Chapter Thirteen
More Bitter than Sweet
January 14, 1933-February 17, 1933

From June to October, Vera had been all anyone could ever talk about. When I went to parties or went out with friends, I was asked about the wedding plans, or about Vera's engagement to Patrick. That ceased after the wedding itself. Then, after a few months of calm, that attention was back on her- with me, shoved to the side. With the news of her pregnancy made public, I felt as if I was being pressed into the woodwork again. No one ever cared if Rosalie was at a party, or if Rosalie was around, unless Vera wasn't- so they could ask me questions about her and get the inside views on the unborn child. Well- actually- to be fair, I still received attention- but I felt as if everyone had forgotten about me, which was just as bad. And because of this, I was jealous. More than anything, I was happy for Vera, but inside, I was still bitter and angry. The feelings of abandonment and loneliness wouldn't wear off, and so, I stood on the sidelines of her life unfolding, feeling as if I had been forgotten, watching it all happen.

The fact that Vera was married, already expecting, and that I didn't even have a prospective suitor, did not go unnoticed.

It was late one January night. I couldn't sleep, so I put on my robe and slipped out of my room. I knew my brothers were asleep, and I was sure both of my parents were, so I descended the stairs to go to the kitchen. If I was lucky, Cooky would still be awake, darning socks or knitting her friends blankets. She'd make me some tea and tell me stories about when she was little, growing up in Pennsylvania.

Standing just outside the kitchen, I stopped, hearing my mother's voice from within. I waited for a minute, and when I heard her gossiping I stepped back and hid in the shadows of the adjacent wall, listening.

"Molly Prith moved to London with him," she was saying. "Can you imagine?"

Cooky made a 'hmmmm' sound.

Mother sighed after a moment's silence, "And then there's still this business about Vera Goodchild expecting a child."

There's still this business? What, did she think Vera could get over it like a cold?

"Oh yes," Cooky said fondly. "Little Miss Vera."

Mother laughed drily, "Yes, Vera." I suspect she was shaking her head now, and she said, "I thought the engagement was fast, but now- She's already expecting a baby?"

It didn't sound like my mother approved.

"And with a carpenter," she clucked her tongue. "I don't know how Emma even allowed it."

Cooky didn't reply. When we ranted to her, she usually just nodded or shook her head dutifully.

My mother sighed again, "When Rosalie marries- sooner, rather than later, I hope- it most certainly will not be to anything less than a manager."

I realized- with some horror- how much of my mother's attitudes had rubbed off on me. For a moment, I asked myself, 'What's wrong with a carpenter?' and then I realized my own words to Vera, back in June.

Vera, he's only a carpenter.

It made me cringe.

"Miss Rosalie's still young yet, ma'am," Cooky said amiably.

Mother sounded bitter when she said, "But getting older everyday. And Vera's married and starting her family- I just think that maybe Rosalie should follow that lead soon."

"I'm sure she will, ma'am," Cooky said.

"Rosalie's beautiful and young," Mother said, vindictive. "Why hasn't she found a husband before Vera?"

Cooky didn't say anything.

Mother sighed once more, "It's just strange, that's all."

I leaned against the wall behind me, staring into the darkness of the room, listening to the sound of my mother move onto other topics- like whether John Higgins was going to quit his job at the printers, or whether he was going to follow Allison Rowe to New York City with her family. I wasn't listening though, I was thinking about her words.

Whose fault was it that Vera was married and pregnant before I even had a suitor? I couldn't make out whether or not my mother was blaming me or not, but I immediately assumed she was. She was embarrassed that my best friend was excelling at life after school, and I wasn't. My parents wanted marriage and money for me, they didn't want to worry about me or have to help me in any way. They thought my beauty would swipe up the first caller and take care of all their wishes. But with the hysteria over Vera's marriage, and now the excitement over the baby- When was I going to find someone to marry? Besides, none of the clods in Rochester were prominent enough or interesting enough to keep my attention at that time. So my mother worried, and she gossiped, and she steamed with jealousy over the fact that her daughter wasn't the one everyone was talking about, even if only for a few months. She envied Mrs. Goodchild- the woman she had just barely tolerated and made fun of over the years- because of her daughter's marital and maternal accomplishments. Now I can look back and be sure it wasn't my fault. She wanted me married and starting a family for her own selfish reasons. At the time, however, I took it personally, and I felt wounded.

