Something She's Not Telling Us

by Darcey Bell

  “Do you have his number there?”

  “Yes . . . but I’m only supposed to use it in case of an extreme emergency.”

  “This is an extreme emergency. Call him.” The big sister’s giving an order, and she half expects Rocco to rebel. But it’s too late for that. He’s too guilty.

  “I never call him at home,” says Rocco. “I’ve never done anything like that. I wouldn’t—”

  “Now you are,” says Charlotte. “Your niece is missing, and the kidnapper has been calling him.”

  Rocco goes into the bedroom. Charlotte can hear him through the open door.

  “I’m sorry . . . I know . . . I wouldn’t. I don’t, except I need to ask you one question. Do you know a woman named Ruth Seagram? Yes, that’s right. My girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend. Have you ever met her?

  “Okay,” Rocco says at last. “I thought so.”

  He notices Charlotte watching from the doorway, and he shakes his head.

  Charlotte says, “Ask him if he knows a Naomi.”

  Rocco listens. Then he says, “He says that he’s heard that a woman named Naomi has been calling his office and saying it’s urgent. He gets a lot of trolls and cranks and stalkers. His staff assumed it was one of those, though they always report the calls to him, so he can be on guard, just in case.”

  24

  Ruth

  In Catholic school we learned about the seven deadly sins. The nuns said the worst is pride. But I think it’s envy. Envy hurts the most. I used to envy kids with nicer houses, better clothes, more money. I envied every kid whose mother didn’t leave them with their grandparents and run off to Arizona the way my mother did.

  And now I envy Charlotte. Why does she get the beautiful loft, the cute husband, the brilliant daughter? Why does she get paid for fooling around with flowers? Why does her mom get to live in a cool house in Mexico with a servant and tons of friends? Why does everyone get everything, and I get a dark apartment over a superfund site in Greenpoint and a job at a start-up that never started up?

  Oh, and I forgot. I get an alcoholic fiancé who is breaking off our engagement.

  Envy is a disease. Your sick soul tells you that you want to have what that other person has.

  I don’t want to take Daisy. That’s not what I mean to do. She loves her parents. She thinks Eli is her real dad, which is probably better for her. She loves and needs her mom and dad. But I don’t see why I can’t borrow her for a while. I don’t understand why I can’t just spend a day with her as if she were my daughter, why I can’t have some fun with her, just for a day . . .

  I’d been thinking about it. About taking her without asking Charlotte, who would never let me do it.

  But I wasn’t planning to do it today. And maybe I wouldn’t have if Rocco hadn’t said we were breaking up. If he hadn’t accused me of hurting Reyna. Which I would never ever do. It’s true I texted her, pretending to be Rocco. But I only wanted to talk to her, to tell her to stay away from Rocco, who was so obviously attracted to her.

  I wouldn’t have taken Daisy today if things hadn’t lined up so perfectly. One thing led to another so smoothly—it would have been stupid not to make this day the special day I get to hang out with Daisy. And I knew that if Rocco and I do break up, I might never get another chance.

  Rocco started drinking again on the plane. It was late when we got home. He was acting weird. I understood why he’d had to quit drinking. He grabbed me by the arm, which he’d never done before. He’d never done anything like it.

  He said he knew I had a bottle of something stashed away, that I was only pretending not to drink when he was around.

  “Busted,” I said. “Whatever.” I got the scotch from the back of the closet, the wine from under the bed. I retrieved the six-pack from my laundry basket and put it in the fridge.

  He drank everything I had, and then he passed out. I kept checking to see if he was still breathing.

  This morning he woke up just long enough to tell me that we were breaking up. He’s leaving me. He isn’t even sorry.

  He accused me of attacking Reyna. Which I never did. I told Rocco that I’d gone out and met the driver in the park near where Reyna got hurt. I said that the driver had lied, and that his conscience had started to bother him, and he wanted to give us back the money.

  Rocco was in no shape for me to start an argument. We’d deal with all that later. We should probably have a serious talk about what happened in Mexico, especially if we’re going to start telling his family that we’re engaged.

