Rose

          I trudged along the scorching-hot asphalt to my ’99 Corolla, as the afternoon sun beat down on me. I dug my hand inside my bag, searching for my keys. When I lifted it out, all I came up with was a handful of sticky quarters.

          “I don’t have the time for this,” I grumbled, dumping the contents of my purse onto the empty parking space beside me. Plucking my keys from the very top of the pile, I stuck them in the lock and popped the door open. When I managed to finally shove all of the trash back into my purse, I threw it onto the passenger seat before jumping inside myself.

          In a single fluid movement, I slammed the door closed, jammed the key in the ignition, opened the window, and turned the AC as high as it would go. Picking up my laptop from the backseat, I Mapquested the address Jean sent me. It was thirty miles away. Great. Especially considering my car took twenty miles per gallon and I had to take an interstate nearly the entire way.

          I turned out of the parking lot and started down the road, leaving behind the pizza place where I had run in to for lunch. Suddenly, my car stalled. I pressed the gas pedal, but no dice. After five minutes of easing my car to the side of the road, I checked the gas meter. Maybe E stands for “extra gas”? I thought hopefully. I stomped again on the pedal.

          I slammed my head on the steering wheel. “Not today!” I groaned. Today my cousin Jean was trying on wedding dresses. I needed to be there in twenty minutes. I sighed, and checked the reception on my cell phone; no bars at all.

          Climbing out of the car and back into the balmy heat, I rushed up the overgrown pathway of the first house I came to: a pink bungalow. The color of love, I thought randomly. Shaking my head, I knocked on the door. No answer. Finally, in desperate need of a phone, I barged inside.

          I stepped into the hallway, which seemed in perfect order. This is way too creepy, I thought. Part of me wanted to bolt right out of there and go to another house. But the rest of me wanted to venture in deeper.

          I pushed open a door, which lead to an old, cheap-looking kitchen. The only tables and counters were made of Formica, and all the chairs were plastic. I pulled the refrigerator door open; it was both empty and warm. For some reason, I thought I could hear a small cry. All thoughts of Jean’s dress fitting vanished from my mind as I headed in towards what I assumed was a living room.

          What I stepped in was not a living room; it was wallpapered pink, and carpeted white. A lone toy box sat on the floor, and in the far corner, was a crib.

          More to the point, there was a crib, and inside it was a red-faced baby, dressed in stained clothes, wailing in a tired, scratchy voice.

          I swiped the bottle of formula from the dresser beside the crib, holding it to the baby’s open mouth. She put her hands on the outside and drained it within seconds.

          As I set the bottle back on the dresser, I noticed a crumpled paper on the floor. I picked it up and unfolded it, to see it was a note written in a childish scrawl.

          “My name is Jodi and I’m 18. My boyfriend and I had this baby. My mom kicked me out ‘cause I’m not responsible so I moved in with Ryan at his house. Even though we both dropped out of school at 17, we are actually really mature and we lived perfectly on our own. Ryan got a job managing a store and I could stay home with the baby all day. But one day Ryan and I got in a fight about whether or not we could afford college. He kept trying to convince me my life was with Rose--”

          Rose, I thought to myself. Baby Rose. I turned the scrap over to reveal even more writing on than the first side, blurred by drops of water.

         

          “--but I wanted to finish school. He got so mad he took our car and drove to the theater. After two and a half hours I got a little worried, but I was still kind of mad so I didn’t do anything. After three hours, I got more worried, but I thought the movie started late so I didn’t call. After four hours, I called him. He didn’t pick up. I dialed the police station, and they said they’d check my house in thirty hours to see if they could help, because he could have checked into a hotel. They also said to call immediately if I had proof he was in danger. I got angry, so I walked around town with Rose hoping to find him. We found him. The car was in a wreck on a back road. He was dead for four hours; he didn’t even make it to the theater. Now I am writing this, and I have a gun aimed at my head. I will shoot myself away from Rose, right next to Ryan, so that the house wouldn’t smell. Tell Rose her mom and dad loved her. Jodi.”

