Something She's Not Telling Us

by Darcey Bell

  Charlotte says, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Ask away.”

  “When you . . . when there was that fire . . . did you know that Rocco was home?”

  “Of course not!” says Mom. “Do you think I would put your brother in danger? I was just trying to get your father’s attention. Anyway, I didn’t set anything. I was a careless smoker.”

  Where would Charlotte begin to get at the truth about that? And nothing’s going to change her mother, or her mother’s story. Better stick to trying to fix what can still be fixed.

  “What should we do about Ruth?”

  Mom says, “‘We’? I’m sixty years old, I’m tired. I’m going to sleep. If you want to do something, you have to do it.”

  “Good night,” Charlotte says. “Happy birthday.” She crosses the room to give her mother a last birthday hug.

  Mom stiffens in Charlotte’s embrace. “The birthday is over, thank God.” Then she rolls away and faces the opposite wall.

  “Sleep tight. Don’t let the scorpions bite,” Mom murmurs.

  “Scorpions?” Charlotte says, but her mother is already asleep.

  Charlotte stands in the doorway. What Mom’s said about Ruth has confirmed her own suspicions, and worse, everything seems . . . real. Something is very wrong. There is something Ruth’s not telling them. But what? Charlotte needs to find out. They all do.

  Crossing the courtyard, she hears the front door slam. Has someone come in? She stands still, listening. But there are no other sounds. No footsteps, no motion, nothing.

  Someone must have gone out. Probably Luz, finally going home after cleaning up the last of the mess. Unless Rocco or Ruth—or Rocco and Ruth—has gone for a walk. But it’s late, and they’d seemed as tired as Charlotte.

  Charlotte finds Eli in their bed, snoring, louder than Daisy, not as loud as Mom. Charlotte’s still angry at him for being passed out when she and Daisy needed him. But she decides not to wake him. They’re leaving tomorrow. She’s glad to be going home.

  ELI’S AWAKE BEFORE Charlotte, complaining of a headache, which annoys her. A headache! She tells him Daisy had an asthma attack last night. She lets the word attack linger until she adds that Daisy is okay. They got through it without him.

  Eli says, “I’m sorry.”

  Before Charlotte met Eli, she’d been surprised by how many men found it impossible to apologize. How easy it is to say I’m sorry, how little it costs, how effectively it smooths everything over. Or almost everything.

  Charlotte isn’t angry now. She’s listening.

  Someone is screaming. A woman. Then another woman.

  Mom and Luz. Charlotte runs into the kitchen.

  Daisy!

  Mom and Luz are talking streams of English mixed with Spanish, peppered with words, in both languages, for violence, injury, damage.

  “Where is she? Where’s Daisy?”

  “Huh?” says Mom. “Daisy? Last time I looked, she’s sleeping in her bed.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Mom says, “Reyna got beaten up last night. In the park. Right beneath the statue of Porfirio Díaz. They think she’s going to be okay, but she’s in the hospital, drifting in and out of consciousness.”

  “By the boyfriend?” Charlotte asks. “The crazy abusive boyfriend?”

  “Her mom thinks so,” Mom says. “But no one knows. The doctors say she got hit on the head from behind.”

  By now Eli, Rocco, and Ruth have come into the kitchen.

  Ruth says, “That is the worst thing ever.”

  Rocco gives her a funny look.

  Of course. She’d been upset when she’d caught him talking to Reyna. But now she seems on the edge of tears.

  “Should we go see her?” Rocco says.

  Eli says, “We’re leaving today, remember?”

  “You wouldn’t be much use here,” says Mom.

  They’ve been dismissed. Charlotte had expected a moment like this. Mom’s known for her frosty goodbyes. She gets argumentative, sulky. Charlotte likes to imagine that Mom’s sad when they leave, but she suspects she’s relieved. Her real life can continue without her annoying children.

  Daisy stumbles into the kitchen, still in pajamas, rubbing her eyes. Charlotte’s weak-kneed with relief. She feels that familiar sense of having survived a near escape, though no one in her family has been in danger.

  Poor Reyna. Poor Reyna’s daughter. Poor Reyna’s mom.

