Chapter Summary: She missed it? After I had Edward-fag-boi-Cullen in me? Disgusting! So that means I have to do this ... again? Well, she won't miss it this time, thank God! There's no way I'll do it a third time. No. Wait... She's backsliding now? Wonderful.
"Rosalie?" I said, as I reached toward her back tentatively.
Her whole body was shaking. She was crying? I swear to God, if I ever see that Edward again, I'm gonna take a shotgun to his face. See how he likes buckshot acne, the bastard, and no, I'm not saying that affectionately, either!
As I went to touch her back, to comfort her, she whipped around so fast the air sang in surprise.
"Whoa!" I shouted, and sat down, hard, into the snow.
"Did you see it?" she demanded. Her face was pinched with fury, as she glared at me with her pitch-black eyes.
"Uh, what?" I asked, shocked, because I'm all super-intelligent like that.
"Did you see the lie?" she demanded, intensity radiating from her entire being. She sat, no: she perched on the log, like a raptor, ready to strike.
"Yes," I said, as I picked myself up and dusted off my heinder. I saw it, all right.
Her eyes narrowed.
Oh, no. Old Rosalie was back.
... not that she's old person-old, but you get what I mean.
"What did you see?" she demanded.
This time, I was ready for the interrogation. This time, I saw it.
"Edward," I said, "he told you he loved you, didn't he? Right? But he doesn't. He didn't. And he said he'd 'phone, but he's not gonna do that either! He left you, even after you beg-..." — oops, Rosalie doesn't beg — "that is, even after you pleaded with him to stay, but he was like 'no, I'll see you tomorrow,' and he won't, the big liar, I saw it, alright!"
Rosalie stared at me open-mouthed.
Oops, not good. That wasn't the pleased-with-my-insight look.
"That's what you saw?" Rosalie asked incredulously.
She looked at me expectantly, then prompted: "Was that all you saw?"
She kept staring at me. So after a moment, I said, "Um ..."
What did she want me to say? That I hated him? That he was a jerk? That ... oh ... I blushed.
"No, Rosalie," I said sadly, "I also saw ..."
Her eyebrows creased as she waited, then she said, "Yes ...?" hopefully.
There actually wasn't that much hope in her 'yes,' though.
I'll just have to blurt it out.
"Rosalie, I'm sorry, okay?" I said quickly. "When you said you and Edward didn't work out, I didn't know it was because of me. I'm sorry, okay? If I had known that you two were like ... that, when he came around I would've told him to ... to ... " — to fuck off? I could think that now, but to say that out loud? Just like Rosalie Hale from New York? No, I couldn't say that out loud — "... to go packing," I continued, helplessly, "and to go back to ... you know ... to you because ..."
Rosalie's face just kept getting more and more surprised and more and more grave. Suddenly she held up her hands.
"Stop, baby, stop, stop, please!" she commanded.
She looked so disappointed.
Then she put her head into her hands and blew out a long sigh.
"You missed it," she said quietly. "You missed it all, and I did all that and you ..."
I just watched as she collapsed onto her back on the bed ... I mean, on the tree trunk, her hands covering her eyes.
I looked down, ashamed and confused. What did I miss? I saw it so clearly: Edward was a jerk. What else did she want me to see? That I stole him away. What else was there to it? I had no idea. I was ashamed that I stole Edward from her, and now I'm ashamed that that wasn't what I was supposed to see.
"Are you..." I asked sadly. Then I cleared my throat and tried to speak a little louder so Rosalie could hear me, because she was just so lost in herself and so disappointed in me.
That's it: she's disappointed in me.
"Are you disappointed that you ... well, asked me to be an equal?" I said. "Do you regret that?"
Rosalie was silent for a while, her arm over her eyes, her naked bottom just ... spread out to me, I could see everything, but it wasn't sexual at all, it was a look of her complete and utter defeat at my hands, ... at the hands of my stupidity in missing everything.
She finally murmured, "Wow. One step forward, ten steps back. Next you'll be taking back your belief? And your hope, too?"
I shifted from foot to foot.
Rosalie suddenly sat up, propping herself up on her elbows, staring at me, hard.
I couldn't look at her.
"Do you take that back, too?" she demanded.
