After Rosie's discovery that she's pregnant and her ensuing disappearance, Mick is wondering where she is, what went wrong and why things suddenly got so badly out of order.

These are the times when you begin questioning everything about your relationship, asking yourself if everything you saw in your partner was just wishful thinking or a mask hiding the real depths of their character, if what you were looking at was just a ...

Brilliant Disguise (Bruce Springsteen)

I hold you in my arms as the band plays
What are those words whispered baby just as you turn away
I saw you last night out on the edge of town
I wanna read your mind and know just what I've got in this new thing I've found
So tell me what I see when I look in your eyes
Is that you, baby, or just a brilliant disguise

I heard somebody call your name from underneath our willow
I saw something tucked in shame underneath your pillow
Well, I've tried so hard, baby, but I just can't see
What a woman like you is doing with me
So tell me what I see when I look in your eyes
Is that you, baby, or just a brilliant disguise

Now look at me, baby, struggling to do everything right
And then it all falls apart when out go the lights
I'm just a lonely pilgrim I walk this world in wealth
I want to know if it's you I don't trust cause I damn sure don't trust myself

Now you play the loving woman, I'll play the faithful man
But just don't look too close into the palm of my hand
We stood at the altar, the gypsy swore our future was right
But come the wee wee hours maybe, baby, the gypsy lied
So when you look at me you better look hard and look twice
Is that me, baby, or just a brilliant disguise

Tonight our bed is cold
I'm lost in the darkness of our love
God have mercy on the man
Who doubts what he's sure of

Only when the muggy night gave way to a pale watery twilight did I pick myself up from the clammy sand and trudged home, shivering in my thin trousers and shirt. I had been craving a smoke for hours, but I had left my cigarettes on top of the piano and all I had on me was a few matches. I lit one of them, senselessly, as I walked and let it burn down to my fingers, extinguishing it with a curse as the flame came too close to my skin.

Light-headed with lack of sleep, I climbed the stairs to my room and dropped on the bed, fully dressed. I didn't even remove my shoes before falling asleep and slept like a log for several hours, waking up around noon with the irrational hope it had only been a dream.

Of course, it had not.

She stayed away for a full week, leaving me waiting miserably. I had no idea where her family lived, no address, no phone number. The question why she had left so fast without at least writing me a note niggled at the back of my mind. I had always had the impression that she and her mother were not close, but then, hearing that your parent was in very poor health would be a shock even if you didn't get along all too well under normal circumstances. She'd probably have set out for the station in a hurry to find out when the next train home was due, passing by the bar on her way to leave a message for me with Joan or Harry because I wasn't back from work yet and she didn't want to lose any time on her way home.

I refused to believe that she had deliberately sought to evade me because the as yet unresolved issue of the baby had come between us. Whenever that unbidden suspicion popped up in my mind, I silenced it by finding explanations and excuses why she'd left the way she had.

A week to the day after my lonely sleepless night under the stars, there was a knock on my door rather early in the morning. I had just got dressed and was about to prepare myself a mug of tea. I was due for the late shift today, but I had forced myself to get up at half past seven so I'd have some spare time to go for a run or a swim before work. Exercise always helped me clear my head, at least for the moment.

I certainly did not want to see any visitors at that ungodly hour, and I decided to ignore the unannounced guest, whoever it was.

But the rapping continued, so I set down the tea tin and spoon with a suppressed sigh and opened the door to see who was so persistent so early on a Saturday morning.

"Rosie! You're back!" I cried out in surprise.

"Yes, I'm back … I took the early train from Kittery this morning."

"Hope your mother's doing better, then."

She was still dressed in the clothes she had been travelling in, a somewhat wrinkled grey dress and a navy cardigan, and a worn carpet bag sat on the floor beside her. She fiddled with the pendant she was wearing and said, "Yes, she's quite fine again."

We studied each other awkwardly for a moment. The ease between us had vanished, neither of us was sure how to act or react. I tried to give her an encouraging smile, but it felt strained. I wanted to say something but nothing seemed right. I wanted to tell her I was glad to have her back and at the same time shower her with accusations for going away without a word, leaving the thankless task of telling me about her departure to poor Joan, keeping me waiting and wondering.

So I merely told her to come in and closed the door behind her.

Her face was anxiously expectant, as if she was bracing herself for a dressing-down she thought she deserved.