The pressure to get on with my life felt like a weight lowering itself onto my conscious mind, and I returned to my room that night, only to stare at the ceiling, feeling guilty and upset.

In February, Prohibition ended. Patrick celebrated by openly displaying a bottle of brandy in his and Vera's living room.

"You're a child," Vera scolded, laughing as she watched him rearrange the bottle on the silver platter it was resting on.

He smiled as he turned it a fifth of an inch to the right, his friend, Jackson, egging him on the whole time. It wasn't as if they hadn't consumed alcohol during the restriction, it was just- now they could be public about it and have fun. So we laughed over their excitement and poked fun at them for being so enthusiastic about the change.

"You want to have a drink, don't you, Rosalie?" Patrick asked, ready with a new glass.

When I thought of liquor, I thought of Mrs. Goodchild, stumbling around the house as Vera and I played dress-up when we were twelve. I thought of her, smelling of sour alcohol and smoke, slurring her words and annoying us with suffrage stories she made up as she went along. I thought of father, hiding homemade beer and whiskey in the cellar of our house all through my childhood, pretending as if he wasn't breaking the law and housing contraband. Liquor made me think of silly people doing silly things, and I was not silly.

Laughing at the ridiculousness of Patrick thinking I was going to drink, I said, "Oh no- No, thank you."

"Come on!" Jackson urged, his reddish-brown hair flopping into his eyes. He raised his glass, toasting me with: "Prohibition got the ax!"

Patrick grinned, saying, "Yeah- Just a sip?" He was ready to pour the bottle.

Vera rolled her eyes, "Don't be bullies, you two. She's never had a drink before and she doesn't need you two bothering her about doing it now."

The way she said it made me feel immature, like she was unintentionally condescending toward me. Suddenly, I felt left out and separate, like a child trying to spend time with the grown-ups- I mean, even Vera was sipping at a tiny bit of brandy over the course of the night. And it occurred to me, I hadn't ever had a drink of alcohol before. And Vera had? Somehow it made sense. She just seemed more worldly and rebellious, and I was my parents favorite, abiding and perfect. And as I watched Vera sip the slightly tinted liquid (obviously unaware of the harm she could have done to her unborn child) I felt a stinging indignancy. I could be every bit as grown up as they could.

And suddenly, all of my prior thoughts of alcohol fell away. I didn't think of Mrs. Goodchild or my father, I thought of fitting in and being sophisticated.

"I think I will have a drink," I said.

Patrick and Jackson grinned, saying, "That's the spirit!"

As Patrick handed me a glass, I took a whiff of the beverage. It was foreign to me, and so strong that it made my eyes water- almost as if the fumes from my father's car were mingling with sour grapes and lumber. When the scent got caught in my nostrils, I really didn't want to drink it. For a split-second I didn't care if I was sophisticated or included, I just wanted to save my nose. But, when I saw their expressions- those of watching a novice try something for the first time- I inflated my pride and decided that I would drink the whole glass before the night was up.

"Rosalie," Vera said. "You really don't have to drink it. It's strong-"

I scoffed, saying, "Good." If she could handle it, so could I.

Jackson laughed, his amber eyes sparkling as he said, "I like this one Patrick. Why has Vera been hiding her?"

Preening under the compliment, I held my breath and took a delicate- but healthy enough- sip of the brandy.

It didn't taste good- it almost felt like it was twisting my taste buds- and it felt hot, so I swallowed quickly. My throat burned all the way down, and I took a deep breath once it was down, my eyes began to tear profusely and my nose felt like it was going to run a little. I tried my best not to sputter or choke- clearing my throat daintily and breathing through my nose- because I wanted to seem nonchalant and good at drinking. I wanted to come off as cool and composed, unfazed by anything.

"Well?" Patrick asked.