And then, harshly: "Well?"
I said to the ground, "I don't know what to say, Rosalie."
"Because the answer is 'yes'?" she demanded angrily.
I blushed.
"Baby?" she said softly.
"Rosalie," I said, "Because the answer is I don't deserve it. I don't deserve any of it. I see that now, okay? And ..."
"Wait," she interrupted, "Wait, wait, wait! You say the answer is you don't deserve it, because who told you that?"
"Rosalie," I shrugged, "Nobody told me that, okay? But I see how it is, and I see what I did to you, okay? And I'm sorry, okay? So if you wanna take it back, then, okay. I understand." I said, my heart breaking. "I'm just not ... good enough ... is all."
My chin was trying very hard to stay still, and not quiver. It wasn't doing such a good job.
Rosalie regarded me, then shook her head, disappointment writ large on her face.
"Sweetie," she said softly, "I can't take it back. You have no idea how it is to be me, in this timeless time. Once I say something, it's there forever. I can't take back my offer of equality to you. I can't take back hearing you say I am your hope. I can't take back what I've done to you. I can only go forward. And I can regret saying something, or I can choose not to regret it. That's what I choose."
"What do you regret then?" I asked. She didn't look happy; she looked regretful.
She sighed. "I just wish ..." Then she seemed to change directions and blew out hard. "Baby, did you think I did all this to make you feel sorry? Is that what you think?"
I couldn't look into her critical eyes. I looked away and down, nodding my head.
She was quiet.
"You think I'd be that vicious to you? that cruel, just to make sport of you? that vindictive, just to get back at you?" she demanded.
Then: "You know," she said, hurt in her voice, "that's really a slap to the face: you thinking I just want to hurt you when I'm trying so hard, so hard it hurts me to do this. You think I enjoyed any of that? I've had more fucking cock forced in me than what I'd want in five, no ... now with this fiasco, six lifetimes, but I did this for you to show you, if you got it, something that will give you a way to see the whole fucking world like nobody else does, and you just ..."
I looked at her, and she really did look despondent, she was looking down at the tree trunk, talking to it, digging into it listlessly with her fingers.
"You just throw all that I'm trying to do right in my face saying I'm the kind of person who ... No: that I'm not a person at all, I'm a monster who hurts you just for fun?" She bit her lip.
"Is that how you see me?" she asked, looking at me, sad, angry, hurt.
"Rosalie," I said, agitated, "no! No, please, no! I didn't say any of that, and I didn't mean that at all! Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't know what you're were trying to do, okay? I just saw you and Edward, and you were, like, happy with him, sorta, that is, until he up and left you, so I thought that was what you were trying to show me, and ... maybe ... well, you were so angry back at Ekalaka, and Edward was calling on me, and I saw this and I thought, that ..." I shrugged helplessly. "I thought you were happy with him, kinda, and I ..."
I sighed hard.
"I guess I just screwed it up. I guess ..." I swallowed, looking down.
I come over here to comfort her, because I ruined her life, and I come to find that I screw even that up. I can't even comfort her without getting everything wrong.
"I guess I just screw everything up." I said quietly to the ground.
And I don't even know what she was trying to show me. I just know I missed it all.
"And that's how you see yourself: a screw-up?" Rosalie stated this so softly.
My lips twisted into a rictus.
"Remember how I asked you not to denigrate yourself?" she asked.
"Yeah," I laughed softly. "I even told myself that, and now look at me. I can't even do that right. I'm ..."
Fuck.
"I'm ... not up for this, Rosalie. I'm ..."
Oh, my God. I'm crying. Again. I come over to comfort her, because she's crying, and I'm the one who's crying.
"Baby," Rosalie said.
I looked up over to her. She was patting the tree trunk right beside her, my seat.
"C'mon over here," she ordered kindly.
How can she be bossy and nice at the same time?
I kicked at the snow.
"'Kay," I pouted and dithered. "Can you ... can you put on your pants first?"
She smirked and pointed down to them by my feet. She did kinda kick them away from her. I bent down and picked them up and walked over to her, giving her her jeans.
They were a little wet and stained by her crotch, and they smelled so strongly of her scent: sweet, floral, heavenly.
