Something She's Not Telling Us - Darcey Bell Page 0,26
checks the app that finds Daisy’s inhaler. Once again she gets nothing—and panics all over again.
Erzilie, the Uber driver, is a middle-aged Haitian who handles her RAV4 confidently and well. She has a soothing presence, and it takes all of Charlotte’s willpower not to tell her that she is in terror.
Her daughter has been taken (she’ll avoid the word kidnapped, for now) by her brother’s girlfriend. It could turn out to be nothing. It could be a tragedy. At the moment she can’t tell. She’s in mortal fear. She can’t help it.
The driver will sympathize. She’ll shake her head and make soft, kind noises at Charlotte and maybe aim an angry growl at the brother’s rogue girlfriend. But will that mean she’ll drive faster?
Charlotte wants and doesn’t want that. She doesn’t know what she wants. She wants this not to be happening.
Waze’s bright, soothing electronic voice warns Erzilie (and Charlotte) in advance of what they are supposed to do, then reassures them that they haven’t made a mistake. The voice tries to make the long torturous drive seem like fun. Let’s take Nassau Avenue!
For a few seconds, Charlotte’s terror subsides. She wonders how often people remark on how the neighborhood’s changed. Then Charlotte remembers the pleasure of being in a car with Eli and Daisy, and a dentist drill of fear grinds at the back of her throat.
In their woolen caps pulled low and their big dark overcoats, the hipsters look like the old Polish people whose neighborhood they’ve overtaken. Camouflage, thinks Charlotte.
Charlotte calls Eli, but he doesn’t pick up. Maybe he’s talking to the police. More likely he’s waiting on hold, yet another thing he is better at than she is.
The weathered vinyl-sided houses are so identically grimy and dull that the driver passes the address and continues for an entire block before they realize she’s overshot their destination. She tells Charlotte she has a pinched nerve and doesn’t like to twist around and back up, but she can drive around the block and get it right on the next try.
Charlotte says no thanks, that’s fine, it’s only a block.
She can use the walk.
She gets out of the car and runs.
6
November, Five Months Earlier
Ruth
I’m not sure if Charlotte likes me, and when I’m uncertain, I babble. Later I can’t remember one word I said. She seemed friendly enough over coffee. If she hadn’t wanted to leave work, she could have said no. Her assistant seemed annoyed. Obviously, they were busy, and I tried not to keep Charlotte away too long.
She hugged me goodbye, an impersonal hug but better than a handshake. I decided to stop by my office; then I went back home to wait for Rocco.
Sometimes Rocco seems totally present, sometimes not so much. Sometimes he seems to like me; sometimes I drive him crazy. Already I worry that Rocco is bored and planning to leave me. I honestly don’t know what I’ll do when he tells me it’s over.
I don’t trust myself not to let things get out of hand.
I decide to ask Granny Edith. It’s surprising how well she understands modern guys. She always gives me good advice—usually: Dump him, Ruthie!
Watching her roll out the dough for a chicken potpie comforts me as I describe dinner at Charlotte’s house. I leave out the awkward moments. Why make Granny feel embarrassed on my behalf?
Granny says it might be helpful to understand Rocco’s history. I say he doesn’t understand it, so how can I? She says women can understand things men can’t.
I tell Granny Edith that Daisy is the only one who likes me. Her mom keeps insisting that she’s shy, but she isn’t shy with me. I keep having this weird feeling that I know Daisy better than her mom does. And Daisy looks so little like either of them—I sometimes wonder if she was adopted and they’re keeping it a secret.
Whenever I think about Charlotte and Daisy, I think about the poor young mother who got murdered in her own home, not far from Granny Edith’s.
“Is the door locked?” I ask.
“I think so,” she says. “Ruthie . . . leave the little girl alone, or you’ll make the mother hate you.”
“I like the little girl. I like her best of all.”
“Fine. But don’t let on. The mom will never trust you. Do you really want to know the way to these people’s hearts? Through their stomachs. They care about food.”