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The view from the window stretching high over Rose’s bed was picturesque in the daytime. At night, bathed in the light of a waxing moon, it was ominous. Towering pines bordering an immaculately kept yard became oppressive and dark where in the daytime they had seemed inviting to her in their mysteriousness. The laboratory in the distance, built tall and imposing and peeking just over the treetops, was the only other building for miles. She knew for a fact it was empty because her mom said she was the only person that really worked there, and the lights in the windows weren't indicators of occupancy. She had no idea what the inside looked like, but she imagined it was filled with sparking wires and humming beakers like in cartoons.
Rose spent a brief moment staring out at the forest before she wriggled out of the twisted puzzle she had made of her covers and slipped out of bed. Jaspers usually slept under it on a pile of old clothes that she had kicked there in protest of their offensively bright, ugly colors and patterns. He liked playfully swatting at Rose’s ankles when she walked by. Jaspers had disappeared, though, in the middle of their therapy session a week ago. They hadn’t been able to find him since. Rose kept filling his food bowl with fresh wet food, anyway, and leaving treats out around his favorite spots in the yard in the hope of enticing him back with snacks. She didn’t understand how he’d just disappeared before her eyes, but it fascinated her. It had looked like teleportation. Like magic.
Jaspers had been in her dream. At least, she thought so, anyway. Most of the actual details had left her the moment her eyes had snapped open, chest heaving and sweat pooled on her lower back like she’d been running across the yard. Thinking about it made her stomach twist unpleasantly. She wanted her mom.
Outside her room, the hallway was quiet. Sometimes, Rose heard her mom up at odd hours, vacuuming all around the ground floor. She wondered what messes could possibly need cleaning that late; the house was always so pristine and white, like an art gallery, that it was hard to imagine it becoming dirty at all. Maybe it was spurred from spilling another one of her special off-limit drinks, the kind that smelt like the cotton balls she would use to rub off the pale lavender polish from Rose’s fingernails when it was time to apply a new coat. Or maybe mom just did all her cleaning at night. Maybe she had trouble sleeping sometimes, too.
The hallway was illuminated softly by the moonlight that streamed in from the tall window in the alcove between Rose’s room and the observatory. Which was helpful, because her mom’s room was all the way down the hall, across the house.
She wrung the hem of her sleep t-shirt with clammy hands as she shuffled her way down the hall, bare feet quiet on the cold floor. As she passed the stairs she thought about how the constant, low whooshing of the water passing under their house always seemed louder at night. She was so used to it that she often tuned it out, like the humming of electricity, but it was calming. Maybe she could sleep on the couch, where it was loudest.
Rose passed the door leading to the observatory and turned into the hall that led to her mom's room. She paused, though, after two more steps.
There was a sound from the bathroom. Something wet hitting something solid. A gagging noise that broke off into a cough, and another wet squelch. It turned Rose's stomach just to hear it--like Jaspers coughing up a hairball, but worse.
At five years old, a small part of Rose had assumed moms just don't get sick. So the sight she found after stepping into the doorway confused her as much as it worried her.
"Mom?"
The hunched form of her mother grunted, bare arms tensed up around the side of the toilet. Slowly, she turned around, lidded gaze first passing over then refocusing on Rose in the doorway. Her makeup was smudged and her skin was ashen. She looked tired. More tired than Rose had ever seen her. Worse than that, to Rose, was that she looked annoyed.
Standing in the doorway in her loose pajamas, finding her mother stripped to her skirt and bra as she cradled the toilet in the dark, Rose felt suddenly very small.
"Rosie,” mom finally said. “What are you doing uhhhpsh," she cut herself off abruptly, squeezing her eyes shut. She pressed the back of one hand to her mouth, letting out a small burp that made her shiver. "Up, baby?"
"I had a nightmare," she replied, quietly, hesitant. "Are you okay, mom?"
"I'm s'fine," she waved her hand dismissively. "Go back to bed. I'll. Ugh," she paused and covered her mouth again. "Mama'll come tuck you in, in jus' a minnit."
"But you're….I can get the thermometer and a wet rag and a bucket and," Rose stepped forward, reaching a hand out. "And you can…sleep on the couch so–"
"Shh, shh, fuck," mom groaned, pinching at the skin between her eyes. She reached for the turned-over flask that had been sitting half-hidden behind one of her legs with the other hand, grabbing at the air a few times before successfully wrapping her fingers around it and pulling it closer. "Just shush, babe. Give mommy a minute."
Rose stopped and pressed her lips into a tight, unhappy line. Her hand fell to grab at her shirt.
Her mom took a swig from her flask, swishing the drink around her mouth before spitting into the toilet. She sighed heavily, closing the lid and flushing.
"Vodka's jus' as good as a mouthwash," she told Rose, tucking the flask into her bra. "Ish a life hack."