She took them and slipped them on, buttoning her fly in quick, economical movements and smiled up at me.
I sunk down beside her, looking at the snow, waiting for the gentle lecture about what a failure I was.
Would she send me to bed without supper ... or even lunch, I guess?
She put her arm around my shoulder.
"Hey," she said, gently.
Yeah. The gentle scold. Sometimes I think the gentle scold hurts more than her anger and shouting. Not that I preferred that. I kinda wished for neither, but then I'd have to be a person who didn't need neither, and I guess I just didn't measure up, and that's why I was here, being scolded.
"Hey," I said dejectedly.
"So," she said, all mature, "just so you know that I know: you're not on the safe side anymore. You came across, even though I told you not to, right?"
"Yeah," I sighed. Whee. Broke another rule. Joy.
"And just so you know, that was really, really stupid, you know that?" she asked gently.
"You don't go near a vampire when it's feeding, and you don't go near one when it's fucking," she explained. "It's like automatic: you go near one doing that, they attack, you die. That's it. A vampire so reduced to their most primitive state is worse than an animal gone rabid, and it attacks and kills anything that comes near it. And you just walked right over here. When I said safe side, I meant safe side, and you just threw that out the window and marched right over here, didn't you? You do know you were throwing your life away, didn't you? Or did you know that?"
"Rosalie, I don't know," I said, sighing heavily. "And I didn't care. You were hurting, and ... you were so alone, and if that fucking Edward wasn't gonna do anything about it, then I was, 'cause I could, even if I'm not all ... all that to you, at least I coulda ... coulda been with you, you know?"
"My, my!" she exclaimed. "'That fucking Edward,' hm? Such language. Tut-tut!" she tsked.
Suddenly I felt very shy.
"And then there's that little girl's voice saying 'no!' when I opened myself up to him ... hm. Is somebody jealous?" her voice was silky and sly.
My face burned like a brand, and I couldn't look at her.
She continued: "And then that little girl comes over to comfort me after 'that fucking Edward' runs off." Then her voice turned serious: "Baby, so I was hurting, you come over here. Didn't you consider I might just turn and take my hurt out on you?"
I shrugged against her arm. "I didn't care," I said quietly. "I thought ... I knew anything could happen to me, and I didn't care. You were hurting, that's what I cared about."
Rosalie squeezed my arm.
"I know, baby. I saw."
Then Rosalie said: "Thank you."
I looked down at the snow and snuffled.
"Baby?" Rosalie said eventually.
"Yeah?" I said after I wiped my eyes.
"I have a question, and I want you give me your honest answer, okay?"
"Okay," I said.
"You said you're not up for this, us being equals?"
I nodded, and added: "I'm not. I'm sorry, Rosalie. It ... sounded good, but I guess I'm ..."
"Shhh!" she whispered. "Sh-sh-sh."
I guess I'm back to being shushed. I sighed.
After a pause, she asked quietly: "... yet you're willing to throw your life away to rescue me, the poor damsel in distress?"
She asked this so seriously.
I shrugged. "Rosalie, you should have seen yourself. Anyone who had a heart would've done the same thing."
"But it wasn't anyone, was it?" she asked, then answered herself: "It was you."
I bit my lip.
"Okay," she said. "Maybe I was wrong, and maybe you're not ready. Or at least this is your feeling on the matter. I'm not going to take back anything I said. I can't. I won't. But you can. If you're not ready to be my equal, meet me measure, for measure, then you, little human, can back away from what you accepted earlier."
I heaved a sigh of relief. "I think that's best, Rosalie. I... I'm just not up for it."
"Ah, ah, ah!" she scolded. "Not so fast! Hear me out first before you jump into or out of something of which you only have vague notions."
"Why?" I asked. I mean, seriously: why bother? I'm so not up to being Rosalie's equal, obviously. So what's the point of an explanation?
"Sweetheart," Rosalie responded gently, "you're making a choice here, and either way has serious consequences, so let me tell you what you're committing to before you choose, so you can make an informed choice because this will guide your life for quite some time."
She paused thoughtfully. "I thrust this rôle of equality on you, just expecting you to accepted it, and you did, blindly. But now you see the ramifications, and they are not trivial. I'm giving you a choice now, and I want you to be the one to choose. Not me. And I want you to make the choice knowing what you're choosing, okay?"
