January/February 2017

My name is Yellow Rose. My dad says my mama loved that name, because it reminded her of sunshine and cheerful gardens. I love it too, but Dad says you simply can’t go around saying, “Good day, Yellow Rose,” or “How are you, Yellow Rose,” or “What do you want for breakfast, Yellow Rose,” so everybody calls me just Rose. My mama wouldn’t like that at all. She’d say, “That’s my baby’s name, and we’re going to sing it from the hilltops, no matter what people say,” but Mama isn’t here anymore. One day she was just gone. I was only three. I came to Dad in paint-stained overalls and lopsided pigtails, clutching Little Rose. I sat straight on his lap and said, “Where’s Mama?” I traced patterns on my dad’s jeans. The fabric was rough but also soft under my tiny fingertips. I traced bunnies, castles, and crowns—all the things that made me think of Mama’s warm smile. I hugged Little Rose. Mama made her for me with a needle and thread. She was soft like a pillow and wore a yellow dress with buttons down the front. Finally, the silence was too much for me. I turned around in his lap, ready to shout, but I stopped dead at the look in his eyes. It was so intense, my heart started to swell like a balloon ready to pop. “Daddy?” I asked in an unsure voice. “Where’s Mama?” My dad refocused his distant eyes on me. They swirled with so many emotions, it made my head swim. “Answer me, Daddy,” I demanded. “Daddy?” I asked in an unsure voice. “Where’s Mama?” “She’s with the angels, hon.” He laughed delicately. I let out a sigh of relief. I believed in magic back then. “The angels will take care of Mama. They’ll fetch her chamomile tea with two extra sugar cubes, just like she likes. They’ll let her nap on the clouds and maybe they’ll give her a pet to bring home to me!” My dad smiled at me. He knew my dream was to have a dog. “Mama will stay up there, but the angels told me to tell you that when you look for her, look here.” He patted his chest right where his heart pumped away. Then he slid me off his lap and went into his bedroom, closing the door with a loud creak. For a moment, it was just me and the summer sounds—the birds chirping, the leaves rustling, the faint sound of a barking dog. I got up and walked to the freezer. I opened the heavy drawer and pulled out a tangerine popsicle. I took a lick. Instead of tasting big, salty tears, I tasted its tangy sweetness. I was too young to realize Mama was dead. *          *          * EIGHT YEARS LATER Our car pulls into the driveway. When I get out, I sigh. I’m happy to be home. I had missed the faded blue paint that was chipping from age and the flower pots that decorated the front porch. The wind chimes tinkle their welcome. We have just gotten back from my grandmother’s house. It isn’t like our house, which makes me think of ocean cliffs. Her house is dull brown, without a speck of personality and nothing but spotless pieces of Victorian furniture. “How does it feel to be home, Rose?” Dad asks, holding out my backpack. I look at him. Dad and I aren’t close. We barely talk, and our conversations are always awkward. “Fine,” I say after a long pause. My dad nods. Then we just stand there, letting the wind tousle our hair. The breeze is heavy with moisture. I inhale and taste the coming rain. “Go inside, Rose,” Dad says, tossing me the house key. The key flies past me, so I turn around to retrieve it. Before I pick it up, I see a girl waving at me from across the street. She’s barefoot, and her hair is long, red, and rippling in the wind. I see her parents stacking boxes in their open garage. The “For Sale” sign I had gotten used to is missing. “Hey!” the girl shouts at me. My fingers snatch the house key, and I run inside, before she can cross the street. I slam the front door and kick off my shoes. The floor is icy as I cross to my bedroom. Just before I make my retreat, I see my father outside the window. He’s staring at the door I just ran through, looking sad. I feel a pang of guilt. He must think I ran from him, even though I was really running from the redheaded girl. My eyes travel to her. She’s staring at my house, slightly confused. Her blue eyes are glimmering. They stand out in the gloom, like two sapphires. Now, I feel so guilty that I want to run outside and apologize. I could shout it to the world, and maybe a piece of sunshine would appear from behind the clouds. My thought is trampled by my dad’s high-heel-loving, auburn-haired girlfriend, running across the lawn to him on her cloud of bliss. She throws her arms around his neck, and I watch him laugh soundlessly through the glass. I bite my cheek before slamming my bedroom door so hard the windows rattle. I definitely don’t feel guilty anymore. *          *          * The next day, my dad’s girlfriend comes into my bedroom, carrying a cheap, plastic tray with steaming pancakes on top. I glance up from my magazine, then down at the tray. The pancakes look slightly crisp, and they are covered in some kind of berry sauce. My mouth waters. “Hello, Rose,” Susan says, putting the tray down on my bed. I just stare at her, refusing to speak. I can tell she is nervous, because her hands shake as she twirls them through her hair. Finally, after I unsuccessfully will her to leave by boring my eyes into hers, she sits