Something She's Not Telling Us - Darcey Bell Page 0,34
soft crackle in her breathing got louder and harsher until it shrilled like a police whistle. That was how it sounded to Charlotte. Daisy stared at her mother. Gagging, frightened, she began to cry. Her little face turned pink, then red, then a horrifying purple.
Charlotte thought she was going to faint. She was useless, totally useless. Then some instinct kicked in. She scooped up Daisy and ran to get Holly. They piled into Holly’s car and drove to the hospital in Albany. Holly felt responsible because her garden display included ragweed, to which many people are allergic but which looked lovely with the dahlias. She’d been thinking of pulling out the ragweed, and now she definitely would. She told Charlotte she was sorry.
“It’s not your fault,” said Charlotte. Charlotte couldn’t help thinking that it was her fault. Her punishment.
The ER doctor gave Daisy some sort of steroid, and she recovered quickly.
But it’s taken Charlotte longer to recoup, if she ever has. Well, it’s hardly the worst that could happen. Asthma can be managed. Inhalers, doctors’ visits, nebulizers, better vacuum cleaners. Caution. It was good to be cautious. Charlotte hates the idea of her daughter suffering. But if she can draw a lesson from this, it’s a warning about watchfulness, about not letting down your guard.
There’s a shower in the back of the shop, and Charlotte changes clothes before she picks Daisy up after school. At home, purifiers ensure that the air they breathe is as clean as the water they buy in gigantic bottles. It’s another expensive option of privilege. But how would they feel if they cut corners and something happened? It’s why Charlotte is often happy to get out into the dirty city air. She’s like a dog sniffing everything, even the car exhaust and whatever rots under the sidewalk in the summer.
Once, Eli asked Charlotte if she thought Daisy might be exaggerating her symptoms to get attention. It started the ugliest argument they ever had. He accused her of having lost her sense of humor, and Charlotte said hurtful, possibly unforgivable things about his work in the theater.
CHARLOTTE WOULD LIKE to have a rescue inhaler in every room. But Daisy’s pulmonologist, the ironically named Dr. Ash, is a Puritan about prescribing them. He says it’s wasteful. They expire. Also, he says, having just one, or even two, helps the child grow up into an adult who will take responsibility for her own health. Five seems early to start training a future adult to be in charge of her breathing. But Charlotte and Eli still hope that Daisy will grow out of it.
Early one morning, Eli calls Charlotte at work. “Don’t push the panic button. But Daisy’s starting to wheeze, and I cannot find the fucking inhaler.”
Charlotte says, “Look for it. You have to find it.”
“I know what I have to do, Charlotte. And I already looked. Do you think I would be calling you otherwise? You’ve got the app on your phone.”
How could Charlotte forget? She finds her phone and opens the app and presses LOCATE.
“Wait a second,” Eli says. “Listen. Hang on.”
Charlotte hears footsteps. Then a noise. As Eli walks through the loft, the beeping gets louder. Charlotte’s phone shows a cartoon man approaching a cartoon bunny under a sign that says: 30 seconds!!
Thirty seconds later, Eli says, “Gotcha!”
Charlotte’s phone says: Device located. The bunny icon is bouncing.
“Where was it?”
“Under the plastic hippo in that pail she plays with in the tub. Let me get Daisy off to school. Then I’ll call you back.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” says Eli. “I love you. Isn’t it weird that crazy Ruth is saving our asses?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte says. “The last girlfriend stole things, and this one finds lost things. I’d say things are looking up. Or, anyway, leveling out.”
CHARLOTTE HASN’T SEEN Rocco for weeks when he walks into her shop. He looks happy, relaxed.
Rocco says, “I come in peace, with flowers.” He’s holding two large pails packed with long-stemmed sunflowers in a range of colors. “Hydroponically grown. Andrew John’s latest science experiment. Say what you will, the guy’s amazing.”
Charlotte flinches every time she hears Andrew John’s name. She tries not to think about him. Rocco is okay with working for the guy who bought their farm; she should be fine with the fact of his existence. She herself doesn’t want all that land, all that responsibility. But still . . . why does he have all that money? Why not them?
Rocco says, “Alma, can you give me a hand with these?