by Darcey Bell
All he wants is to get where they’re going and not hit anyone. All he wants is to find Daisy. He’s always been good at finding things. He was that person in his family. The finder. He’d found his mother’s favorite soup ladle, slid behind the stove. Once, Charlotte lost a diamond ring she’d inherited from their aunt, and he’d found it in a pile of autumn leaves. Something had led him to it. Now something will lead him to Daisy. Once, he’d found Ruth’s lost earring in their bed. Ruth—or whoever she is.
He has no idea what Charlotte’s thinking. All he needs to do is follow the cheerful electronic voice. Let’s take the Williamsburg Bridge. Exit left for the Lincoln Tunnel.
He’s never been to Hoboken. These days, that doesn’t matter. The GPS will get them through. In that way, it’s a great time to be alive. But for him and Charlotte—and Daisy—this is the worst time ever.
A mustard-colored Saturn cuts him off, and Rocco brakes, not hard, but hard enough so that Charlotte jolts forward.
“Watch it,” she says. “I taught you to drive.”
He can’t even be annoyed at her. Everything is his fault.
In his fantasies, they find Daisy. He imagines Ruth and Daisy sitting on the steps of the grandparents’—the dead grandparents’—brownstone. Or maybe they’re hiding behind the bushes.
It will be fine with him if Ruth and Daisy have been picked up by police. Scary for Daisy, but at least they’ll be warm and safe.
Somehow he knows they’ll be at the Hoboken address. Maybe he didn’t figure out some important things about Ruth—Naomi—whoever she is. But he knows her well enough to predict where she’d go if she stole a child and was feeling insecure.
He has to keep reminding himself that her grandparents are dead.
It’s a brownstone just like all the others on the block, except that it’s on the corner, with a sliver of garden around the side.
All that Rocco and Charlotte see is absence: Ruth and Daisy aren’t there.
Rocco says, “We’ll find her. I have a feeling—”
Charlotte says, “You didn’t know your fiancée’s name, and now you’re psychic?”
“She wasn’t my fiancée,” says Rocco. “And if I’m wrong this time, it’s on me.”
“It already is,” says Charlotte.
“I’ll ring the bell. See if anyone’s there. Then we’ll figure out what to do next.”
“Ring the doorbell. It’s worth a try. I’ll wait in the van.” Charlotte seems to have slipped into a trance. Borderline catatonic. Rocco wishes Eli were here to help him with his sister.
Maybe it’s just that Charlotte doesn’t know what to do after this. If Ruth and Daisy aren’t here. The trouble is, he doesn’t know what they’ll do, either.
No one answers the doorbell. Inside, the lights are off, except in a back room, maybe a kitchen. Or maybe the TV room. That’s how Ruth described it.
Light shines weakly into the foyer, onto a tangle of paint cans and tarps.
Otherwise he sees nothing.
Charlotte is yelling at him from the van.
“I’ve got a signal!”
There’s nothing to see here. He runs back to the van.
Charlotte has checked the asthma-inhaler locator app. The bunny bounces on the map.
“Look. Does this mean anything?”
Rocco stares at it for a while.
“Wait. I just thought of something. Ruth used to talk about this picnic spot where her grandparents used to go. It’s around where the light’s blinking. Not all that far from where we are. Just up the Hudson.”
If everything Ruth said was a lie, why should she have told the truth about her grandparents’ picnic spot? Because Rocco believes 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.
It’s someone else. A child. Daisy.
“What are we doing here?”
“Having a picnic. Like I promised.”
“What are we eating?”
“Fried chicken. Coleslaw. Potato salad. Lemonade.”
I show her the picnic hamper.
“That’s a bag of candy.”
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.<
br />
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.”
“I know a poem.”
I take a deep breath and begin:
James James
Morrison Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great
Care of his Mother
Though he was only three.
James James
Said to his Mother,
“Mother,” he said, said he:
“You must never go down to the end of the town, if you don’t go down with me.”
“I don’t like that poem,” says Daisy.
“Come on,” I say. “It’s funny. It’s sweet. My grandpa used to say it.”