Rose didn’t know how to reply, so she stayed silent.
“C’mon, then, let’sh,” mom grunted, bending an arm to brace against the toilet so she could pull herself up to a standing position. Or she attempted to, anyway. Her legs shook and she stumbled back to her knees before she got herself more than a few inches off the ground. Rose dropped her shirt and lurched forward with her arms out, as if her tiny body could hope to hold up the full weight of her mother.
“Mom–”
“Fuck, whoops,” mom laughed, but it didn’t sound happy. “Mm, okay, okay, come here, baby.”
For a split second, Rose hesitated, hands held awkwardly in front of her body. It was enough to make mom frown at her.
Rose walked forward and dropped to one knee on the floor of the bathroom by her mom. The tile was unpleasantly cold against her skin, but the hands that reached out and pulled her closer were warm and soft. Mom scooted them backward to lean her own weight against the wall rather than the toilet. Then, though Rose felt she was getting too big for it, she let her mom arrange her body into a comfortable position in her lap.
“Go ahead ‘n’ tell me…tell me about your dream,” she said, rubbing Rose’s back. Her breath ghosted across Rose’s face. It was warm and pungent and gross, so Rose buried her face into her mom’s neck instead. “We’ll make it alls kinds of better here jus’ talking it out, then we’ll get you back to bed, ‘kay?”
So Rose did. Slowly, piecing together what she could remember of it all, how it made her feel, how she woke up feeling like she was spilling out of herself. Her mom hummed occasionally through it, going from rubbing to patting to just resting her arm on Rose’s back. The steady beat of her mom’s pulse against Rose’s ear was more calming than even the sound of the waterfall.
After a while of narrating, Rose reluctantly pulled away from the warmth of the cocoon she had made of herself against her mom. “So, I think that…mom?”
Mom’s eyes were closed. Her lips were parted slightly as she breathed, a slow in-and-out, and her hand had fallen from Rose’s back the moment she had moved.
Rose waited a moment to be sure, but her mom made no move to respond or open her eyes. She was fully asleep. Rose felt frustrated, unsure when exactly she had fallen asleep.
Her eyes drifted to the flask tucked between their chests, poking out from the fabric of her mom’s bra. Slowly, filled with curiosity, Rose pulled it loose. She kept her eyes on her mom's face the whole time, making sure she didn’t wake up as she opened it and sniffed. She recoiled immediately. It smelt even stronger than her mom’s breath. Why did she drink this? It smelt almost dizzyingly terrible. It made her loud and silly, usually, which made her pretty funny to Rose–but she’s seen her clumsy and cursing and crying while drinking it, too. Did it just taste good enough to be worth it?
Unscrunching her nose, Rose took a sip.
Immediately, Rose spat it back out, directly onto her sleeping mother. She bluh’ed, slapping a hand over her mouth and watching her mom wide-eyed. Still, she didn’t wake up.
Removing her hand from her mouth she stuck her tongue out again as if the air would dispel the taste of it. She looked at the flask again, frowning. She closed the clasp on it and set it carefully against the wall beside them.
She thought about what to do now. She could go back to bed by herself, but then her mom would be alone. The air was cold, and if she wasn’t sick before, sleeping on the tile while half-dressed would probably get her there. It felt…sad, to think about leaving her there, but she couldn’t move mom on her own, and it didn’t look like she’d be getting up any time soon.
Rose stood up on wobbly knees and felt the strain on her legs from the cramped position they’d been in. She left the bathroom at a faster speed than she had entered it, going back to her room and pulling the comforter off her bed. She dragged it all the way back down the hall with her, bundling it into a fat ball against her chest, until she reached the bathroom.
Setting it beside her mom, she climbed back in her lap carefully, trying to stretch out while keeping some of the fabric between her body and the floor. She wrapped them both up as best as she could with the rest of it, taking the grunt and sigh her mom let out as she wiggled closer in her sleep as a sign that Rose had made the right choice.
Biting her lip, Rose finally laid her head down on her mom’s chest, and let herself be lulled into a dreamless sleep.
…
The next morning, Rose woke up alone in her own bed.
She did her usual rounds that had become routine in the last week: peeking under her bed, checking the backyard, the front yard, and the kitchen. Jaspers still wasn’t home.
Her mom came into the kitchen while she was dumping the day-old wet food into the trash and rubbed her palm against the crown of Rose’s head absentmindedly. She didn’t say anything about last night all throughout their breakfast of toast (with orange juice, for Rose, and with a martini, for her mom). She left for the day after that, as she usually did, leaving Rose to her violin lesson and writing prep tutor. Rose didn’t mention it to either of her teachers, though she thought about it.
It just felt like something she shouldn’t share.
It wasn’t the first incident she’d kept tucked away from other adults about her mother, though it felt bigger than the ones before. She worried that it wouldn’t be the last.