  Charlotte kneels and hugs Daisy.

  “Good morning, love of my life.”

  “Good morning, Mom. Good morning, Dad, Grandma, Uncle Rocco, Ruth. Good morning, Luz.”

  “How are you feeling?” says Mom.

  “Fine,” Daisy says. “Why are you asking?”

  Charlotte doesn’t want Daisy to hear about Reyna. “Come on, Daisy. Let me give you a bath and finish packing.”

  “I’m hungry,” Daisy says.

  “I’ll make breakfast,” says Luz.

  “Pancakes?”

  “Certainly,” says Luz.

  Rocco says, “I could go check on Reyna . . .”

  Everyone notices that he’s said I, not we. He hasn’t included Ruth.

  “Paco’s driving,” says Mom. “You’re all going in the same van. And there’s nothing you can do to help Reyna.”

  Charlotte says, “Let’s all meet here in the kitchen at nine. Mom, can you tell Paco to come at nine fifteen?”

  “I can tell him,” says Luz. “He’ll be waiting for you outside.”

  19

  Ruth

  All the time I was in Mexico, I felt like one of those teensy animals we studied in high school biology, those creatures writhing on the glass slides as we peered at them under the microscope. That was how Rocco’s family studied me, wondering what it would take to remove me forever from Rocco’s life.

  No one believed me about the driver who steered me into that swarm of starving kids. Why would I make that up?

  Rocco’s mother disliked me. Probably she hated me before I even got there.

  It was like working at the start-up: frustrating and useless. You can’t make people stop seeing the person they think you are. I hate being misunderstood, maybe because some childish part of me assumes (wrong!) that people will understand me the way my grandparents do.

  When Rocco’s mom arranged for us to visit Chef Basil, I knew she was just getting me out of the house. I felt sorry for the old guy, losing his memory—and his business. And I hated how Charlotte treated him, like a total loser.

  The driver confirmed Charlotte’s worst impression of me. She hates the fact that Daisy thinks I’m fun. It isn’t fair that Daisy belongs to Charlotte just because she gave birth to her.

  I see Daisy. I see her more clearly than her parents do. And I know I’m the only one who can really help her become the amazing little person she could become. Daisy’s life would be so much better if she were my daughter.

  I’m the only one who knows the truth about Charlotte. Maybe I shouldn’t have hinted that I know. Charlotte really hates me now.

  When I saw how Charlotte reacted to that creepy mask, I saw what her mother didn’t like about her. Which also meant that I saw her. I knew what Charlotte’s mother wanted her to be. I knew what her mother wanted. And I knew what I had to do.

  I told Rocco we’d split the cost.

  I spent so long trying to get a break from the old man in the antiques shop that I was late for the party. Which was a huge mistake. I put the mask on Rocco’s card. We’d work the details out later.

  I was stressed by the time I got to his mom’s. The party was going full blast. I found my boyfriend deep—deep—in conversation with the hottest woman there. That was my reward after all I’d gone through, all that bargaining, turning on all my charm, pretending I didn’t understand when the pervy antiques-store guy said he’d half the price if I blew him in the back of the shop.

  The old freak! I was trembling when I left the store, but I had the mask under my arm.
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  When I saw Rocco talking to that woman, I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I counted backwards from ten. I told myself: Nothing is going to happen between Rocco and a woman in Oaxaca. Neither of them is going anywhere. She isn’t a threat. She’s no one—nothing—I have to worry about. Or do anything about.

  Or is she?

  I could tell that Rocco’s mom loved the mask. But she wouldn’t keep it, not if it came from me.

  I saved their asses with the mariachis, and I saved their asses again when I found Daisy’s inhaler. In the meantime, our dance made Daisy the happiest she’d been since she got to Mexico.

  Did any of them thank me? Quite the opposite.

  By the time we went to bed, Rocco wouldn’t look at me. I assumed he was angry at me for interrupting his intimate chat with his mom’s friend. Or maybe he blamed me for that awkwardness with the driver, which wasn’t my fault.

  It really wasn’t my fault.

  Rocco was in the shower when the driver texted me.

