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I blink. The photo is still in my hands. The cream parchment paper that crinkles when I
touch it sits right atop my fingertips. Strewn across the bed are many more just like it. I blink.
The lights are still off. It has become quite common that our electrical bill goes unpaid. I keep a
flashlight by my bed for this very scenario, which I click on to continue sorting through my stack
of photos. I blink. Staring right up at me is a woman who looks approximately 20 years old. She
smiles at the camera. Her beady blue eyes look like they’re hiding something. Sorrow, maybe.
Below the image sits her name, scrawled in cursive, almost illegible. I move my flashlight closer.
Rosemary Brooks. I blink. Her pile lies diagonal from me. It’s recently become my favorite. The
antique shop has so much of her, God knows why. But I can tell she’s the type of girl who loves
attention. Her red dress, her bright blonde hair. She probably donated them in hopes someone
would use them for their Pinterest board or some crap. I guess she’d be pleased with what I’m
doing. Rosemary, I want to tell her, I know all about you, don’t you worry. I see the way her blue
eyes would widen at the sound of that. I want to tell her, I know. I know that her husband, Zeke,
died two years ago. I know she used to be an actress. I know she has two kids: Maggie and
Genevieve, one who passed when she was only 15. Suicide. I know that her nursing home is two
blocks down from my darkened, bleak apartment. I know that I’m starting volunteering there
next week. I know, deep down, that Rosemary will love me. I just know. I blink. Her smile is
I want to look my best when I meet her. I want to show her, this is me, 15 year old Eve. I
want to look like the kind of girl you see in movies. The kind that adults love, because they’ve
got that thing about them, that sweet teenage girl something. I don’t want her to look at me like
everyone else does, l ike I have some virus they’ll catch if they come too close. So, this time, I
put on a pink shirt with leggings. I think I look like those girls from the movies I’m supposed to
When I arrive, they give me a badge with my name on it. So I can get into the volunteer
break room, they say. The guy at the front desk winks at me as he tells me there’s always donuts
in there, and I can help myself. My voice gets two octaves higher as I ask him where I should be
heading now. That’s what all the teenage girls I know do when they’re talking to adults. I mimic
He points me down a small hallway. There’s posters covering the walls, some with facts
you’d find at the doctors office, and some with inspirational quotes. The floors are this
horrendous yellow color. The fluorescent lights that hang from the ceiling make it that much
more nauseating. At least the power is on. But at the end of the hallway, Rosemary is behind the
door. The door to her room is purple, and a small sign hangs from it that says “Brooks.” It has
She looks just like the pictures, except her face is much more aged. Almost 70 years have
passed. But behind all the wrinkles, the same soft smile remains. And the sadness behind it.
“You must be Eve. They told me I was getting a new aide today!” she says cheerfully.
Even in her ninth decade, she’s wearing a bright blue dress. It’s for the attention, I just know it.
She wraps me into a hug. “It’s so kind that you’re spending your summer helping me.
except for two pictures, one from her wedding, which I’ve seen before, and one of her two
daughters grinning at the camera with ice cream cones in their hand. She sees me looking at it.
“Yes, both of them live just a few towns over,” she says, lying through her teeth.
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I visited her each day. I cleaned for her, I helped her get out of bed each morning, I
helped her dress one foot at a time, as patient as I could possibly be. There’s a certain automatic
friendship that comes out of that. Small talk turns into more than that. She told me about falling
in love with her husband. Being 17 and going dancing. The little things, too. His favorite tuxedo
which she said made him look “Oh so handsome, bringing out that special green color in his
eyes.” His smile, and hers. The way that their eyes locked. The wedding dress she wore. She still
had it in her closet, folded tightly in a box. The birth of their two children. She avoided the
subject of her daughter’s death. I picked at it. Every morning, while I was brewing her tea, I’d
“Oh, I’m sure Maggie and Genevieve will be up sometime next week.” That same smile
came everytime she said it, and the sorrow that flashed just behind it.
We couldn’t be close enough without that final piece of information. I loathed her for not
telling me. As she napped one day, I found a square bin in her closet. I’d been searching quietly
for almost 25 minutes. It was dusty, like it’d existed for years. I opened it, being careful where I
placed my fingers, so the dust would remain. I longed to trace my fingers across it, signing my
name. A stack of pictures was compiled in a rubber band. A letter at the top. I scanned it, looking
for the signature at the bottom. In messy cursive, that could only belong to a teenage girl, was
“Maggie” scrawled across the bottom line. For a second, I pulled my eyes away from the page.
