Something She's Not Telling Us - Darcey Bell Page 0,90

a panic. What grown-up will allow that? But she has no one to share the loot with, no siblings, no cousins, and, as far as I can tell, no friends. Except me. Daisy looks down and grabs my hand.

What would Charlotte do in this situation? Charlotte would never be in this situation. Charlotte would never let her daughter buy two pounds of candy.

That’s the good thing about dropping in and out of Daisy’s life. Everyday reality is not an issue. This might be my last day with Daisy. It almost surely is. Two pounds of candy, thank you very much.

To rescue Daisy from the overfriendly checkout person, and put a stop to my own gloomy fears about possibly going to jail for kidnapping and certainly never seeing Daisy again, I say, a little too brightly, “We’re bringing it to share with her great-grandparents in New Jersey.”

I have the checkout girl at great-grandparents. She doesn’t stop to wonder: Who brings an elderly couple two pounds of obscenely bright, sweet candy?

“Great-grandparents!” She crosses herself—a strange thing for a punked-out girl to do. “God bless them.”

“Totally.” I pay in cash—I’ve borrowed a little from Rocco—and we sail out into the crowded Union Square afternoon.

The bag is so heavy that Daisy can’t carry it and eat at the same time, so she hands it to me, and we walk west on 14th Street, sharing sweets. Until then I’d never believed that sugar was a rush. I’d thought it was the fantasy of parents worried about dental bills. But it’s definitely a high. It turns up the volume, the color, the speed. No wonder children crave it.

All around us are moms and kids, dads and kids, nannies and kids, kids being walked home from school. It’s a city—a world—full of children. For the first time, maybe ever, I don’t feel sick with envy. For the first time I have a child of my own.

Daisy and I are happier than these strangers could possibly be. This is our once-in-a-lifetime special day. We appreciate it more, and we have enough sweets to sustain us, however long our adventure lasts.

ON THE PATH, it’s rush hour 24/7, so the crowd is no surprise. But it’s surprising that a child works like a magic charm to protect you from the wolves and monsters underground. Or that’s how it seems today. The wolves and monsters get up to give us seats on the train.

Daisy’s looking around, delighted. She’s fallen down the rabbit hole into a wonderland beneath the city. It’s as if she’s a feral child who’s wandered into civilization, an outer space alien landed on Earth, or a mermaid washed up on land. All this is new to her, or almost new, and the thrill of newness is contagious. Everyone in the train catches her excitement. They must think we’re from out of town.

“Do you take the train much, Daisy?”

It’s an unfair question. I already know the answer.

“Some. Not much. Mostly taxis.”

“The train’s a lot more fun,” I say.

“Really fun,” says Daisy.

27

Vanessa

Vanessa should be at work, but she longs—the way she might long for a lover—to go to Hoboken and check on the renovation. The house is like a lover. It was love at first sight. She fell in love the moment she saw it. It’s the place where she and Brian were destined to raise the kids.

They were shocked that they could afford it, but the real estate agent was honest about the reason for the bargain price. She had to be, by law. A crime had been committed here, a decade ago. A very old couple had lived and died here: a murder-suicide in the basement. It was awful, but Vanessa thinks it’s the only serious crime she can sort of understand. She and Brian are going to grow old together, and if one of them was in horrible pain, or end-stage dementia, and didn’t want to live . . . she can imagine. You pray it never happens. But it does.

The house sat on the market for ages. The old couple’s granddaughter tried to buy it, but they hadn’t left a will, and by the time things were sorted out, the granddaughter got a chunk of cash from the estate but not enough to buy the house. Or she couldn’t get a mortgage. Or something.

Someone—an investor—bought it and never lived here, never intended to. The developer lost interest or went out of business—the real estate agent wasn’t sure—and the house fell into disrepair. All that time, it