Something She's Not Telling Us - Darcey Bell Page 0,18
Charlotte braces herself.
“Are you Italian? Rocco’s an Italian name, but he claims he isn’t.”
“We’re not Italian. Rocco’s telling you the truth.” It’s up to Rocco to tell her that his real name is Rochester. Their mother knew whole paragraphs from Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights by heart. Charlotte assumes Mom’s forgotten all that. Living in Mexico, she mostly speaks Spanish now.
Ruth says, “Have you done Ancestry? I did it for my grandparents and me. We’re ninety percent Scandinavian. With a dab of Central Asian. A drop of Genghis Khan. I know this sounds strange, but it felt empowering to be related to one of history’s greatest mass murderers.”
Another silence follows that.
“Just kidding,” Ruth says. “Really.”
“How’s business, Charlotte? Flowers for the One Percent.” Rocco has never hidden his feelings about the fact that most of Charlotte’s clients are rich, or trying to raise money from the rich.
“Blooming,” Charlotte says, as she always does. It drives Rocco crazy.
Ruth says, “What’s your favorite flower, Charlotte?”
Charlotte pretends to think about this as if she hasn’t been asked before. “I’d say foxglove. They look like outer space aliens. You have to see them in the wild.”
One summer, before Daisy was born, Eli drove Charlotte upstate to an enclave built for Victorian billionaires: massive summer mansions with turrets and verandas. A path led through the forest where huge stands of gorgeous foxglove bloomed. They never returned there. Sometimes Charlotte thinks she dreamed it. Foxglove Brigadoon.
“I love foxglove,” says Ruth. “How could something that gorgeous be . . . natural? But aren’t they . . . poisonous? Loaded with digitalis? Didn’t Van Gogh or somebody like that take giant doses of digitalis and that’s why he painted like that?”
Rocco bristles. “Lots of people take drugs, and there was only one Van Gogh. There was no ‘somebody like that.’”
“Whatever,” says Ruth. “Excuse me. One more question, Charlotte, and I’m done, I promise. How come you have no flowers in your house?”
“I have enough flowers in my work life.”
Eli says, “Daisy has asthma.”
“That must be hard,” Ruth says.
“You can’t imagine,” says Charlotte.
It’s the truest thing she’s said all evening. No one who doesn’t have an asthmatic child can know. Not even Eli, though that’s not strictly true. The two of them handle it, but not always well. Watching Daisy struggle to breathe, they sometimes snap at each other. It’s just fear, they know that, so they forgive each other. But it’s not ideal. And Charlotte can’t rid herself of the idea that it’s her fault—though she knows that’s not possible.
A voice says, “Can we eat Ruth’s sticky buns yet?” They hadn’t noticed Daisy return. How much has she overheard? They try not to talk about her asthma. Daisy has covered her ears and run out of the room when the subject’s come up.
“That must be tough,” Ruth says to Daisy.
Charlotte is holding her breath.
“It’s not so bad,” Daisy says. “The hard part is when I lose my inhaler and my mom gets mad at me. Sometimes—”
“Not mad,” Charlotte says, louder than she means to. “I get scared, is all.”
Ruth says, “If that’s the hard part . . . there’s got to be some practical solution. Let me think about it, okay?”
Why is she asking Daisy?
“The sticky buns?” Daisy says. “Can we have more now?”
“Give us five minutes, honey,” says Charlotte. “We’re getting to it.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Daisy says.
“I know,” says Charlotte, though she’s pretty sure she hadn’t.
Eli says, “Eye roll alert. Five going on fifteen.”
“I’m six,” Daisy says.
“Not for a while,” Charlotte says.
“Happy birthday in advance, Daisy,” says Ruth. “What are you doing for your birthday?”
“It’s not for a while,” Charlotte repeats.
Daisy looks like she’s about to cry, which is definitely not what Charlotte wants.
“Okay, come on, Daisy,” says Charlotte. “You can help bring in the dessert.”
She’d prepared a bowl of clementines and shelled walnuts. But next to the sticky buns, the fruit and nuts seem overly health-conscious, no fun. Daisy arranges the buns on a platter. She gently slides the pastries around to get the arrangement right. Watching her, Charlotte feels happier than she has all evening. Now if only she could keep Daisy from eating more sweets.
When Daisy carries in the platter, Ruth beams as if she’s being brought a birthday cake topped with lit candles. She looks around, delighted, slightly embarrassed, as if she’s waiting for them to sing.
“This is awesome,” she says. “Being able to share my grandma’s baking. I can’t wait to tell her.”
Don’t, Charlotte thinks. Don’t tell your grandmother yet.