The Between Years

hold his hand, squeeze it tight, and stop him from destroying his life but she knows that she is powerless.
    Isn’t there any good news? Rosemary asks.
    Believe it or not, Elizabeth says, you’ll have the younger boy’s love again.
    Really?
    Really.
    Why not both of them?
    I can only tell you what I know. The younger boy desperately wants your love but he’s too confused right now to take the plunge. Believe me, he’ll come around. Count on it.
    When?
    Not until the father’s dead.
    When Elizabeth gathers the cards, she folds her hands again.
    Aren’t you going to tell me more? Rosemary asks.
    There’s nothing left to say.
    You can’t just leave me like this . . . I’ve come all this way. What am I supposed to do?
    Elizabeth’s lips stay still.
    Rosemary checks her watch.
    Have to get back, she thinks.
    After such a long trip, she knows that she must take care of business.
    Have to get back.
    ***
    Rosemary wanders up the steps to Peter’s house. Let the dogs bark and the neighbors call the cops, she thinks.
    Lava colored brick trims the house and a swing hangs in the corner of the porch. Charmed by Peter’s taste, she finds an open door but the lights are out.
    Inside, she switches the lights on and hopes to find Peter. Certainly he will recognize her, she decides. Time cannot fade features and she knows that she would recognize Peter anywhere.
    The designs on Peter’s wallpaper are prettier than the wallpaper and wooden paneling on her walls. The front door, the kitchen, closet and bathroom doors have all been left open. Rosemary stands on a hardwood floor and gazes at a plasma screen television sitting in the corner of the living room. A leather couch sits in front of the television and a love seat is just adjacent. Vanilla hanging in the air soothes her when an orange cat hurries past.
    In the kitchen, she notices a sink full of dishes; some are caked with old spaghetti sauce and noodles, and others with mashed potato residue and broccoli grits. She scrapes the plates off, loads them into the dishwasher, adds a scoop of Cascade and fires the machine up. Some chores need finishing, she decides, and she doesn’t mind doing them. The floor is clean enough to slip on, which pleases her. When she opens the refrigerator door, she finds a carton of soy milk, bottles of Poland Springs water, and a crisper loaded with broccoli, lettuce, carrots and tomatoes. Sliced chicken and turkey breast is the only meat she finds.
    A magnetic calendar is posted on the fridge with red film smeared in the middle. Days at the beginning, middle and end of the month are circled in bright red. Business meetings are scheduled for the first and last Friday of the month and are circled in blue. A woman named Nadia’s spinning classes are scribbled in with a fine black marker every Tuesday afternoon.
    No wonder there’s no time for doing dishes, Rosemary thinks.
    A pad hangs next to the calendar where Peter and Nadia write notes to each other, in the streams of consciousness of an ongoing story. They end each message with ‘love you’ or xoxo.
    Next, Rosemary explores the upstairs where she finds more open doors. She sneaks into the second door on the left and switches the light on. A king sized bed consumes the far half of the room and a television sits in the corner. Boxers, panties, socks and t-shirts are scattered about the floor. She gathers the clothes, piles them into a laundry basket then folds the bed sheets.
    A picture of Peter, Nadia, she assumes, and a little girl with strawberry curls sits on the dresser. The girl looks to be about three years old and Rosemary wonders how much she’s missed while she’s been away. The family crouches before Cinderella’s castle at Disneyland, wearing black mouse ears and smiles. More than anything, Rosemary wishes that she could hold the little girl in her lap. Just learning her name would make her happy. The calendar on the fridge has no dentist appointments or parent-teacher conferences and the house’s open doors are driving her crazy.
    Have to get back.
    Back in the hall, Rosemary finds a closed door.
    She turns the knob, and eases the door open, but not enough to stop a creaking sound. No one can hear her, she decides, but . . . . She switches the light on and nearly chokes. Inside, she finds a bed with posts shaped like school pencils and a dresser in the corner. Rosemary decides that a room like this is no place for a child to live.
    Still, she decides that she must