I finally reached out and hugged her to my chest after all, relieved at how right it felt to touch her. She put her arms around me and pressed her face into my shirt for a long while without speaking. When I asked her softly what had happened, she flinched and said in a trembling thin voice, "I … my sister phoned my landlady to say my mother'd had a serious breakdown, a heart attack or something, and I should come quick if I wanted to see her before …" She paused for a moment, seemingly unable to bring herself to say it aloud. Her eyes remained fixed rigidly on a spot below my breastbone. I stroked her cheek gently, and she went on, "It turned out not to be as bad as it had looked, though. Thank God. And then … and then I began to … to bleed and … and … and I lost the baby." She wasn't crying, but she looked quite disturbed.

Again, I could do nothing but hold her. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know what to do. I wondered how she felt about having lost the child she had not wanted in the first place. I wasn't sure how things would have turned out for us in the end if she had carried the baby to term, having come to doubt during her absence that we'd have been the happy family I'd imagined at first, but right now I regretted this lost chance, grieved for the lost little life, if you can actually grieve for someone who hasn't even really lived yet.

Eventually, I asked, "How … how are you feeling now? Do you … do you want to lie down for a while? The journey must have been hard on you after … after what happened."

"It was not too pleasant but train journeys in third class never are. I'm all right, the pain and the bleeding have both stopped. But I'd still love to rest for a bit." Her words came out in a forced matter-of-fact tone that had a hollow ring to it. I wasn't sure what to make of this observation. Probably I was just being oversensitive after this awful week without any news of her and full of clashing emotions and dismal thoughts. She's just worn out after all she's been through in the past few days, I told myself.

"Yes, of course. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you in a minute."

She removed her cardigan and dress and slipped into my bed in her underwear. I took off my shirt and trousers and lay beside her. She went to sleep in my arm exhaustedly while I remained awake, wondering what toll the miscarriage had taken on her body.

Surely this could be dangerous. What if she began to bleed again, or developed a fever? I registered every change in her rhythm of breathing, repeatedly felt her warm and slightly sweaty forehead for a telltale rise of temperature, worried that some belated complication might arise despite her assertion that the worst was over.

She awoke quite well-rested just as I had fallen asleep for a few minutes. I made her stay in bed and fixed us some breakfast. A glance at my alarm clock startled me and I hurried to get dressed again. I would have to leave for work pretty damn quick or I'd be out of a job on top of everything else.

As I hastily ate my breakfast, I made her promise she'd report in sick with Harry. "Just drop by to let them know you've returned safely but aren't well, then you come back up here and get some more rest. I'll take your shifts this weekend if I have to. You shouldn't exert yourself too soon."

There was a glimpse of the Rosie I used to know when she groaned and rolled her eyes, saying I was worse than her mother and grandmother rolled into one, but she obeyed.

When I came home from work, she had changed clothes and was sitting on the bed, leaning against the wall with her legs tucked up, reading my old copy of "Treasure Island". The photo of my parents I still kept inside the book had dropped to the floor, and I suppressed a small rush of anger at the sight of my precious souvenir cast aside so carelessly. I bent to pick it up and checked it for creases or dog-ears before I gently laid it on the table. I should get it framed, I thought, just to keep it safe.

There was another piece of paper lying on the floor. It had apparently fallen out of Rosie's bag, and I had intended to slip it back inside without paying much attention to what was written on it as a word caught my eye.

Falmouth.

Printed in an unfamiliar handwriting on a greyish piece of paper was the address of a doctor in Falmouth. Underneath, last Monday's date and "9 AM", added in Rosie's loopy longhand.

Hadn't she said she'd taken the early train from Kittery, where I had supposed her family lived? They couldn't possibly have called a doctor from Falmouth to take care of her mother, could they?

I was tempted to simply shove the note back into the bag and pretend I had never been aware of its existence, as I had a grim premonition that the explanation behind it would not be anything I wished to hear, but at the same time I felt an urgent need to have clarity once and for all.

For some reason, I turned the slip of paper over before turning to face her. Something was written on the back, also in her own handwriting.

"$ 25."

I froze in disbelief while jigsaw pieces clicked into place in my mind, and a terrible certainty seized me, as sudden as an unexpected punch in the stomach.

Twenty-five dollars was the amount that had been missing from my box.

Missing since the day of Rosie's sudden disappearance.

"It was you who took the money!" I exclaimed, furious and disappointed. "Why couldn't you just have asked me?" I demanded to know irritably. "Don't you think I'd have helped you out if you're short on cash?"

Rosie closed the book and stammered something unintelligible about railway tickets and doctors' fees and a specialist for lung diseases her mother had needed.

"No wonder that doctor was expensive if he had to come down from Falmouth", I said in an acerbic tone, holding the note out to her. "And didn't you say your mother had a heart attack? What'd she need a lung specialist for?"