"Okay ..." I said cautiously.
Didn't I just say this was all too hard, and now she's offering me a hard choice, instead of giving me an out from all the hardness?
My thought to complain was muted, however. She had her arm around me, and that somehow made everything better, or at least more bearable. And although no tears actually fell from her eyes, she wasn't crying anymore, and that made me feel a lot better, knowing that she knew that's what I came over here for.
"Okay," she said. "So, if you choose that you cannot be my equal, then that is how I will treat you, do you understand me?"
"Yeah," I said, "I guess I do."
"Let me be clear," she said bluntly, "you'd be forfeiting your rights as an independent person: I'd dictate the schedule, I'd tell you what you can read and what you cannot, I'd prepare you're meals, which you'd have to eat, by the way, no more of this skipping meals. I'd determine which hour you go to sleep, put you to bed, and then in the morning tell you when you'd have to have to get up."
I puzzled over that. "Rosalie," I said, "that's exactly how it's been up to now."
"Yes," she said, coolly, "and you'll go right back to that."
I couldn't read her at all.
"Okay ..." I said. I didn't see anything wrong with that.
"So," she said. "You will go back to being a child, and I will be your mother."
I gasped. "Holy shit!"
I pushed her arm off me. She let it fall. I stood up and faced her.
She was glaring at me angrily.
I glared right back, fuming.
"Rosalie," I said, "I'm not a child!"
"Oh, really?" she crossed her arms, not giving an inch.
"Yes, really!" I shouted.
"Then you tell me," she countered fiercely. "What age would you put a person who can't dress herself, who can't go to the potty without supervision, who can't feed herself, who can't bathe herself, who when asked to do simple things — such as learning signs, or writing an essay, or stand in front of a mirror, such simple things! — throws a tantrum and has to be forced to do these things that she knows are good for her?"
She ticked off each thing as she said them with her fingers, coldly glaring at me as she did so.
I felt the blood draining from my face as she mercilessly hammered home each point, proving what a baby I was.
And I noticed she didn't even touch on me crying all the time.
She could have been mean about it, but she was just factual, and she knew that by just being factual that she had so much proof there was nothing I could say in my defense.
"I'm not a child, Rosalie," I mumbled, kicking at the snow.
"I'm not a child, Rosalie," she whined right back, repeating my words and exactly how I said them, showing me what a baby sounds like.
Then she asked again, harshly: "What age?"
I blushed. "S-seven, I-I guess."
She snorted. "Yes, 'seven' if you're pushing it, but, okay: seven. So you will be a seven year old girl, and I will be your mother, and that's what you choose to go right back to, if you cannot handle being my equal."
I just stared at her. Was she serious? She couldn't be serious.
"What?" I demanded, "will I have to call you 'mommy,' too?"
She waved carelessly. "You may, if you wish. Whether you do or you don't, it will not change the nature of the relationship."
She was serious.
I shook my head. "Why are we even having this conversation?"
She leaned forward, interlacing her fingers into tightly clasped hands. "Listen to me. Your life is at a juncture, right here, and right now, and I am giving you the choice as to which way it goes, and whatever you choose, I will honor your choice."
"But why, Rosalie?" I said. "Why even ask? I mean, I see no downside to this."
She tilted her head to one side, looking at me quizzically. "You see no downside?" she asked in confusion.
"Yeah," I said. "You get exactly what you always wanted. You get to be a mommy, and you get a little girl you can dress up and boss around and ..."
My throat was tight. "So, why even ask? You're holding all the cards; you can do whatever you want."
"Ah," she said. "You're looking at it from my perspective."
I wondered what she meant. "How else would I look at this as?"
"Well, it is your choice, sweetheart," she said gently. "You could try looking at it from yours."
"What could I possibly get out of that?" I demanded as I waved angrily toward her and her 'choice.'
"You get everything you want, and you won't have to confront the things you've just said you cannot handle: you won't be burdened with making hard choices, as that responsibility is mine as the parent. You'll be served meals, be provided clean clothes, you'll be entertained with the books you like to read. I'll even read you bedtime stories, and not even scary ones at that, and tuck you into bed, just as you have begged me to do. I will do that for you, gladly. I will keep you safe and warm, just as I have been doing up to now, which is much more than most people in this country can aspire to. You will be my child. And I will love you."