But this was it, the information I’d been waiting for. What happened to you, Maggie? I
wondered. I heard a shuffling outside the door, she must’ve been waking up from her nap. I
quickly stuffed the letter back in, grabbing a few of the pictures for myself, and ran off to help
As I arrived home that evening, I placed the pictures on my bed. Maggie looked like a
carbon copy of young Rosemary. The same soft smile. I added them to my wall. It was almost
completely covered now, with a load of faces I could recognize, and some I couldn’t. Their
stories were the only thing I remembered. The divorcee, Janet, who exclusively listened to jazz,
smirked from the left wall. A young entrepreneur, Dave, who loved to cook, on my right wall.
Each had gone to a nursing home similar to Rosemary’s. Each I’d gotten to know, in some way
or another.
One morning the next week, Rosemary didn’t want to get out of bed, she didn’t want to
drink her tea. And trust me, she loves h er tea. She felt sick, she said. I poked at it, maybe a little
too much, nagging her to tell me what was going on. All she could do was sit there and shake her
I scrunched up my brows, imitating a look of confusion. How could she possibly know I
She squinted at me. “Doll, you haven’t been snooping have you?” She giggled, assuming
nothing but the best from her favorite aide she’s ever had. Her words, not mine.
“Right. It’s odd how I found some photos in your bag the other day, while you went out
I smiled. “That’s strange, small world huh?” Our eyes remained locked.
Her hands clenched onto her bedside table, attempting to push herself out of bed. And
then I saw, sitting right there, was the letter from Maggie. She’d clearly been reading it. It was
scrunched up in a ball.
Her face was a nasty sort of red color as she glared at me. Before any words came out, I
could hear the noise piercing through my skin. And then, she opened her mouth, stumbled out of
bed, and collapsed. Right there, on the floor. Guess she wouldn’t be needing her tea.
Her funeral was simple: plastic fold-up chairs, an old picture from her wedding day on
top of the casket, and the most boring of music. I could tell that there was no one trying too hard
And now, I knew why. I knew that neither of her daughters would be at the funeral. I
knew that Maggie was dead, and that Genevieve had stopped coming around because of it. Oh,
how quickly a family can tear apart. Maggie was dead, because of Rosemary. Dear, old, harmless
Rosemary.
I tried, Mom, I tried. I tried to stop myself. I tried to stop myself from falling for her, but
most of all I tried to stop you from finding out. I tried to make it up to you. I tried to spend
everyday making it up to you. I tried to be your favorite girl again. I tried, Mom. I tried, so, so,
so hard. I saw the way you’d look at me, when you thought I couldn’t see. I tried not to be so
isolated. From you, especially. I tried not to be different. I tried, and you didn’t. This is on you.
You’ll live with this for the rest of your life, Mom.
Two people made speeches at her funeral, her best friend at the nursing home, Roberta,
and me. Roberta’s was short and sweet. She teared up a little talking about the first time they
met. As she stepped down from the podium, and I stepped up, she gave me a little smile, one that
With as much as seven decades of age difference, we didn’t have much in common. But quickly,
we transformed into each other’s family. I was so sad to see her pass so soon after we met. I
know that she’ll always have a special place in my heart.” The audience wiped their tears away
as I finished, met with lots of hugs from people I’d never met before.
As I walked back home that afternoon, in my stockings and dress shoes, I took out the
letter one more time, that sat in my jacket pocket. You’ll live with this for the rest of your life,
Mom. And she did. She was miserable. She lied, with that stupid fake smile. I know she was tired
of living with it. She just needed a little helping out. She needed me to do what I did. And that’s
of money, almost all of her will went straight to me. Or my family, since I was under 18. She had
no family anymore. I was all she had. Ah, poor old Rosemary.
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“You’ll be home more often now?” my mom asks, sitting at the kitchen table.
She smiles. “That’s my girl.” She pauses. “You’ve been having a real rough draw of the
cards recently, honey bun. First Janet, then Dave, and now Rosemary. You’re sure a fighter. It’s
odd they keep putting you with those so close to passing. You’re just a kid. Are you sure you
I blink. Rosemary’s sorrow-filled smile lies in my brain. I blink again, and it’s gone. I see
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