  Any normal person would have gotten suspicious when the driver texted (in bad English) that he was sorry. He’d lied about the money. He wanted to return it. Would I meet him in the park?

  Any normal person would have assumed he meant to rob me or worse. So maybe I’m not normal. Stupid me, always wanting to think the best of people. I believed that he meant what he said. Because it was true: He did lie. He should return the money.

  Besides, I needed cash. If the driver returned what he’d squeezed out of Rocco, I could repay Rocco for half the price of the mask. Also it was a good excuse for a walk. A reason to get out of the house. I couldn’t sleep. When I closed my eyes, I saw Charlotte’s face—her jealousy and rage—when she watched me dance with Daisy. Poor Charlotte! Imagine how it feels to realize that your daughter is having more fun with someone else than she ever has with you.

  I told Rocco I’d gotten my period early. I had to go get tampons. He asked if it couldn’t wait.

  I said, “Not unless you want your mom’s bed looking like a crime scene.”

  He offered to come with me, but I said I wanted to be alone, and besides, he didn’t mean it. It wasn’t very gentlemanly, but he wanted some alone time. Sure. I understood. The party had been stressful.

  The driver was waiting by the Porfirio Díaz statue, just where he said he would be. He gave me back the money from Rocco. He said he was sorry.

  I said, “Don’t worry, it’s nothing,” which wasn’t true. It wasn’t nothing. I was glad to have the money.

  I hate when people lie. So many times I would like to lie, because it would be so much easier than telling the truth. But I don’t lie. I’m an honest person.

  It was smart of me to take Rocco’s keys. All the houses on his mother’s block are locked behind wrought iron cages. Maybe they should wonder if that means no one wants them here. Didn’t Chef Basil notice that his staff was figuring out the best place to stick his fancy Japanese knife in him when they rose up and took back the house?

  Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to stab someone. Who would I stab first? Charlotte? Rocco’s mom?

  Rocco was asleep when I got back. I nicked my finger with a razor blade and bled a few drops onto a tampon (I’d brought some from New York) and wrapped it in toilet paper and threw it on top of the trash in the bathroom. I had to take an Ambien and a Klonopin so I wouldn’t be lying there with my eyes wide-open watching headlights sweep by on the wall.

  That’s why I was a little groggy when I heard the uproar in the kitchen and Rocco jumped out of bed.

  The girl Rocco had been flirting with at the party had been beaten up by her boyfriend. Terrible! We’d seen her the night before. Rocco and I had just talked to her. And now she was . . . I couldn’t bear to picture that pretty face . . .

  I got a creepy feeling when I heard it happened in the park, because that was where I met the driver. I knew I was being absurd. How many men were out that night? And why would a guy who wanted to clear his conscience by returning our money go out and attack a woman?

  A coincidence, that was all.

  IT WAS PAINFUL watching Rocco and Charlotte say goodbye to their mother. She couldn’t wait for them to leave. When Rocco tried to hug her, he reminded me of a boy embracing a store-window mannequin. I couldn’t watch. I’d never loved Rocco so much. I wanted to protect him, the way my grandparents protected me from my mother.

  Rocco’s mother knelt in front of Daisy and hugged her. Daisy was in tears as her grandmother, also in tears, promised she’d visit soon.

  I was overjoyed to see Paco’s van. I felt like an innocent prisoner getting out of jail after a long and unfair sentence.

  Charlotte climbed into the back of the van, because she’s such a martyr. I had to slide in beside her, to show that I was as unselfish as she was, and also because neither Eli nor Rocco was about to go back there.

  “We girls always get the back of the bus,” I whispered to Charlotte. She didn’t crack a smile.

  I wasn’t thrilled to sit next to her on the way to the airport. It wasn’t a very long trip. But Charlotte’s chilly presence made the ride seem endless.

  The thing I never saw coming was that Charlotte would steal my passport.

  By the time we got to the ticket counter, my passport was gone. Gone! I knew I’d put it in my purse before I left. I’d put it in the special compartment where I always keep it.

  No one but Charlotte could have taken it.

  When I placed my purse on the seat between us was the only time my passport left my hand.

  20

  Rocco

  There’s blood on the sink. Blood on the soap and on Ruth’s hands.