I gasped in shock.
"... I will love you as my child, that is." She added quickly, looking away.
Okay. Where do I sign up?
"But," she resumed menacingly. "This," she waved up and down toward me, "rebellion to everything I do for you and demand of you? That has to stop. As a child, you yield your responsibilities as an adult, you also give up your rights. What I say, goes, and you have to go along with it, or else there will be consequences. A child has no discipline, intrinsically, so I will provide it, and you must obey."
"'Consequences'?" I ask fearfully, not believing this turn.
"Yes," she glared at me. "Do you remember telling your mother 'No!' when she told you do something? Do you remember how she took that? What did she do?"
My mouth was dry.
"I actually, ..." I whispered and cleared my throat, "I don't remember ... it's been ... a long time ..."
"Let me help you there," she scowled. "You say 'holy shit' like you just did? What do you think me, as a mother to my seven year old daughter, would do if I heard you say that?"
I blushed. "Uh ..."
She glared.
"Uh, you wouldn't be ... happy?" I ventured.
Her eyes narrowed to slits. "That's putting it mildly," she hissed, then coldly laid it out: "I'll spell it out for you again. You give me attitude, or back talk like that, if you can't handle this equality-shit? You say something like that? I will wash your mouth out with soap and water, then you'll be over my knee until you learn in your very being what's acceptable and what's not, and then you'll be grounded until I've gotten my cool back, which may be a day or may be much longer than that: no reading, extra chores, and I'm talking hard labor with even more consequences for a half-assed job, the whole works. This is no joke."
I shuddered in place. "Wait. You're going to spank me?" I squeaked.
Her cold stare was all I got.
"Rosalie," I said, as reasonably as I could. "You can't do that."
"I can't to my equal, no," she said. "But you back away and be a little girl? Fine. You be good, no problem. But you try me ...?"
She glared at me again. "Better yet," she added. "Don't try me. You won't like it."
"But, Rosalie," I complained, "you just said 'shit' when you were saying I can't say that. And then you'll turn around and spank me for that? That's not fair!"
"That's not fair!" she whined again, perfectly imitating me, then snorted and bore down, snarling: "Spoken like a true seven year old. Well done, you're falling right into your new rôle perfectly."
"Well," she added harshly, "here's something you may not know: life isn't fair. I also happened to have smoked when I was human, and, hm, I was fucked by five neanderthals at once. That was so fun." She rolled her eyes angrily. "But swearing, smoking, and fucking are not something that any parent would countenance from their child, even though they, themselves do just that regularly. Deal with it. Because you do any of that as my child that you now choose to be and mommy-Rosalie will so ..."
Pure fury was writ on her face and she balled her hand into a fist, punching her open hand with a thunderclap that shocked the air around her.
"Uh," I said stupidly. "You smoked?"
You weren't supposed to do that. Only loose women smoked.
She glared. "Drank, too. I wasn't one of the poor, superstitious lower-class immigrant workers just off the boat without papers coming as far as Rochester when they couldn't find work in the 'Foreigners Need Not Apply' city. We hired those for a dime an hour. We were even kind employers: giving them their meals and providing a roof over their heads in our servants quarters, instead of letting them starve and sleep on the streets."
Then she, the ultra-rich upper class goddess, glared at me, the poor, not-quite-off-the-boat German girl.
"Okay," I said, wincing. "Ouch."
She shrugged. "They were thankful for the employment. They knew their place." She added dismissively.
Okay, really ouch.
"Why do you wince?" she demanded. "You want this, then you have to know what you're getting into. Those people knew their place. You have to know yours. I'm doing something nobody does for anybody. I am spelling exactly what you are getting into. If you choose that you can't handle being an adult, then you will be treated as a child. And you have it clearly spelled out, the good, the bad ... everything."
I shuddered. "It's just ..." I couldn't believe this was a real conversation. "It's just I ..."
"It's just that you can't handle being an adult." She shrugged. "Well, you now know what it is to be a child ... my child. You choose one or the other."