          The date and time was written under her name. Jodi killed herself twenty hours ago.

          Tears ran down my face as I cradled Rose in my arms, stroking her hair. I walked from room to room, not sure what to do, until I found Ryan and Jodi’s room. On the center of the bed was an empty box, surrounded by papers.

          The first document I picked up was a birth certificate, signed for Rose Belle Wilson, born January 19th. I calculated in my head; Rose was seven months old. I stroked the wispy blonde hair she was just beginning to grow.

          I had no idea what to do. Should I wait with her until the police come in ten hours? Do I take her home and call the police myself? Should I take the telephone and call for a cab as I originally planned?

          I took the landline and dialed the only person who I knew would be able to think levelly in this situation.

          “Tara? Where are you? I’m in the dressing room and I got a gorgeous dress and you must see it now!

          I smiled. “Hey, Jean. You are not going to believe what I have to tell you.”

*  *  *

          I exhaled, having finished the entire story, which included reading her the note. “So... what should I do, Jean?”

          She paused. “Stay there and call the police. They’ll find a home for her or something.”

          I smiled. “Okay, thanks. I’ll let you try on those dresses. Later!”

          “Bye,” she said, before a beep went off and she hung up.

          I cradled Rose in my arms, with the phone held between my shoulder and my ear. I let the child on the floor and called the police on the phone.

          The ringing stopped for a moment, and someone snapped, “Hello?”

          “Hi,” I said, swallowing nervously. “I’m on Thatcher Street, and... something really weird happened.”

          “That’s great, now do I need to send a dispatch or not?” He retorted.

          Well then, I thought, slightly offended. “I don’t know, there’s a baby here all alone.”

          I heard a pen scribbling in the background. “Where are the parents?” He inquired, intrigued.

          “Dead.”

          More scribbling-- I could also hear the faint static of an intercom. “We are tracing this landline back to the location and sending some officers over. Stay there with the child so we can conduct investigation.”

          I was slightly confused as to why they needed to investigate, but said “okay” and hung up anyway.

          In fifteen minutes, two police cars were parked at the front of the house. I saw them standing with a notepad in front of their cars, jotting something down in Sharpie. Suddenly, I realized what it was.

          “Hey!” I cried frantically. “Stop! That’s my car!”

          Embarrassed, the officers quickly crumpled the hundred-dollar-ticket and threw it in their open windows.

          “Let’s go inside,” one of them said. He was a tall man with brown hair and fair skin, which was blushing a dark red. We all agreed, readily escaping the baking heat.

          Pushing open the door, I directed them down the hallway to Rose’s nursery.

          The other officer, a skinny redhead, jumped right to the investigation.

          “How did you find the baby?”

          “Where was the note?”

          “Can you show it to us?”

          “Where are the child’s documents?”

          I went along and answered her every question. At last, she fell silent, out of anything to say. The tension in the air was thick, until I finally blurted out, “So who will take care of Rose?”

          The room was quiet again, the question squeezing all the air from the room. The ceiling began to shrink, and I felt half my size. My head felt heavy and my legs were weak. I knew what her answer was going to be before she could say it.

          “There could be a foster home,” she replied uncertainly. All I could think of was Rose, bouncing from home to home, never knowing her mother. She would never know if someone loved her, and my knees began to shake just thinking of it.

          “I will take her,” I mumbled. From the crook of my elbow, she looked around at the unfamiliar faces and cooed joyfully.

          “Okay,” the policewoman said, “we’ll make some calls and ask you to come when the paperwork is ready.”

          I nodded, my knees no longer shaking and the ceiling the same as it was before.

          The police left, but I stayed for a moment to gather her things. Finally, with everything packed into the car, I set the baby on my lap and twisted my key in the ignition. My car gave a cough, then a final shudder, before falling silent again. Rose giggled at nothing in particular, and I looked down to her perfect face.

          Rose, I thought, the color of love.