  FOR NOW I just want my passport back. That’s why I’m going to Charlotte’s. I know she has it. She took it. It was in my purse in the van—and then it wasn’t. I wasn’t imagining things. I don’t make mistakes like that.

  There’s only one explanation. She did it to keep me in Mexico, so I wouldn’t come home and blow the whistle on her. So I wouldn’t tell her charming husband what I’d heard from her horny therapist, Ted.

  Getting the truth out of Ted was the easiest thing I ever did. Basically all it took was one “session” in his office, during which he told me that he couldn’t “treat” me since he was already “treating” Charlotte. I was dying to go through his files and find the notes on his sessions with Charlotte, but he didn’t leave me alone long enough. So I had to find another way.

  “Okay, Doc,” I said. “How about if I ‘treat’ you?”

  Two bottles of wine at a bar, and he was so loaded he didn’t even know I was taking his picture so I could show Charlotte someday. Then we had our sleepover at his place; then he told me everything I wanted to know. He was supposed to be a professional. Maybe he was losing it. Maybe he wanted out of the “profession.” I was lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time. He told me exactly what I needed.

  The sexiest thing—the only sexy thing—about our hookup was knowing that Charlotte had paid this guy a fortune over the years, and all it took was one medium-good old-guy orgasm (and one fake orgasm on my part) for him to tell me the very last thing Charlotte wanted me to know.

  I KNEW CHARLOTTE would never answer her phone if I called. Even if she was worried about Rocco, which she probably was, she’d be even more worried about me ruining her life. Telling her husband about Andrew John—and telling everyone that she stole my passport.

  She was probably sleeping in late. She and Eli and Daisy got home just before Rocco and I did. Their flight was delayed. I checked their arrival time online.

  I decided: I’ll go to her house and confront her. She’ll hand over the passport, if she still has it. If she hasn’t ditched it somewhere. Not that it will do me any good now. I reported it lost in Mexico, and they had to cancel it, so I have to apply for a new one. But I want her to admit it. I want to see how scared she is about what I can tell her husband.

  Eli, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your wife stole my passport. Oh, and by the way, your daughter’s not your daughter.

  It takes me a while to get dressed, tiptoeing around passed-out Rocco and deciding on my look. Businesslike, no nonsense. I dig out one of the power suits I used to wear to the start-up. I even wear little heels and the fuzzy Prada vest I bought at the resale shop on East 11th.

  I take the train to her house. It’s around two when I get there. I ring and ring her doorbell. She knows it’s me, and she isn’t answering. I ring a few more times.

  Finally a man walks out of the front door.

  My first thought is: How can this greasy creep live in a building where the lofts cost $4 million? Maybe he’s a famous actor who plays the pervy killer on TV crime shows.

  He says, “Are you the fucking idiot who’s ringing and ringing? They’re not home, and my mother and I can hear the bell through the ceiling, and it’s driving us nuts.”

  He is not an actor. He’s the downstairs neighbor whom Charlotte and Eli feel so superior to and complain about.

  “They’re all gone?”

  “They left this morning. I saw them from my window. First t
he bitch, and then her bitch husband with the little girl, off to school.”

  “There’s been some kind of mix-up,” I say. “I couldn’t reach Charlotte or Eli, so I decided to show up and—”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  I take a deep breath. He’s never seen me, he couldn’t know—

  “I’m Daisy’s nanny. Who are you?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I already know.

  “I’m Drew. Their downstairs neighbor. How come I never saw you?”

  “She hired me two weeks ago,” I say. “Just before they left for Mexico.”

  He seems to know they went to Mexico. Maybe Eli told him. My having this information seems to make my story more credible.

  It’s as if a voice is telling me what to say. It happens every so often, and I can only step back and admire that force speaking through me. Speaking through the person Naomi has become. Through Ruth.

  “I need you to do me a favor.” I look at him in a way that worked on Rocco and even worked on Charlotte’s therapist. A look that works on most men, I’ve discovered.

  “What would that favor be?” he says warily.