She stared at me incredulously and threw down the book. "Have you been snooping around my things?" she hissed.

"Certainly not. It was hard to miss, right there on the floor. It must have slid out when you took something from your bag. Now tell me please that you did go to see your mother – or didn't you?"

She tried hard to sustain her mask of indignant anger, but it crumbled quickly.

With quivering lips, she mumbled, "No. I didn't go to see her."

At least she didn't deny that she'd lied to me earlier, I thought bitterly. I probably ought to be glad she's being honest now. If she is.

"So where'd you go then?"

"To Falmouth. To see Dr. Staunton." She waved at the paper I was still holding in her face. "That was what I needed the money for."

"But why Falmouth? Why this Dr. Staunton? Who's he? There are plenty of doctors in Portland."

"Can't you think why, Mick?" she replied, almost choking on her own words.

Did she deliberately place a hand on her stomach to give me a final hint?

I didn't know, but it was this gesture that opened my eyes to the truth.

"No", I gasped. "No, please … tell me you didn't … this doctor didn't have a hand in … in your losing the baby."

I slumped into my battered armchair, crumpling the accusing scrap of paper in my hand in slow motion, closing my fist around it so tightly that my nails dug painfully into my palm.

"I really … I can't believe this. Why didn't you talk to me before you went and did … what you did?"

"I … I was kind of shocked when I found I was pregnant, and I knew I wouldn't be able to be a mother, so something … had to be done, quickly, as long as it was still possible. And … and at first I wasn't even sure if it was yours because Jeff and I … you know, not very long before you and I … then I did the maths properly and realized it must be yours, but it wouldn't have made a difference anyway. I couldn't have gone through with it either. I don't want children. Not even yours. And that's exactly why I didn't tell you. Because you'd have tried to talk me into keeping a kid I never wanted to have!"

Her words hit me like a hail of pointy needles, cold and steely and cruel. "I would have supported you and the child, Rosie, mine or not. I'd have helped you bring it up", I said tonelessly, "and I'm sure it could have worked. I would have done anything I could to make it work if only you'd given me the chance to! I can imagine you were scared and confused, yes, of course, but I still wish you had trusted me enough to talk to me first before going to … see that doctor and … have that … procedure and put yourself in danger. You could have died if something had gone wrong!"

"Oh, come on, don't get your knickers in a twist about the danger of it now that it's over. I survived just fine. And besides, I wasn't too scared and I certainly wasn't confused. Don't make me look like some dim-witted bumpkin. Usually, I know exactly what I'm doing, and I knew exactly that I didn't want to burden myself with a baby."

"A baby is a great responsibility, but it's not some tedious burden, Rosie", I said with a constricted feeling in my throat, thinking of the first time I had been allowed to see Jess or Janie, the excited awe I'd felt when my mother had let me hold them. "It's a little miracle." I knew I must have sounded unbearably sententious to her ears, but I couldn't help it.

"Oh yes, for sure. A little miracle that keeps you on your toes around the clock and squalls whenever it's sick or hungry or wet or bored, which is virtually all the time, while you turn old and fat and ugly because you haven't got any time or energy left to care about yourself", she retorted angrily.

"Oh well", I snarled, now furious myself, "perhaps it is better you didn't keep it after all if the inconvenience and your looks are all you can think of."

"Contrary to you, I know what I'm talking about", she hissed back sharply. She had moved to sit on the edge of my bed and was leaning forward, her face contorted in anger, fists clenching and unclenching uneasily. "You didn't get seven younger siblings in eight years and had to help bring them up from when you were four years old! I bet you never needed to lend a hand at your posh old house and got spoiled rotten. Mommy's little darling."

I gritted my teeth and summoned all my willpower so I would not fly in her face in a way I'd regret later. Silently, I cursed myself for having let my guard down and shared some details of my childhood and youth with her that she could turn against me now.

"You haven't got a clue about real life, Mr. Head-in-the-Clouds. All you have in your head are your great ideals and your big dreams. Your own boat, your own house, your own perfect little family. All that romantic crap you've got on your mind, like If we just love each other enough, we'll manage somehow, and everything's gonna be fine and dandy. That's not how life works, for God's sake - take off your rose-tinted glasses and grow up, Mick! Just look at you and your ridiculous seahorse and your children's books. How would you want to be a father when you're hardly more than a kid yourself?"

"You don't know shit about me, Rosie", I said in a thick voice when her tirade was finished. "I guess it's better if you go now. It's no use trying to discuss things when you are behaving like that. We'll only make things worse."

