Something She's Not Telling Us - Darcey Bell Page 0,36
department store windows. Wonderlands, Victorian holiday parties, scenes from “The Night Before Christmas.” That pure wonder was what I wanted Daisy to experience when Rocco and I took her to the circus.
I couldn’t wait to see Daisy’s reaction to the opening act, which borrows from Chinese acrobatic ballet, with pyramids of silver-clad gymnasts and rippling silver streamers. Everything is silver because the circus is supposed to be taking place on the moon. There used to be a silver tiger, but I was glad that the animal rights people stopped that. I wouldn’t want to bring Daisy somewhere where there was a wild beast, even in a cage.
I couldn’t remember looking forward to anything as much as I looked forward to the circus. From the minute Rocco told me Charlotte agreed, nothing they did to me at the office bothered me.
When one guy accidentally-on-purpose spilled hot coffee on my desk, I said, “That’s okay. Accidents happen.”
Maybe it wasn’t even all about Daisy. Maybe it was that Rocco cared about me enough to ask his sister, which couldn’t have been easy. She struck me as the type who didn’t trust anyone with her kid, not that I would, with my kid, if I’d had a child like Daisy.
Rocco kept reassuring me that his sister and brother-in-law liked me, that they thought I was good for him. That we were good together. But I wasn’t convinced. I’d had a bad feeling about Charlotte ever since that first dinner at her loft. What a disaster! I’d thought it would be such a nice, friendly gesture to bring them some of Granny’s sticky buns. But as soon as I met them and saw their amazing loft and looked at how Charlotte was eyeing the greasy bag of pastry I was holding, I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. Of course I realized immediately that she’s one of those super-health-conscious moms who’s extremely careful about what her child eats—and who thinks sugar is the devil. After that, nothing seemed to go right. I was so uncomfortable, and everything I said sounded so stupid and trite. I couldn’t wait for the evening to end.
My getting the tracker for Daisy’s inhaler helped some. In fact it had been a big plus. Score one for Ruth. But anyone could have figured that out. Anyone younger than Charlotte and Eli. Or more tech-savvy than Rocco. Anyway, Charlotte said yes.
I wanted things to go right. At first we planned to pick Daisy up at school. Charlotte put us on the pickup list. But when I couldn’t get us tickets for the five o’clock show and we had to go to the seven, we decided we’d get her at Charlotte and Eli’s loft and take a car service to Battery Park.
Charlotte looked haunted, bereft. I wanted to say, Chill! We’re just taking her to the circus.
Charlotte said, “Daisy dressed herself.”
When Daisy emerged from her bedroom, Rocco and I burst into applause. She was dressed like an Egyptian princess in a golden crown with a snake curling up from her forehead, a triangular black wig, a purple skirt, a white T-shirt, and lots of costume jewelry. A pair of silver boots completed the look.
I was impressed that Charlotte would let Daisy dress any way she wanted, and even more impressed by Daisy’s choices. If I ever had a daughter, I’d want her to be just like Daisy.
Daisy looked proud, then miserable—as if she wanted to run back to her room and change.
“Fashion gold!” I said.
Rocco looked at his phone. “We should go. The car’s downstairs.”
“How are you getting there?” asked Charlotte.
Rocco turned his phone around. “Suleiman in a red Toyota Camry.”
“That’s a tiny car,” said Charlotte. “Make sure she wears her seat belt. Daisy, wear your seat belt.”
“I will, Mom, don’t worry,” Daisy said with a clarity that shamed us into action.
“We’ll be back by ten,” I said.
“It’s a school night,” Charlotte said.
“We talked about that,” said Rocco.
“Have you got your inhaler?”
Daisy got it out of her backpack, which she’d tossed on the floor by the door. She hesitated, deliberating over who should keep it. I opened my purse for her to put it in. I shifted house keys and old tissues so the inhaler could have its own compartment.
“I’ve got this,” I said. But I could tell that Charlotte didn’t believe me. Or trust me.
Daisy grabbed her uncle’s hand and hardly looked back at her mother.
“Jail break!” Rocco said.
I asked, “Daisy, do you want to tell the driver where we’re going?”