"But, Rosalie ..." I complained.
"But, Rosalie ..." she mimicked.
Okay, that's really annoying. I had had enough.
"Rosalie," I snapped, "stop it. Stop that right now."
She snorted. "Why? If you're going to be a child ..."
"Rosalie," I cut in, "a parent doesn't do that to her child. You simply can't disrespect me like that, no matter who I am nor who you think I am. It hurts. And you have responsibilities. You can't just walk all over me because, um, you can..."
Oh, shoot! That was a kinda weak finish. And I thought I had something going with her being so mean about all this.
She paused. "You're right," she admitted. "I will have responsibilities. You see me as cruel, hard? I am. But before you saw it as what I was getting? You missed everything I will be losing, and how hard it will be for and on me."
"Rosalie," I said, "you're going to have everything go your way in ..." I waved helplessly "... that. How is that hard for you?"
"Your mother had friends?" she asked.
Oh, that again. Why does she have to rub it in my face that I'm a loser and everybody else isn't?
I kicked at the snow and shrugged.
"Did she? I'm asking a question." Rosalie said.
I sighed, and thought back through the fog of years.
It was hard. But I saw me, ... little tiny seven-year-old-me and there was Ma, and she was at the kitchen table. I couldn't see her face anymore, but she was with a friend, and they were playing cards and laughing with each other.
And shooing me away, ... they wanted their girlfriends time without a little girl getting in their hair.
"Yeah," I said sadly.
"Yeah," she responded, just as sadly, but not spitefully imitating me this time. "She had friends, so she could talk with them, and get adult conversation, and support, dealing with raising a child, which takes every ounce of strength that a woman has. Let me ask you a question: who can I talk to when it gets hard for me?"
I looked into her sad, sad eyes.
"I can't talk to you as an adult, as a friend," she continued, "as you've ceded that. Besides, a child can't take on the burden of her parents. I can't unload you my adult problems because that will only hurt you more, because what can you do about it, except blame yourself, which will only hurt me more when I see you do that. So I have to look after you, care for you, and then what? Shall I escape to the forest when you're fast asleep and talk to the fucking trees for God's sake when I despair that I've totally fucked up everything I've tried to do? That I've so entirely failed you that they ... what? Have to dig a new circle in hell just for me?"
"I-..." I gasped. "I ... didn't see it that way."
"And why would you?" she said. "All you have to be is a good girl. It's all on me from there, because you can't handle this."
She shrugged and kicked at the snow herself, looking despondent.
"I-I'm sorry, Rosalie." I said.
Her face twisted into a pained grin. "That's not even half of it, because when does it end?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"When's your birthday?" she asked right back.
Huh? Did she want to get me a cake?
"Um, September 13th?" I didn't see where this was going.
She nodded. "So in half a year I get to decide whether to put seven or eight candles on your cake, because you acted like you were six and a half, and not seven? Or do take on the mantle of adulthood then?"
"Uh ..." I said.
"When does it end for me?" she asked. "Do you see my predicament? A little girl doesn't go up to her mommy and say, 'I'm all grown up now! I can say that fucking Edward and put on my own panties, so gimme the car keys now, huh?' Right? You ever tell your parents you were all grown up? How did that go over?"
I blushed and shrugged.
She nodded. "Let me guess. It didn't go over well."
I remember telling Pa I was quitting school. I remember his face when I said that. I remember going back to school the next day.
"Yeah," I admitted. "It didn't go over well at all."
"Exactly," she said. "Once you commit to this course, you can't just say, 'ha-ha, Rosalie, I was just kidding about not being able to handle it, I'm good now, so you can lay off the bitchy-mommy shit.' Because that proclamation will just so win me over, won't it? It's the parent that determines the child's maturity."
"So," I said slowly, "you're calling all the shots."
The 'no duh' look from Rosalie wasn't kind.
"But then," she continued sadly, "I say, yup, you're all grown up now, and we're equals, and voilà, I thrust adulthood on you, instead of you taking it, because as a child you're not allowed to, and then you feel the load I place on you. We're right back here, in this lovely little conversation that is just so much fun for me."
The pained expression on her face didn't scream the 'fun' she claimed she was having.