"Good," I replied, diving in with a masochistic drive for glory, taking another sip.

It burned a second time, all the way down.

Patrick's friend, Jackson, walked me home that night.

Though Patrick offered to drive both of us- me to my parent's home, and Jackson to his brother's- Vera disagreed.

"Vere, it's freezing out," Patrick argued.

She shook her head, and I watched them from where I sat on the couch, laughing with bleary eyes. "She's drunk- the cold air might help her straighten up before she gets home."

"I'm fine, Patrick," Jackson said, and his voice was clear. "I can walk her."

"You don't mind?" he asked in return.

Jackson shook his head, "No, it's fine."

While Patrick gave Jackson directions to my parent's house, Vera helped me into my coat and hat. I giggled, finding it so comical that she had to do up the buttons for me. Swaying on my feet, I tried to think of the words to thank Vera for having me over, but my tongue felt thick, and my mouth was dry, and I couldn't form the words. As she wound one of her own scarves around my neck and lent me a pair of gloves I tried to complain that I was already hot- perspiring under all of the layers- but she just ignored me.

"No, V-Vera," I argued. "It's hot."

She sighed, "Rosalie, it's not hot outside."

I giggled again, "I'm not outside!"

"You will be," she said, rolling her eyes. "Just- try to pretend like you didn't have two and a half brandies when you get home, okay?"

I saluted her and said, "Aye aye, Captain!"

"Ready to go?" Jackson asked me. I smiled at him brightly and let him lead me out the door.

Outside, the cold hit me like a shock, but once we were on our way down the street, it felt nice to be in the cool air, under the clear, velvet sky.

"I love the cold," I said dreamily.

Jackson laughed a little, humoring me by saying, "Do you?"

I nodded, the world twinkling in my blurred vision- like a fairy tale city.

We walked in silence for a few moments, turning a corner and continuing down the lamp lit street ahead of us.

There was no wall keeping my thoughts inside- those thoughts that I usually kept stopped up in my brain- and I spoke freely, curiously and openly.

"Do you think Vera and Patrick are going to have a girl or a boy?" I asked, teetering on my heels slightly.

Jackson seemed confused by this, "What- Oh, you mean the baby?"

"Of course- the baby!"

He shrugged, "I don't know. I'm sure Patrick would like a boy."

I sighed, "I hope they have a girl- Then I could help Vera dress her up and do her hair."

"She's not going to have much hair at first," Jackson laughed.

I giggled, swatting at his arm and saying, "I know that!"

Because I was slightly inebriated, I couldn't see the admiration in Jackson's eyes. I didn't catch the way he was staring at my lips or the way he was smiling, all the signs I could have caught- the ones indicating that he was starting to like me- had I not had two and a half glasses of brandy. But, I had wanted to seem grown-up and mature, so I had insisted Patrick keep pouring me another glass, every time I finished one. I ignored Vera's protestations the whole time, claiming that the liquor wasn't all that bad. And it stopped burning my throat as I drank more and more. I just focused on the fruit and woody accents in the alcoho and the way it made my throat feel fuzzy and warm, trying to ignore the rest. Besides, the feelings of warmth and contentment that followed the drink were lovely. Yet my attempts at seeming mature just made me drunk and foolish.

Jackson turned down the shortcut- the one that snaked past the abandoned farmhouse and the Cullen's house- and I stopped.

"Do we h-have to go down this way?" I hiccuped, remembering the fear that lined my stomach in December- when I had caught Edward Cullen staring as I twirled innocently in the falling snow.

Jackson told me, "This is the way Patrick told me to go- He said it's fastest."

It was, and I was starting to get cold, so I reluctantly followed him down the lone, dirt road.

As we walked, I thought about the dream I had of Edward- the one where he was going to allow Warren to drown our child. I thought of how he had been staring out the window, and how I had felt chilled down to my toes just from the way his gaze seemed to pin me to the very atmosphere. I could recall the way the hair on my neck had stood on end, the way I had shivered and turned quickly, wanting to get away. It reminded me of when I had gone to Pleasant Green with Vera- when we had crossed paths with a fox. The animal was foreign and wild to us, and so we had stood, clutching each other, terrified. Finally, Vera let out a shriek, and it had run away. But the fear then, and the fear upon seeing Edward staring at me, was the same, and I remembered that as Jackson and I walked past the Cullen's again.

