by Darcey Bell
She began to run. She could hardly breathe. She was already weeping. The wind—the same wind whipping up the fire—blew her scream back in her face.
Rocco would have been walking home from the bus stop with her . . . except that he’d stayed home, sick with a bad cold that day.
He’d stayed home with Mom.
Oh, Rocco!
A passing motorist had called in the fire. Flames were already shooting out of the roof of the house. The fire had started in the attic. Where Mom lived. Where Mom had been hiding out.
The sheriff was the first to arrive, and he and his deputy had gotten Mom out of the attic, and she had directed them to the bed where Rocco lay asleep.
Later Mom would stress that point. Didn’t that prove that she meant to save him? That she hadn’t been trying to kill him? That it was an accident . . . she’d fallen asleep smoking . . .
The police believed her. But Rocco and Charlotte never did. Without ever discussing it, they both believed that Mom had been living out the end of her Jane Eyre fantasy. The madwoman in the attic sets fire to the house.
None of the authorities seemed to notice—and no one pointed out—that Mom didn’t smoke. That is, she didn’t smoke then. Later she would start. As if to prove that her story could have been true.
The problem was that it wasn’t true.
By the time Charlotte got there, Mom and Rocco were standing on the front lawn, wrapped in blankets, shivering. Watching everything burn.
Mom had gone to the hospital. Charlotte and Rocco had gone to live with their father’s sister in New York City. Charlotte left for college. Rocco started drinking.
And no one talked about any of it until Rocco held the knife to Mom’s throat, in her kitchen in Oaxaca, and asked her why she’d done it. How could she?
Mom was crying. It was an accident. An accident, she swore.
Screams, Mom’s and Luz’s, had woken Charlotte, who’d run into the kitchen and gently, gently—it had been shockingly easy—taken the knife from Rocco.
She’d flown home with him on the next plane, and within a few days she and Eli got Rocco into rehab.
No one talks about that, either.
Rocco has been sober ever since. But Charlotte has never forgotten how it felt to take the knife from her brother’s hand, the knife poised just a few inches from their mother’s throat.
If she closes her eyes and imagines it—which she tries not to do—she can see, with perfect clarity, the scene in her mother’s kitchen. She can still feel the terror. And she dreams about it sometimes—not directly, but nightmares that, when she wakes up crying out in her sleep, she knows had something to do with that day.
She never believed that Rocco would have gone ahead with it. He wouldn’t really have hurt Mom. He just wanted to scare her the way she’d scared him all those years ago. He was a sweet guy, basically. But he’d been a crazy drunk. It meant that everyone, Rocco included, was doubly committed to his staying sober. And it meant that Charlotte would never be able to think of her little brother in the same way again.
She’d never trusted him as completely as she had before. Maybe that was part of the reason why she’d been so hesitant when he and Ruth wanted to take Daisy to the circus. She was sending her child off with a guy who’d threatened their mother—his mother—with a knife.
Ever since that day, there had been an undercurrent of tension—of things unexpressed, unexamined, unforgiving—between Rocco and Mom. Well, it was hardly surprising.
Anyway, they didn’t mention the cause. They acted as if nothing had happened.
And when they all met in Mexico this time, for Mom’s birthday, no one would mention it. Or think about it.
Charlotte wonders how much of this Ruth knows. Or if she knows any of it at all.
CHARLOTTE PREPARES IN real ways—passports, extra socks, OTC medicines—and in magical-thinking ways. When Charlotte tells Daisy’s teacher that she wants to keep Daisy from feeling overwhelmed by all the new sights and sensations, Miss Amy tells Charlotte to buy a notebook in which Daisy can record her experiences and impressions. It doesn’t matter that she can hardly write yet; she can draw. If Charlotte buys scissors and a glue stick, Daisy can cut and paste pictures of what she’s seen. It will help her feel more in control if she can keep the explosion of sight and sound contained between two covers.
The cover of Daisy’s notebook is silver cardboard studded with tiny rhinestones. On the first page Charlotte prints, Our Mexican Adventure, and Daisy signs her name. Charlotte prints out images from the internet and gives Daisy a head start: marigolds and celosia in the market, a woman with a jug on her head, a massive pre-Columbian stone figure—it all goes into Daisy’s book. The thought of what Daisy might learn has a calming effect on Charlotte’s anxiety.
It will all be worth it. Besides which, Mom will insist. It’s her sixtieth birthday. Not bringing her only grandchild is not an option. She loves Daisy, and she wants to show her off to her large community of locals and expats.
CHARLOTTE AND ELI should have realized that going to Mexico would be better with Daisy. People have always been nice there, but now they’re even nicer. It’s as if Daisy’s existence proves that her parents are members of the human race. Who would have imagined that Daisy would like being smiled at by strangers, and that she would begin to smile back, which never happens in New York?
Mom lives half a mile from the market, and every day she walks there and back, which may be partly why she still has a stringy marathon-runner’s body even with the tacos and mezcal-tamarind cocktails. She dresses in comfortable, loose-fitting clothes. The ponytail she’s worn for decades bounces and gives her walk a youthful spring; pulled tightly back, her hair tugs at her skin and makes her tanned face look taut and attentive.
She’s different from how she was when Rocco and Charlotte were kids. She’s lost interest in playing the tragic mad heroine in the attic. She’s a modern woman now, living on her own. She’s proud of how she’s built a life here. Her Spanish isn’t perfect, but good enough for her to have friendships with people whose English is no better than her Spanish. And she understands enough to watch the telenovelas on TV. She knows a lot of older gay men, divorced women, retired Mexican teachers of English, and retired American teachers of Spanish.