"But, Rosalie ..." I said, and I waited for her to belittle me.
She didn't. She just waited.
"... I mean, okay, ... ick. But ..."
Then I shrugged. "I mean, so you give me this equals thing. And the first thing I do with it is fall flat on my face, and make you cry on a fucking log, because I just so don't see what I'm supposed to, and when I come over here, I do even that wrong, because that's so, so stupid of me!"
"... and brave." she added.
"So, stupid-brave," I said. "Do you see what I mean? You give me equals, and I don't know what it is, and I can't handle it."
"Would you like me to spell it out for you?" she asked reasonably. "It is the other option of your choice, so you should know what you're getting into, should you choose it."
"Yes, please!" I breathed out.
She smiled at me.
I looked back. Then smiled shyly at her, waiting.
Nothing happened.
"Uh, ... Rosalie?" I said. "You're going to explain to me the choice?"
Her smiled widened. "I just did."
"Um ..." I said helplessly.
She snickered.
"So," she said businesslike. "How can I explain what being an adult and being with an adult is like, when you're an adult already, hm? It's like me explaining to you the metabolic processes and expect you to breathe, and your heart to beat from that explanation, right? That's ridiculous!"
"Oh," I said, deflated. "It's just that, you spent about a billion years telling me what it is to be your kid, so I thought you'd give equal footing to being your adult ... um ..." and then I blushed, "... I mean, an adult."
"See?" she said, smiling. "You're not my adult; you're an adult. And the only one who can tell you how to be you is you. But I'll give you an idea of what it's like, okay?"
"Okay," I said. "It'd better not be another silent treatment, though!" and I glared at her.
She laughed easily.
"Okay," she agreed. "It's like this: you don't know what it's like, and you fail, and you see me hurting, and you try to comfort me, and you get that wrong."
"Uh, Rosalie," I said, confused. "That's just what happened."
"Exactly," she said smiling widely. "That's what it is to be an adult. You try, and you fail, and you try again, and sometimes, ... oftentimes ... you get that wrong, too."
Then she looked at me significantly. "Can you handle that?"
My face burned.
"It's just that ..." I said. "It's hard, okay, Rosalie? And you said everything's hard, but sometimes I don't think I can do it ... whatever 'it' is!"
"Can you ask for help?" she asked.
"Yeah ..." I said shyly.
"It's not weak of you to ask for help, you know," she said. "It actually shows that you're strong enough to ask. It shows you're mature enough to allow other people into your life and help, instead of being a little girl and saying 'Look, mommy, I can do this all by myself!'"
I was blushing really hard now, because that's exactly what I thought I had to do to impress Rosalie. I thought I had to do it all myself, to show that I could handle being equal to her.
"Oh," I said weakly.
She rose fluidly, and I looked at her, cautiously.
"Are you ready to choose?" she asked.
I sighed. "I really don't have a choice, do I?"
"Yes, you do." she said firmly. "Your choice is you. It always is. If you aren't an adult, and can't handle the responsibility, then there is no shame in saying that, and in saying that you need an adult to be your parent and guardian. I will do that for you, for as long as it takes, for as long as you need it, even if that's for as long as you shall live. And there's no shame in choosing to be an adult, given that you are one, knowing that you will try, and you will fail, and that you don't need to do it all on your own."
"There's no shame here, sweetheart," she said so gravely. "Just your choice."
"But that's the thing!" I said. "I have to be an adult to choose to know I can't handle being an adult, and I have to be an adult to choose to be an adult. I can't be a kid and say 'I wanna be all grown up!' I can't say that and you take me seriously. You said that to me already! So I have to choose, and I look stupid either way, 'cause I hafta choose to be grown up, but then why did I back out in the first place, huh? Do you see?"
She shrugged. "Good insight," she said easily. "But you're over-thinking it. Just let go, choose, and be happy with your choice."
I sighed. "Okay, Rosalie, I choose to be an adult."
I was just so embarrassed. 'Yeah, I'm not a kid anymore.' How stupid did I look, huh? Besides really stupid.
"Are you ashamed of your choice?" she demanded.
I blushed. "No, Rosalie, I'm not ashamed ..." then I amended. "... I'm trying not to be."