  “I have to pick up Daisy at school. But I’m feeling really sick. I need someone to watch her in case I have some kind of emergency.” I gaze into the beady eyes behind his filthy glasses. I’m improvising now. I’m not sure that I even want him along, except that I know that Charlotte will be really scared if the school tells her that I was with someone fitting Drew’s description. Or if Drew tells her that I asked him to go with me.

  “How long will this take?” he asks. As if he’s got somewhere important to be.

  “Two hours, I promise. No more.”

  It’s the most interesting offer he’s had in a while.

  “I’m in,” he says.

  That’s when the whole plan locks in. I don’t know exactly how, but it does. That’s when I really decide—today will be the day.

  I’d much rather have Daisy than confront her mother about my passport.

  The next thing I know, I’m on the subway with creepy Drew. Going to pick up Daisy. My heart is beating so hard I’m afraid even Drew can hear it over the roar of the train.

  Helicopter Charlotte would never allow it. But I can be creative. I can think for myself. I don’t need anyone’s permission.

  I can pick Daisy up from school and take her to Hoboken to meet Grandpa Frank and Granny Edith. They would love meeting Daisy. And Daisy will always remember the funny old people in their time-travel house.

  I’m nervous, picking up Daisy. What if some nosy teacher insists on calling Charlotte? But all my anxiety disappears when Daisy is so obviously happy to see me. That settles it. I’m not doing anything wrong. We’ll just have a little fun, and then I’ll return her, unharmed.

  “Auntie Ruth!” she cries, running toward me across the gym, proving our closeness and my trustworthiness, credentials even better than my name on the pickup list, where it’s been since Rocco and I took her to the circus. I’d taken a risk, since Charlotte could have crossed off my name. But she must have forgotten. She must have been too busy with her fabulous life.

  Daisy’s delighted to see me. Drew not so much.

  She shrinks away from him when he tries to pat her head.

  The after-school teachers can’t help noticing, but I smile at them and put my finger to my lips, as if that will keep Drew from hearing me whisper, “My cousin.” And I give them a little eye roll, meaning: Not quite right in the head.

  Not that it matters. I’m on the list.

  The kindly women who oversee the after-school program ask for my ID, and one of them writes down my name. But they never doubt that Daisy’s mom approved this. I’m doing the family a favor. I sign Daisy out with a casual flourish. I write: Ruth Seagram. Why not?

  Daisy doesn’t seem surprised. She doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t ask if something’s wrong, doesn’t ask why I’m there and not Mommy.

  I kneel and zip up Daisy’s cute bright purple quilted jacket. That’s the hard part—so far. The zipper sticks, and I have to try not to seem impatient or afraid that I will never be able to do it. Finally, success! After that, we’re coasting. We find her backpack, and as we head out, I locate her inhaler.

  Daisy watches me flip the switch that disables the tracking device.

  She asks, “Why are you doing that?”

  “We don’t want the batteries running low.” A reasonable, grown-up answer. Everyone has a right to privacy—even a child and her favorite aunt.

  Daisy and I will be free. That’s why I left my phone at home. Even if I turn it off, someone can tell where I am, and probably listen to what I’m saying. Now we can spend an afternoon having fun without Electronic Mom tracking our every move. If Daisy has an asthma attack, which she won’t, I won’t need an app to find her inhaler. Which is more than you can say for her parents.

  I was just going to confront Charlotte about my passport. But intuition is a funny thing. Somehow I must have known that, by the end of the day, my plans would include Daisy.

  Otherwise why would I have left my phone at home?

  In that moment I’m conscious of a possible mistake. I should have wiped my contacts list. If Rocco finds my phone . . .

  There’s no time to worry about that. Whatever happens, happens. For the moment I’m happy. We’re free.

  Hand in hand, Daisy and I exit the gym.

  I hardly notice Drew tagging after us.

  He says, “I thought you said you was her nanny. But I just heard you say that you’re her aunt.”

  “In fact I’m a little of both. Thanks for everything.” I grab Daisy’s hand, and we ditch Drew the moment we get outside.

  “What happened to that guy?” Daisy asks. “Isn’t he that bad guy downstairs in our building who smokes?”

  “Nothing happened to him,” I say. “He left. He didn’t want to play with us. He went home.”

  Another mistake. Maybe.

