Something She's Not Telling Us - Darcey Bell Page 0,66
has cast her unwholesome spell on Daisy, whom she’s whirling around in a way that Charlotte never could. Charlotte could never be that wild and free. The mariachis are so enchanted that their professional smiles have become genuine.
Charlotte can’t grab her daughter and put a stop to her dance. Why would she? She doesn’t suspect that Ruth means Daisy any harm. Yet something about Ruth seems . . . what? Charlotte has drunk too many margaritas to think of the right word.
Maybe Charlotte is just jealous. Resentful of Daisy’s affection for Ruth. Maybe it’s that simple. That shameful.
The mariachis swing into a rousing finale. “Happy Birthday.” In English, for the gringos. Everyone sings along.
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Mom, dear Grandma, dear Sally, dear Se?ora Sally. Happy birthday to you. The musicians finish with a blast of brass.
Ruth bows to Daisy, who giggles and bows back. Charlotte applauds with the others, and the mariachis bow too. Then Charlotte pours herself another margarita from the pitcher.
Mom whispers to Luz, who produces an envelope she gives the head mariachi. Once more he bows, and the musicians sweep off their sombreros and place them over their hearts. They pack up their instruments and leave.
Mom and Rocco and Ruth congratulate themselves and one another on how well everything has worked out. Charlotte is helping Luz clean up the patio when she hears a familiar sound—
How long has Daisy been wheezing?
“Jesus Christ. Where’s Eli?”
Luz says, “He just went off to sleep.”
Charlotte tells herself: Relax. She’s dealt with this, or something like this, so many times before. She just needs to get Daisy calm enough to be able to use her inhaler.
Her inhaler! Did Charlotte remember to pack it? Of course she must have. The margaritas and the tension of the party have fogged her brain. She needs to concentrate; she needs—
Daisy’s eyes widen in panic; then she closes them to conserve effort, and Charlotte hears herself, as if from a distance, begin to whimper.
Ruth says, “Find your phone. Use the app, Charlotte. Thank God your mother has Wi-Fi.”
Charlotte finds her phone in her purse. She’s cradling Daisy’s head as her daughter struggles to breathe. Her own breath is nearly as labored and ragged as Daisy’s.
“You find the app, Ruth,” Charlotte says. “Find the fucking inhaler.”
Ruth scrolls through Charlotte’s apps and taps her phone. And after a moment—an eternity—the cartoon bunny bounces on the screen. Ruth hurries off toward the spot where the bunny is. Moments later she hands Charlotte the inhaler.
“It was in your suitcase. I hope you don’t mind that I had to root around in your stuff.”
“Of course not. Did Eli wake up?” Charlotte puts the inhaler up to Daisy’s lips. “Breathe, sweetheart. Breathe.”
“Why would he?” Ruth says. “After all, he isn’t really—”
Dear God, what is Ruth about to say? Charlotte’s terror ramps up her fears for Daisy.
“Breathe!” says Charlotte.
Daisy only has to inhale twice before the fluttering in her chest slows to something less frightening, though not yet normal enough for Charlotte to relax.
“Bingo,” says Ruth. “She’ll be fine.”
How the hell does Ruth know? But why is Charlotte angry at Ruth? Ruth didn’t mean to bring on an asthma attack by asking Daisy to dance.
If not for Ruth . . .
It doesn’t matter that Eli didn’t help. He’s always been there for them before. Or almost always.
Anyway, Charlotte handled it. The crisis is over.
“Thank you,” she tells Ruth.
“You don’t have to thank me,” says Ruth. “So . . . are you going to tell Eli?”
“Tell him what?” Charlotte’s heart is pounding.
“Tell him the truth.”
“I’m tired,” Daisy says. “I want to sleep in Grandma’s room.”
MOM’S BEDROOM IS big enough for a cot for Daisy. Daisy has told Charlotte that sometimes she and Grandma stay up late talking, though she never remembers, or pretends to forget, what they say.
By the time Charlotte has thanked Luz and said good night to Rocco and Ruth—who’s snuggling up against Rocco—Mom has gone to her room. And by the time Daisy and Charlotte get there, Mom is asleep on top of her blankets, still wearing her clothes. The bedroom is dark except for the glow from Mom’s Virgin of Guadalupe night-light. Charlotte can barely see Mom, but she hears her snoring, a plosive pop, followed by a gulp that ends in a honking snort that Charlotte finds maddening.
“Grandma’s so noisy!” Daisy bursts out laughing.
Charlotte says, “You can sleep with me and Dad. It’s quieter.”