"Fine, then! I'll leave you alone with your books and your fancy ideas! I hope you'll be happier without me around to spoil them!"

She slammed the door shut as she stormed out, leaving me with my blood still boiling. I wanted to smash something but refrained. It wouldn't help anyway. Instead, I smoked three cigarettes in a row, but they did nothing but make me feel queasy.

Resigned, I undressed and washed and lay in my bed, pulling the sheets tightly around me, up to my chin, curling up into a ball, feeling cold, alone with my mind that ceaselessly churned the same questions over and over. Why hadn't she simply confided in me? Why the lies, the theft, the betrayal? Why such cruel words from the mouth of the woman I thought I knew, cutting into my heart like long sharp knives?

We did not speak for two agonizing weeks except for some cool polite exchanges in the bar when someone was watching us.

Of course we didn't fool anyone. She refused to sing when the guests asked her to, citing a throat infection nobody believed in. I played my perfunctory way through my usual repertoire, but my heart was not in it and it must have shown. It was hell to see her while being unable to reach her, touch her, speak to her.

Finally, Joan took me aside after hours one night when Rosie had already left.

"Listen, Mick, I don't know what exactly is the matter with the two of you, and I'm not sure if I want to know at all, and maybe it's none of my business, but all this miserable tiptoeing around each other has to end. It's unbearable to watch. The regulars have started asking questions, and I can't blame them. It's clear to see that something's wrong. If you want to take a piece of advice from an old woman who's seen a lot in her lifetime, either make a clear cut and split up for good, or get over whatever has come between you and try to mend what there is to mend. But at least talk to each other, for Chrissake."

"I … Rosie …", I stammered stupidly.

"I have spoken to Rosie several times, but she won't listen. I hope you have some more sense in that pretty head of yours, piano man. One of you needs to make a decision, one way or the other, and quick."

Of course she was right. It wouldn't do us any good to keep things in limbo much longer. If only I could bring myself to take the first step. She certainly wouldn't, stubborn as she was.

I decided to let this evening pass without doing anything, unless a particularly good opportunity arose, but to talk to her the next day, definitely.

The evening crept by at a painful snail's pace. It felt as if I'd played at least a thousand different tunes by the time I emptied the last glass and lit my last cigarette, inhaling slowly while I heard the busy clatter of Rosie's light footsteps behind me as she helped Harry clean up the bar.

Our walks home after work were among the things I missed most, and suddenly I couldn't bear it any more. I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray with fresh determination and got up. Rosie was wiping down the long table in the centre of the room, working with brisk, efficient movements, and I approached her unhurriedly, gingerly touching her arm. "Rosie?"

Her head snapped around and she looked at me with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. I took heart from the fact that I couldn't detect any of the earlier hostility in her eyes and said in a low voice so Harry wouldn't necessarily hear, "I can't stand not talking to you any longer. Will you let me walk you home again tonight? I don't need to come upstairs with you but I really want us to get back on speaking terms at least."

She gripped her cleaning rag firmly and I half expected it to land in my face with a smack, but instead she threw it down and flung her arms around me, crying into my shirt. "I thought you were never going to ask, and I thought you'd never want me back", she murmured almost inaudibly, breaking away from me with red eyes.

"Of course I want you back, and I want to say I'm sorry. There were a few things I shouldn't have said."

"You're right, you shouldn't have", she replied, running a tired hand over her face, "but I shouldn't have said some of the things I said either. I'm sorry, too. I was so afraid I'd lost you."

"Well, you haven't. Not yet. But there's one thing you need to know if this is supposed to work in the long run. I want to be able to trust you, Rosie. I must be able to trust you. If you felt you couldn't have the baby, fine. Or not fine – but I have to accept your decision now, and I'd have had to accept it anyway even if you'd let me in on your plans earlier because you'd have been much more affected by a pregnancy than I would. But please don't ever act behind my back again. Don't ever lie to me again. I don't think I could forgive you another time. I want us both to have our freedom, I don't want to control you or force my wishes upon you, but trust, Rosie, trust is essential. For both of us."

She nodded wordlessly, fixating me with large shiny eyes. I pulled her into my arms, cradled her head against my chest and kissed the top of her head while her tears were drenching the front of my shirt once more.

I held her like that for a long time, my nose buried in her glossy black hair, feeling drained and tired but pleasantly, relievedly so.

When I finally looked up, I saw Harry leaning on his broom by the doorway. "Time to go home for the two of you. I'll finish up here."

He had a broad smile on his face as we walked past him, hand in hand.