James James
Morrison’s Mother
Put on a golden gown,
James James
Morrison’s Mother
Drove to the end of town.
James James
Morrison’s Mother
Said to herself, said she:
“I can get right down to the end of the town and be back in time for tea.”
King John
Put up a notice,
“Lost or stolen or strayed!
James James
Morrison’s Mother
Seems to have been mislaid—”
“I hate that poem,” says Daisy. “Stop saying it. Stop it now. I want to go home. I’m hungry and cold. I want my mommy and daddy.”
“All right,” I say. “The party’s over. You’re right. It’s getting too chilly for a picnic. Let’s get in the car, and I’ll take you home.”
Bye-bye, Grandpa and Granny.
They’ll clean up the remains of the picnic.
Daisy and I get into the SUV. I turn the key in the ignition. Nothing happens.
The engine won’t start. I try again. Nothing.
I am being punished. Why is it always me? People do things a million times worse and get rewarded. I get punished for nothing. I’m the one who gets locked in the basement with the spiders.
“What’s wrong with your car?” Daisy says.
It’s not my car. Has she forgotten what happened in Hoboken?
The woman in the hall.
“Nothing,” I say. “We can figure this out. We made it work so far, right?”
Daisy says, “I want my mommy and daddy. Now.” She sounds years younger than she did two minutes ago.
I think, Too bad. I want my mommy and daddy. Everyone wants their mommy and daddy.
“Okay.” I try not to sound stressed. “We’re on our way. Hold on. Your auntie Ruth—”
“You’re not my aunt,” she says. “My uncle’s going to break up with you like he did with all his other girlfriends.”
“Don’t say that,” I tell her. “I mean it.”
I have a feeling she’s crying, but I don’t want to see.
I try the key again. Nothing.
I don’t know what to do. It’s getting colder, darker. Daisy will be scared. She already is. We don’t want to be here. There’s no way we can walk back to the highway. It’s too far, in the dark. Too dangerous. There’s no way we can get help.
We’ll have to figure out something. I will, anyway.
“Call my mom,” says Daisy.
“I forgot my phone,” I say. “It was stupid of me not to bring it.”
That’s more information than a child needs.
“I don’t know what I was thinking. Even grown-ups do stupid things sometimes.”
Daisy sobs. “I’m freezing.”
I say, “Let’s turn your inhaler tracker back on. Maybe your mom will check her app.”
I can still be brilliant. A survivor. Cool, even at moments like this.
I know Charlotte is checking the app. I know she won’t have given up.
For once she’ll remember she has it.
Daisy and I are the inhaler, and we want her mother to find us.
31
Charlotte
Rocco drives fast and well, and with each mile that passes, he’s gradually working his way back into Charlotte’s good graces. It’s as if they have company, four presences in the van. Rocco, Charlotte, the GPS voice, the cartoon bunny bouncing on her phone. Let Rocco watch the road, she’s staring at her screen, never letting it out of her sight, as if the cartoon might vanish.
Rocco’s saying it’s not far, but it’s taking forever. Every red light, every slowdown. She wants to pound the dashboard or slam her fist against the window.
Rocco must feel the tension streaming off her, but he’s in no position to criticize or tell her to calm down. He knows it’s his fault. But he’s wrong.
It’s not only Rocco’s fault. It’s also Charlotte’s and Eli’s.
They knew something was wrong with Ruth, but they didn’t expect this. Charlotte should have been on guard starting when Ruth made them eat those sticky buns. She was on guard. Or so she thought.
Rocco says, “Breathe,” and Charlotte draws in a rattling croak.
“Suit yourself,” he says. “Don’t breathe.”
After a moment, he says, “Joke.”
Charlotte isn’t laughing.
The GPS and the bunny cartoon lead them off the road and into a clearing by the river. It’s almost dark. There’s no one around.
Can your heart literally break? Charlotte feels it might be happening. Something’s cracking in her chest, like ice on a pond at the end of winter.
One car—a Volvo SUV—is in the parking area.
How could Ruth be driving a car like that? Did she have an accomplice?