We were right in front of the house, and my fear was reaching its peek, when a squirrel darted into the lane in front of us, away from the Cullen's house and into the field across the way. Because I was already scared, slightly drunk, and surprised, I let out a squeak, and reached over, clutching Jackson.

Laughing, he said, "Rosalie, it was just a squirrel."

"A what?!" I asked in return, feeling as if my heart was stuck in my throat.

"A squirrel," he reiterated.

I slowly let go of his arm, saying, "Oh."

As we started walking again, I was shaking slightly, peering at the Cullen's house from the corner of my eye. The family unconsciously made me uneasy, but the fact that alcohol had been thrown into the equation made matters worse. I felt edgy and nervous, trying to suppress the feelings in my brain. I hoped Jackson couldn't tell. It was bad enough that I had been scared of the squirrel, but if he figured out I was afraid of the Cullens for no apparent reason- I'd seem particularly strange.

Once we had reached my parents' house, Jackson walked me to my door. I thanked him, my tongue fumbling over the syllables, and concentrated on keeping my legs straight. Before I could reach for the door, he leaned in and tried to kiss me. Though he was generally handsome, I wasn't in the mood to be kissed- my heart was still weak from being so frightened by the squirrel, from walking past the Cullen's in the dark- so I turned my head slightly. He caught the corner of my lips and pulled away, looking embarrassed.

"Good night, Mr. Jackson," I said, because- I realized- I didn't know his last name, and hurried into the house.

My parents were sitting in the parlor when I entered.

"Did you walk home, Rosalie?" my mother asked over her book.

"Patrick's friend w-walked me home," I managed to say, realizing how dry my mouth was.

I wanted a drink of water. My head felt as if it was being pressed on all sides, and there was a painful thudding between my eyes. Though I tried my hardest to focus my sight on my parents, my vision was blurry, and my mind was swaying dangerously. As I tried to keep my balance, the instability of the whole night made my stomach lurch and bubble noxiously. I pressed my lips together, because I suddenly felt like gagging.

Father looked up from his paper, asking, "What friend?"

"Jackson," I quickly said, shutting my mouth again.

"Who's Jackson?"

I swallowed hard, answering, "Patrick's friend- He goes to school in the city."

"Is he nice?"

"Yes," I said hurriedly, wanting to be in my room, on my bed, under the covers, with the windows open.

Mother, who always noticed everything about her favorite, peered at me and asked, "Are you feeling all right, Rosalie? You look a little flushed."

This made Father look away from his paper again, peering at me from over his glasses.

"I don't feel so well," I said, swallowing down the bile threatening to rise in my throat.

Mother stood and walked over to me, putting a hand on my forehead. "You feel warm," she said. She sniffed, "Rosalie, you smell like brandy."

I swallowed again.

"What?" Father almost barked.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked.

I was sure my stomach was roiling in my middle just to punish me for having the alcohol. As much as I wanted to answer my parents, I couldn't open my mouth without vomiting everywhere.

"Rosalie."

I shook my head, my lips pressed together.

"What's that smell then?"

Please, leave me alone, I wanted to say.

My father stood then, "You'll answer your mother when she asks you a question."

"It's-" I swallowed. "Perfume and car fumes- We were looking at-" I swallowed. "Patrick's car."

They stared at me. I knew they didn't believe me, but it seemed like they didn't want to believe I'd drink either.

"I don't feel very-" swallow, "well." Gulp, shiver. "I think I'm going to-" double gulp, "-go to bed."

Before they could protest I all but ran up the stairs and into the bathroom. I ripped off my coat, scarf, hat, and gloves, shaking the whole time. And my stomach roared angrily as I tried my hardest to keep everything down. But it didn't work. I couldn't even make it to the toilet. I threw up right into the sink, the alcohol burning all the way up- just as it had down.