto the roadway, edging as close to Mona's trailer as the police would allow.

  At some point along the way, someone helped Dakota to her feet and a paramedic examined her for shock. After that, two cops questioned her and took her statement. She leaned against her vehicle, a blanket wrapped around her shoulder. For the time being, she was alone, and she watched as her mother's body was lifted out of the trailer on a stretcher; already zipped up inside a glossy black bag. Beads of rain speckled the lumpy bag as the meds carried the stretcher to the back of the ambulance.

  It was dark now and she would not have known the time or how much time had passed if it were not for the police officer who stepped forward and informed her that it was after ten and she best be getting home. Nodding, she sniffed a few times and lifted the cell phone she'd been clutching in her claw-like fingers since the cops first arrived several hours prior. She flipped it open and dialed Clarice's number, regretting that she'd have to awaken the elderly woman. The officer stepped back to give her privacy.

  Clarice answered after the fifth ring, voice subdued with sleep. “Hello?”

  “Clarice.” She took a deep breath. “It's me, Dak—It's Rose.”

  “Why, Rose—Is everything okay?” Clarice sounded worried.

  “It's… complicated. I'm-I'm so sorry to wake you and to be a trouble, but can I stay at your place tonight?” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I'm at the trailer park right now—it'll only take me ten minutes to get to your place.”

  “Of course, Rose! You know you're always welcome here.”

  “I'll explain everything when I get there,” she promised with a voice that seemed disembodied somehow. She was already formulating in her mind how she might sugar-coat it all for the kind old woman. “Thanks so much, Clarice. I'll see you soon.”

  She snapped her phone shut and pulled the blanket from her shoulders, tucking it over her forearm. Though she was still numb and nauseated from the trauma, the shock had subsided enough that she had her wits back. She was beginning to feel angry with her mother
now—furious, actually—that the woman had put her through such a horrifying ordeal. It would not be easy to dull the gory images seared upon her mind; vividly present every time she closed her eyes. Though she knew she wouldn't be able to sleep this night, the last thing she wanted to do was go home to an empty house in the city.

  The officer approached her again and took the blanket, offering to drive her home. She insisted that she could drive herself but he seemed reluctant to let her do so. After a noble attempt at persuasion, he agreed to at least follow behind her in his squad car until she reached Clarice's house.

  Dakota climbed into her Explorer and sat still for a moment. The quiet interior of the SUV and the rhythmic swoop of the windshield wipers frightened her, threatening to put her back into a trance. In haste, she switched on the radio, turning it up loud. She then started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, maneuvering her way around cop cars and out of the trailer park while avoiding the many neighbors who still crowded the narrow roadways despite the sporadic rain. She made an attempt to sing along to the familiar pop tune that was playing, ignoring the high-pitched quaver in her voice. It was a pitiful attempt at distraction, but what else could she do?

  When she reached Clarice's driveway, the officer who'd been following her paused, idling. He drove away after Clarice had let her into the house.

  “The guest room is ready,” Clarice explained as she locked the front door behind Dakota with her small, knobby hands. “But I suspect you may need a hot drink first. Come to the kitchen and we'll talk.”

  Dakota kicked off her sneakers and absently followed Clarice into the kitchen lit with soft lights that were somehow scorching in contrast to the turbulent emotions wrenching her gut.

  “The kettle has just boiled,” Clarice explained, wringing her hands. “Can I make you a tea or coffee?” The sight of the cop car had evidently fazed her; either that or the wild look Dakota knew must be darting about in her eyes. Try as she might, she couldn't make eye contact for more than a two seconds at a time.

  She dropped onto a chair and crossed her arms on the checkered tablecloth. “Coffee-please,” she said. “Decaf!… Make it strong, please.” And bitter, she wanted to say. Leaning back, she thumped the tabletop repeatedly with her fingertips.

  Clarice tightened the sash at the waist of her housecoat and pulled a jar of instant decaf Maxwell House from the cupboard. “Black?”

  “Yes.” Dakota squinted at the red and white checkers on the tablecloth, blurring her vision until the squares overlapped each other. Blinking, she glanced up and focused on Clarice, who was shuffling toward the table, mug in hand.

  After handing over the steaming coffee, Clarice sat across the table and met her gaze with a concerned look mingled with evident fear. Her hair was flat on one side where she'd been sleeping and the bags under her eyes more prominent than usual. Her skin was pale; making the age spots darker. Nevertheless, she was a sight for sore eyes.

  Calmed by Clarice's sensible spirit, Dakota let out a long exhale and gripped the mug in her palms.

  “Mom took her life,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “And lucky me, I had to be the one to find her.”

  Clarice sucked in her breath, expression blanching.

  Dakota continued on, determined to get it all out as matter-of-factly as she could: “I called the cops,” she said, “they came right away, and a few hours later, everything was all wrapped up.” She blinked twice. “They took Mom away and told me I was free to go.” A deep breath. “Now I'm here.” She stuck out her bottom lip, blowing away a clump of hair that dangled over her cheek.