  “Should we go home?” Daisy asks.

  “Later. Let’s go. Ready? We’re going to have fun.”

  “Did Mom send you?” Brilliant Daisy waited until there’s no official busybody around to listen.

  “Sure. Your mom told me, Aunt Ruth, could you please pick up Daisy and go out on a fantastic fun adventure?”

  “What kind of adventure?”

  “It’s a secret. I can’t tell. Except that it involves candy.”

  “Cool,” Daisy says. “Let’s go.”

  This is what Charlotte gets to enjoy every day. I can’t help wanting what she has. Who could blame me? I want it too. I want a beautiful, brilliant little daughter to pick up after school.

  Just once.

  25

  Charlotte

  Rocco scrolls through Ruth’s contact list.

  “Bingo!” he says. “Here’s ‘Mom.’ Let’s start with her. Whom I’ve also never met or spoken to. You call her, Charlotte. It’s better if a woman calls, looking for her friend. Not some guy who’s stalking her, some old boyfriend or worse. Who knows what her mother’s heard about me, if she’s heard about me at all. How many pissed-off guys Ruth has on her trail, or men she’s scammed, or whatever—”

  How long has it been since Ruth took Daisy? Where did they go? The pressure of wanting to turn back the clock feels like a fist pressing into Charlotte’s sternum, a bully not wanting to hurt her but just scare her. Scare her a lot.

  She says, “If I dial from Ruth’s phone, maybe her mother will think it’s her and pick up.”

  “Knowing Ruth, maybe her mother will think it’s her—and not pick up. But it’s worth a try. If the mother doesn’t answer, we can wait awhile and call back on your phone.”

  “We don’t have a while,” Charlotte says.

  Rocco presses the number with the Arizona area code and hands the phone to his sister.

  A woman says hello. No regional accent, no obvious age. Purified of anything that might distinguish her from her neighbors.

  “H
ello, Naomi,” she says. Her voice is cold. “What do you want now?”

  Very slowly and, she hopes, unthreateningly, Charlotte says, “Actually, I’m a friend of your daughter, Ruth. Not a very close friend—I don’t know her that well. We went out for dinner yesterday evening, and she left her phone on the table in the restaurant. I can’t remember her address, and I’m trying to get in touch with her, so I took the liberty of trying the number that said ‘Mom.’ I’m trying to figure out where she lives so I can—”

  The woman (Mom) says, “She told you her name is Ruth? That’s what she tells everybody. Her name is Naomi. I should know. I named her. But as soon as she was old enough to read the Bible, she began to say I’d named her after the wrong person in that story. She said, Naomi’s the one who has to go to another country, Ruth’s the one who chooses to go with her. My daughter was determined that she was the one who was going to do the choosing. She changed her name to Ruth as soon as she was old enough. But her real name is Naomi, and she knows it. Naomi always had a chip on her shoulder. You know she lies. She hasn’t said one true word since she learned to talk. She doesn’t know the difference between telling the truth and lying.”

  Rocco registers Charlotte’s astonishment. He mouths the words: “What’s she saying?” Charlotte could put Ruth’s mother on speakerphone, but she’s afraid of an echo. She pantomimes writing, and when Rocco brings her his phone, open to the memo app, she types in, Ruth’s name = Naomi.

  It’s difficult listening and writing—and conducting a deeply unnerving conversation. But Charlotte will do whatever she has to do in order to find Daisy.

  “Holy shit,” Rocco says. The woman hears a male voice, though not, Charlotte hopes, what it says, and she audibly tenses: a thread just slightly pulled.

  They were right to have Charlotte call. Ruth’s mother might not have spoken to Rocco.

  “I assume you know the Bible story,” Ruth’s mother says. “Ruth’s mother-in-law—Naomi—loses her husband and sons and has to go back where she comes from. Ruth insists on going with her. They meet this rich man, Boaz, who owns the land they’re harvesting, and Ruth puts on her nicest clothes and perfume and slips into Boaz’s tent and sleeps at his feet, and he’s so impressed he marries her. That’s the one, the ambitious one, the nervy one, the one my daughter wanted to be—”