so close to hope

XIII

You hadn't been at Roseanne and Lisa's for very long when Roseanne declared that Friday evenings were to be what she called "vintage movie nights."

At the time you didn't really get what she meant but -- like anything Roseanne suggested -- you were excited about it. One day the three of you drove up to Roseanne's mom's house (even though she wasn't home, since she was still working at a hospital in Africa) and collected a box full of rectangular, plastic "videotapes" and a dusty machine called a "VCR."

While Roseanne and Lisa selected the tapes they wanted, you took a moment to wander around the first floor of the house. It was large and airy, with creaky wooden floors and white crown moulding, and you could imagine how grand it must have been back when it was brand new.

Not that it wasn't grand now, in a modern sort of way -- the stone counters were cold and smooth under your fingertips, and you could practically see your reflection in the stainless steel appliances. Still, it was difficult to envision your Roseanne growing up here.

Then you saw it -- a framed photo above the mantle, positioned just where a photo of you, Roseanne, and Lisa sits back at home. In this one, a younger Roseanne is in the center, all smiles and sunburnt cheeks. She's resting her head on the shoulder of a man, who's looking down at her like he's never been happier than in this moment. On Roseanne's other side is Claire -- you recognize her from photos at home -- who's standing with her arms wrapped around the two of them, head thrown back like someone just told the most hilarious joke.

It made you feel sad and happy all at once.

"That was back at our old house," Roseanne said from behind you. "My mom moved here after he died. We took that photo not long before his car accident, actually."

Her voice sounded hollow, and it scared you. You wondered if Roseanne has a special empty place in her mind, too, one she can retreat to when it all becomes too much.

"He seems kind," you said. "You look like him."

You felt Roseanne squeeze your shoulder.

"Thanks, kiddo," she said, and she sounded a bit more like herself. "The two of you would've gotten along really well, you know. He'd have loved you."

The thought of Roseanne's dad liking you -- loving you -- filled your chest with pride. You wrapped your arm around Roseanne's waist and rested your head on her shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Oh yeah. My mom always said my dad and I were like two peas in a pod -- we both have great taste. And I love you, so he definitely would've, too."

Ever since you'd learned that Roseanne had lost her dad you'd felt sorry for her, but these past few moments changed your perspective. You wish Roseanne didn't have to lose her dad, but now you knew how lucky she was to have had a father who loved her so very much.

You look up at her, and she's smiling down at you like she's never been happier than in this moment. (Like the way she always looks at you.) (And Lisa.)

In the book you're reading -- a large hardcover you borrowed from Roseanne's office -- there's a line about how the people you love never truly leave you. Here, in her mother's empty house, you finally understand what that means.

***

It took some frustration and a trip to Best Buy to get the VCR hooked up to the flat screen in the living room, but once Lisa finally got it working Roseanne picked her up and twirled her around in the middle of the carpet.

You knew Lisa hadn't seen most of the video tapes in the box, nor did she have the same positive association with them as Roseanne -- with her happy childhood -- but when Roseanne set her down Lisa was flushed and beaming. Not for the first time you wondered if Roseanne's enthusiasm has transitive properties, because you were welling with anticipation, too.