Did a serial murderer leave Daisy’s inhaler in that car? Panic destroys the hope beeping at her from the pulsing blue cartoon.
Rocco and Charlotte get out of the van and walk toward the Volvo with its lights off.
“If this was TV, we’d have guns,” Rocco says.
“I was thinking that,” says Charlotte.
The front passenger door bursts open, and a bright purple creature jumps out and runs in their direction.
Daisy is racing toward them. She’s wearing her purple jacket.
Charlotte’s shock and joy are so intense that at first she doesn’t believe it’s really Daisy.
Is she imagining this? Seeing what she wants to see? Please let this be real.
It’s only when she’s holding Daisy, inhaling the dusty-kid smell of her hair, that she knows it’s real. Daisy is here with her. Safe.
Impossible. But already the last few hours are beginning to seem like a bad dream.
“Where were you?” Charlotte says.
“Ruth got me from school. We had a picnic,” she says. “But it got cold.”
Charlotte wants to ask Daisy if she was scared, but she doesn’t. If she wasn’t scared, Charlotte doesn’t want to make her think that she should have been. Or that she was in danger.
“Ruth said we were eating fried chicken, but it was candy.”
“Candy!” Trying to normalize this, Charlotte struggles to sound disapproving. Nothing’s worse than candy!
“It was boring,” says Daisy.
Charlotte usually tries to keep Daisy from saying that anything is boring. How silly, how trivial she used to be. The only thing in the world that matters is that Daisy is here. Alive and well.
“We went to this old house,” says Daisy. “They were fixing it. A lady let me use her bathroom. Then she fell down the stairs and was lying at the bottom of the stairs. And there was blood. Real red blood.”
The chill Charlotte feels seems to be coming from some
new, freezing-cold place deep inside her. They’ll have to take Daisy to see someone, a therapist. Not just any therapist, not one like . . . oh, God. Ted. They’ll have to find out how much damage has been done, and then they’ll have to fix it.
Daisy’s going to be okay . . . It’s Ruth who will never . . . Who was the woman who was bleeding?
“Where’s Ruth?”
On cue, the door on the driver’s side opens, and Ruth steps—no, tumbles—out. She’s walking half bent over.
“Is Ruth okay?” Charlotte asks Daisy.
Daisy looks bewildered.
Ruth is heading for Rocco. Charlotte has almost forgotten him in her joy at finding Daisy. He’d stepped back and let them have their reunion. He’s just the loving uncle.
The only way to help Rocco is to forgive him and hope this mistake is big enough to make an impression. It’s not Rocco’s fault that Mom was who she was. That Mom is who she is. Rocco is Charlotte’s brother. That’s the bedrock fact of their lives, and Charlotte will never desert him.
Rocco turns his back on Ruth, and Ruth stops cold, then shambles over to Charlotte and Daisy. Charlotte braces herself for Ruth to muscle Daisy into saying they had fun, but Ruth is beyond that.
She hardly notices Daisy. She hardly knows that Daisy’s there.
She seems to have collapsed in on herself. The bright, confident young woman whom Rocco brought over to their loft has turned into a shattered wreck, ten years older and sadder than she’d looked only yesterday—how could it be just yesterday?—in the Oaxaca airport.
There’s dried blood on her hands. She stares at it.
Out, out damned spot. Lady Macbeth. The bad-luck part.
Charlotte passes Daisy over to Rocco, partly to put more distance between Daisy and Ruth. She is operating on instinct now, maternal adrenaline. She’s grateful that her brother is here. That Rocco has her back.
Ruth holds out her arms to Charlotte. Surprising Daisy and Rocco, shocking herself, Charlotte puts her arms around Ruth and gives her a hug.
Poor Ruth!
Despite everything she’s done to them, she’s a suffering human, in pain. Their happy lives will be happy again. Her sad life is about to get sadder.
Charlotte feels lucky, so blessed that she has compassion to spare. Forgive those who have trespassed against us.
She can forgive Ruth, but the law won’t. Charlotte can have it both ways. Forgiveness and revenge.