"Good," she said crisply. "Then tell me your choice to my face this time, like an adult, talking to an adult."
I gurgled a laugh.
She just never let anything go, did she?
I squared my shoulders, lifted up my eyes, and looked her dead in hers. "I'm an adult, Rosalie. I choose this."
Rosalie looked at me quietly for a moment, then she bit her lip.
She looked shy. She looked proud.
Then she looked back to me. "Please don't you backslide again, hm?"
"Okay," I said, "I'll really, really ... okay, I'll really try, okay, Rosalie?"
She smiled. "... and you'll fail, and you'll try again, and it's okay, okay?"
"Okay, ... and you'll help, too, huh?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, still smiling. "And I'll fail at that, because I'll get angry at you for failing, because I'm an adult, too, so I'll try, and I'll fail, and try again, okay? I'm in this, too, you know."
Thinking of Rosalie in anyway failing was just so odd for me, but I said a quiet "Okay," and offered a small smile.
She smiled back to me. "Would you like a hug?" she asked gently.
God, I would love a hug! but ...
"... it's not ... I mean," I said hesitantly, "it's okay? It's not childish to want a hug?"
Rosalie's face collapsed as she looked at me.
She sat down, heavily, on the log and waved at me, angrily.
"See?" she demanded. "That! That right there. You're in your head again. You're in your fucking head, and I offer ... God! and you slap me right in the face."
"Rosalie, ..." I said quickly.
"You know what I wish?" she snapped back. "I wish, just for two fucking seconds you'd get out of your fucking head. I asked a simple fucking question. Hug? or no hug. Yes, or no. That's all you needed to say, but then you listen to your fucking voice and you fucking ..."
Her head sank into her hands.
"Rosalie, I'm ..." I pleaded.
Her sad voice wafted over to me, cutting me off. "You were in your fucking head the whole fucking time I was trying to show you the God damned lie that runs everything, to show you what the hell is going on in your fucking life, in mine, in everybody's, and I felt it the whole fucking time. Do you know how fucking hard it is to try to show you something and know you're just missing it all because you're not present to what's happening? Do you?"
She lifted up her head, looked at me, and looked away. "It was just a God-fucking-damn question. 'Do you want a hug?' What is so fucking hard about saying 'yes' or 'no'? But no, you have to analyze it and accuse me as trying to invalidate your choice which I asked you to honor. I mean, seriously, do you see how carelessly you hurt people?"
She looked back at me. "How easily you hurt me? Do you?"
My throat was working, and I was trying really, really hard not to cry. "Yes," I said simply. "I'm sorry."
"No," she said, furious now. "No, if you did see how easily you hurt me, you wouldn't do it, and you wouldn't be sorry, you just wouldn't do it. But there you fucking go, and look for ways to sabotage every kindness offered."
Okay, the holding back the tears wasn't working.
"Rosalie," I breathed out, "I-I'm grateful. I say you're kind, and I'm grateful."
"No," she said. "You say I'm kind for this or I'm kind for that. You don't say what's there; you always add or take away, and both hurt, okay? Both hurt me."
I nodded, helplessly.
And then I tried again. "D-do you want a hug?"
She glared at me.
If her glare could burn, I would've been a cinder.
"Yes," she said coldly.
"Good," I gulped. "'cause I do, too."
She just glared at me, and then stood, radiating anger.
I waited for her to come to me to give me a hug, but she didn't move.
Oh. I offered her the hug this time. I started toward her.
Her hand whipped out, and I flinched.
She was pointing at the cross.
"Safe side," she barked. "You come to me here, and there's no guarantees of what I'll do, do you understand me?"
I looked her, standing so ramrod straight, one yard from me, glaring, furious. I knew what she could do to me. She knew I knew.
I chose.
I walked up to her, and I wrapped her in my arms.
Her arms — the arm that whipped out in anger a second ago — gently wrapped itself around me, and then her other arm did too.
And she crushed me into her, gently, firmly. And she held me into her.
And she didn't let me go.
A/N: Magigong Bagong Taon! Happy New Year from the Philippines. I'll be on a plane all day tomorrow flying to the U.S.A. so I won't be able to respond for a day or two, with the deplaning, unpacking, and jet-lagging.