  Clarice lifted a hand to her heart. “Rose—!” She seemed at a loss for words. “What a—a terrible thing! My word… Is there anything I can—”

  “—It's all right,” Dakota said, interrupting. “What's done is done. I just need to get through the next couple of days and then I'll be fine.” She summoned a brittle smile. “Just being here with you helps. You keep me grounded.”

  Clarice pushed her chair back and came to Dakota's side. “I'm so sorry, child,” she whispered, giving her a prim hug. Though loving and gentle, Clarice was not given to physical affection and a hug was a rare gesture. A lump formed in Dakota's throat.

  Clarice returned to her seat, eyes alert and shoulders squared. Dakota finished off her coffee as though parched and stood up to place the mug in the sink.

  “Thanks for letting me stay,” she said, turning around. “I guess I should try and lay down now. No need to keep you up all night!” A frail laugh. She was not willing to give Clarice specific details of Mona's demise and feared she'd end up blurting it all out if she didn't take her leave immediately.

  Clarice nodded, eyes full of sympathy. “Of course. The bedroom is all ready.”

  Dakota made her way to the main floor guest room, located next to Clarice's bedroom. “I'll see you in the morning,” she said to the dear elderly woman, kissing her on the forehead. “You're a saint.”

  ***

  For several hours, Dakota laid in the dark room atop the bed's duvet, staring at the stucco ceiling. Outside, the rain had grown heavier, scurrying down the window pane without relent and splattering against the clapboard with every gust of wind.

  Though she was chilled, she did not pull back the covers for warmth. Her body was stiff and tense; refusing to relax. All she could think about was her mother's forlorn trailer and the empty, bloody bathroom within.

  Her last biological tie in this world gone.

  Yeah, there were cousins and distant relatives out there somewhere, and a father who hadn't contacted her even once since leaving years before; but all she'd really had was a mother. Albeit a mother she'd never been close to or had even wanted to be—but now she didn't even have that. Other than Clarice, she was completely, utterly alone in the world. None of her friends loved her; just as she didn't love them. They were users—using her for the same reason she was using them. It was all about having a good time, partying and getting laid. Image. Attractive people needing to be seen in public places with other attractive people.

  Try as she might, she could not get the words from her mother's letter out of her head, though she was glad the police had confiscated it. Like the grotesque image of Mona's dead body, those words were painfully seared into her mind's eye like a cattle brand:

  One day there's no one left to use and you just suddenly get it: Hey, it was me I was using up all these years.

  ***

  She did not sleep.

  Eventually, the rain let up and the first rays of dawn permeated the bedroom, suffusing the furniture contours and chasing away some of the demons that hovered close by in the shadows. As time passed, the dull morning light grew brighter and soon the room was vibrant with garish sunlight. The only shadows remaining were the ones engulfing her heart.

  At the sound of Clarice moving about in the kitchen, she forced herself to sit up and stretch—wincing. Her entire body was sore as though she'd spent a whole day exercising and when she stood up, her head pounded out of control. Dizzy, she sat back down and dropped her face into her hands.

  No tears came.

  Letting out a ragged breath, she stood to her feet again and left the room; not even thinking to check her appearance in the bedroom mirror.

  For once in her life, looks were the last thing on her mind.

  Chapter 17

  Partway through what seemed a rubbery breakfast of bacon and eggs, Dakota suddenly remembered that it was Saturday morning and that Jason was scheduled to work on her living room mural at ten.

  This realization came to her shortly after nine o'clock—snapping her to acute attention from a spaced-out fog. She thanked Clarice profusely for her hospitality and left her breakfast half-eaten, hurrying to the front door where she pulled on her sneakers and rushed outside.

  As she pulled out of the driveway, she waved a distracted good-bye to Clarice who was standing on the front porch and watching her with furrowed brow.

  It
took great effort not to speed as she drove back to Barrie. She could have phoned Jason to cancel easily enough, but she had to see him this morning. Something about his handsome, intelligent face, even now in her mind's eye, was like an elixir. There was nothing like the distraction of a man to put her woes away.

  She had no intention of spending the day huddled in a corner and planned to do whatever she could to forget the horror of last night.

  Dakota reached her house by twenty to ten, sunlight bathing her yard in a warm glow and the grass sparkling with moisture. After unlocking her front door, she scooted upstairs and began to think very seriously about her appearance. The reflection in her bathroom mirror was scary. Not only was her hair rumpled and frizzy, her eyes were sunken and aged with fatigue.

  With no time to take a shower, she brushed, sprayed and styled her hair as best she could, applied concealer to cover the bags under her eyes, some blush to revive her cheeks, and a heavy dose of mascara and color to brighten her eyes. After putting on a clean, tight T-shirt and a snug pair of shorts, she went downstairs to her sunny kitchen and started a pot of coffee. Numbness engulfed her spirit, making it difficult to focus.

  Jason arrived just after ten, ringing the doorbell and smiling pleasantly when she welcomed him inside.

  His sandy hair was damp from a morning shower and had curled over the tips and lobes of his ears. His hazel eyes were happy and peaceful as he smiled, but reserve lingered in his glance.

  Seeing that reserve—remembering that reserve—was like a blow to the fragile front she'd plastered on in the past half hour.

  Her cheery veneer shattered like a delicate china cup.