Something She's Not Telling Us - Darcey Bell Page 0,97
that it’s true. Because he sees the evidence on the map. The bunny, bouncing.
Charlotte calls Eli and tells him to meet them there—with the police, if he can. If Daisy isn’t there, at least her inhaler is.
Rocco says, “One thing I know about Ruth. She would never ditch Daisy’s inhaler.”
Charlotte says, “You know nothing about her. Her name is Naomi.”
Rocco fiddles with Charlotte’s phone till he finds the spot on the map where the bunny jitters.
“Let’s give it a try,” he says.
30
Ruth
You never know when your worst trauma will be the thing that saves you. All those times I was terrified out of my wits, in the back seat of the Caddy while Grandpa Frank rampaged through Hoboken and somehow got us to the picnic spot, I’d stare out the window, wondering: Should I beg Grandpa to let me drive or shut up and save his pride? I memorized every landmark between their house and the riverside clearing in case I had to take over and drive them home.
That’s why I can find the picnic spot even though it’s growing dark and Daisy is getting upset.
Such a polite little person! She doesn’t complain or ask questions, but I can feel the anxiety seeping from her as she sits securely seat-belted into the front seat beside me.
Charlotte would never let her ride up front. I probably shouldn’t, either, but Daisy seems to love it. She’s a tiny bit anxious about missing Mommy and Daddy, but otherwise she’s enjoying every minute. We could be on a motorcycle—that’s how wild and free she feels.
She’s already forgotten the dead woman in my grandparents’ house.
“I want my mommy,” Daisy whines.
I try to reassure her. “Hey, little pal. Would you like me to drive faster?”
No one’s ever asked her that before.
“Yes,” she says. “Can you go really fast?”
As I floor the Volvo, it’s as if I’m becoming my grandpa.
Am I me or Grandpa Frank? That’s an interesting question. Grandpa Frank didn’t kill a woman lying dead in Hoboken.
My grandparents should have killed her when she came to steal their house.
Daisy’s saying something in a twittery voice that sounds like Granny Edith’s annoying chirping.
I can’t hear her. I don’t want to. I need to concentrate.
I find the turnoff, then the picnic spot. Thank you! It’s still there!
I can’t remember how long it’s been. You always worry that a place will be changed beyond recognition. I was afraid that the clearing would have been turned into riverfront condos. But unlike the Hoboken brownstone, the spot matches my memory precisely.
I know that I will find them here, waiting for me and Daisy.
The willow tree leans into the water. The remains of the apple orchard, older but even more beautiful, say, Ruthie, you’re back! Welcome home!
It isn’t the tree’s voice. It isn’t my Granny Edith’s voice.
Am I joking or serious? She doesn’t know whether to laugh.
Moments like this, I see myself as a child.
I never knew what was funny. That’s what Grandpa Frank used to say. Sometimes he would hit me when I didn’t get the joke.
Granny Edith unpacks the picnic basket, its metal sides printed with green-and-white plaid. She unwraps the fried chicken, opens the tubs of coleslaw and potato salad, the lemonade in the thermos she gives a vigorous shake.
I help Daisy to the chicken, the sides, the lemonade.
“How is it?” I say.
“I’m getting tired of candy,” she says. “I’m starving. I want real food. I’m bored.”
“This isn’t boring,” I say. “It’s fun.”
“It’s boring,” Daisy says.
“Have some more chicken,” I say.
“It’s not chicken, it’s candy,” says Daisy. “I’m tired of this game.”
We enjoy our picnic in silence. We don’t have to speak.
For the first time all day, I think that the business suit and heels were a mistake, a terrible choice for a picnic in the country. I’m cold.
Daisy’s busy eating.
Granny Edith and Grandpa Frank are curious about Daisy.
But the four of us have four lifetimes to say what we need to say.
Four concurrent life sentences. Why am I thinking that?
I say, “Do you know any poems?”
“No,” Daisy says. “My teacher reads us poems. But I don’t know any.”