  Ruth said she’d gotten her period, so when he woke up, that’s what he thought. Even when he heard about Reyna. Even then.

  When he got back to their room from the kitchen, where he heard about Reyna, he checked his phone for the time and any messages. A pointless reflex. No one was trying to reach him here.

  That’s when he saw the outgoing text.

  From him—that is, it seemed to be from him—to Reyna.

  Meet me in the park. I need to talk to you.

  Could he have sent it? No.

  Things like that used to happen when he was drinking. He’d had blackouts, memory gaps. But he hadn’t drunk anything last night. He hadn’t, so how . . . ?

  Ruth.

  It had to be Ruth.

  She’d taken his phone while he was in the shower. She’d texted Reyna, pretending to be him. Texted Reyna from his phone.

  He was going to be sick. He needed not to be sick. He had to stay calm. He had to think.

  He couldn’t look at his phone. He made himself look.

  Reyna had texted back:

  Half an hour. By the Diaz statue.

  That’s where the attack had occurred. Someone hit Reyna from behind.

  Ruth. It was Ruth who attacked her. Ruth had blood on her hands.

  Rocco’s head feels like it’s full of foul water. Where is he? Okay. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed. In Mom’s house in Oaxaca. Ruth is looking at him, her face pale and pinched with concern.

  “Rocco, is something wrong?”

  How innocent. How bright and perky and clear-eyed. She’s washed the blood off her hands. Lady Macbeth. She’d played Lady Macbeth. Or so she’d said.

  “Stomach,” he mumbles, and runs into the bathroom and locks the door.

  He’s never fainted, but this is how it must feel, just before you go under. His heart shouldn’t be beating this fast. He sits on the edge of the tub and puts his head between his knees. He needs to do something . . . but what? He needs to tell someone . . . but who?

  No one calls the police down here. No one. Ever. No matter what.

  The text came from his phone. Reyna answered him. She arranged to meet him. How could he prove he didn’t do it? That he and Ruth aren’t in this together? That he isn’t in this alone?

  He’s been sleeping next
to—sleeping with—a woman who could do this. Who could lie and lie and lie and lie—and almost kill an innocent person.

  Everything else—the start-up that never was, the driver, the beggar children, the inconsistencies in her stories—they were nothing compared to this.

  How could he not know who she is? And what does he do now? He’s a little afraid to break up with her. He’s very afraid to stay with her.

  He needs to tell someone. He can’t. Things would only get more complex. He can solve this by himself. Somehow he can make it go away. He’s broken up with crazy women—but not as crazy as Ruth.

  He needs to get home. Back to the US. Then he’ll figure it out.

  He flushes the toilet. Unlocks the door.

  “Feeling better?” Ruth says sweetly.

  What did she do with her bloody clothes?

  “Much better,” Rocco says.

  HE STAYS AS far away from Ruth as he can until it’s time to leave. They all convene for goodbyes. When Rocco tries to hug his mother, she pulls away.

  Charlotte says, “We’re so glad we got to celebrate your birthday, Mom.”

  Mom says, “Me too. Absolutely. For sure.”

  Rocco stands back and lets Charlotte and Ruth climb into the back of the van. He doesn’t want to sit next to Ruth. He and Eli sit on the bench seat behind Paco, with Daisy belted between them.

  Ruth whispers something to Charlotte that Rocco doesn’t hear. Otherwise, no one talks. Charlotte says, “Mom seems well; she seems to like her life here.” No one answers.

  It’s unusual that Ruth can let one second of silence exist without stuffing it full of chatter.

  But even Ruth is silent now. What could she be thinking?

  When they get back to New York, he’ll break up with her.

  What he’ll do is: He’ll make her want to break up with him. Slowly, slowly—no rushing it—he’ll turn into the Bad Boyfriend. He’s been that so many times before—it’ll be easy. No effort required. She’ll get tired of him. Sick of him not being there for her, not paying attention. She’ll get tired of him complaining. Not calling when he’s supposed to. He’s done it before. He’s an expert.

  But it never before seemed like a matter of life and death. He’s never broken up with someone who attacked a woman he talked to at a party.