Everyone in the neighborhood knows Mom. Señora Sally. Daisy tells Charlotte that Grandma must have shown everyone pictures of her, on her phone. The women selling chilies and mangoes call out her name. Señorita Daisy!
Daisy’s delighted to be with her grandma. Charlotte feels as if Daisy is the world’s most inspired hostess gift, a present so well chosen for her mother that Mom even seems happy to see Charlotte and Eli.
Mom has never been affectionate. When Charlotte hugs her, she grudgingly allows herself to be embraced. Charlotte has worried that Mom would treat Daisy that way. But she’s been surprised by the heartfelt affection that Mom lavishes on Daisy when she visits them in New York.
For Mom, love seems to have skipped a generation. It doesn’t bother Charlotte. Not really. She’s glad that Daisy has a loving grandmother.
Freed from the duties of childcare, liberated from their worries about whether Daisy is bored or entertained, hungry or thirsty, Eli and Charlotte can enjoy the city. Eli likes speaking Spanish. They take long walks and sit in cafés and eat churros and chocolate and talk. It seems like a good sign to Charlotte that, after being married for years and having a child, they can still have fun.
They explore antiques shops, go to the art museum, and cool off in the incense-laden chill of the cathedral. They ask Luz what she needs in the market, and they do the shopping. They buy artisanal mezcal and woven place mats that Charlotte can’t resist, even though they don’t need them. They purchase a painted wooden donkey that Daisy names Sig. After little white worms begin crawling out of the wood, Charlotte has to spirit Sig into the garbage when Daisy is sleeping.
Charlotte and Eli buy Mom an air conditioner, not because the weather i
s so hot, but because Mom is developing a worrisome wheeze, a little like Daisy’s. And it will be better for Daisy to have the air filtered. They ask Luz to find a man to install it.
They’ve been in Oaxaca for a day when Rocco arrives. He and Mom seem wary around each other. It’s hardly a surprise. After all, they don’t share a great mother-son history.
Rocco has learned Spanish from two of the guys he works with. Unlike Eli, who is fluent but reluctant to talk to strangers, Rocco will talk to anyone. One night the three of them leave Daisy with Mom and go to see the masked wrestlers. They drink beer and eat potato chips drenched in hot sauce, and cheer and boo along with the rest of the crowd.
Rocco has always liked Oaxaca. But this time he’s not quite his usual Rocco-in-Mexico self. He seems preoccupied. Distant.
One night, after a couple of Mom’s cocktails, Charlotte gets up the nerve to ask if everything is all right with Ruth.
“What’s it to you?” he says. “You and Eli don’t like her.”
“We do,” Charlotte says. “We both do.”
Is that true? They do like her . . . with reservations. But it wouldn’t be helpful to say that.
“Daisy likes her.” There’s something challenging, even hostile, in Rocco’s tone.
Ruth is coming down for Mom’s party. But when Charlotte asks Rocco when Ruth is arriving, he shrugs. She’s been through enough of his breakups to read the signs, but she can’t decipher these. She can’t tell if he’s getting ready to leave Ruth or if he’s nervous about her safe arrival. Or both.
“She’s coming Wednesday,” Rocco tells Eli, ignoring Charlotte, though she’s the one who asked. “Flying in from Mexico City.”
Charlotte and Eli spend Wednesday exploring the ruins at Mitla, and by the time they get back, it’s evening. Rocco keeps checking his phone and trying to call or text Ruth, but she’s not picking up. Mom says that the last plane from the capital landed around six, so if Ruth isn’t there by eight, she probably isn’t coming and they should go ahead and eat without her and assume she’ll arrive tomorrow.
Rocco says, “You’re okay with that, Mom? That’s how we’re going to leave it? Jesus Christ. She texted me this morning that she was arriving tonight.”
“What am I supposed to do?” says Mom. “Call out the Federales? Believe me, dear, we don’t want the police mixed up in this. That is the last thing we want.”
“That’s reassuring,” says Rocco.
“It is what it is,” says Mom. “This place isn’t for everyone.”
“No place is,” says Rocco.
“Amen, son,” says Mom.
Charlotte puts Daisy to bed, then returns to the kitchen to find Rocco still trying to reach Ruth. Mom keeps mixing margaritas, and she and Charlotte and Eli keep drinking.
In the morning, Charlotte awakens with no memory of how she got to bed. She assumes Eli tucked her in. A star of pain blazes between her eyes.
Daisy runs into the room and jumps into bed between her parents. Charlotte’s throat hurts. She needs water. Now. She rolls Daisy over toward Eli and goes into the kitchen.
Rocco and Mom are sitting at the table, and there, standing by the sink, is Ruth, doing all the talking. Rocco has his back to Charlotte, who sees that Mom is openmouthed. Dumbstruck. That Mom is listening to someone else for this long is shocking in itself.
Charlotte’s surprised by how happy she is to see Ruth, or maybe she’s just relieved. When she hugs Ruth hello, she can sense Ruth making sure that Mom is watching. Ruth wants Mom to see that she belongs, she’s already part of their tribe, so Mom might as well get on board. It’s not exactly the truth, and besides, Ruth is misjudging Mom if she thinks that Mom cares what the rest of them think.
“When did you get here?” asks Charlotte.
Rocco answers for her, “Three in the morning. Tell Charlotte what you told us.”
“The short version,” Ruth says, “since I already told you.”
“Definitely,” Mom says. “The highlights.” It seems possible—no, clear—that Mom doesn’t like her, and that Ruth doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. This evening, Mom will not appreciate her turning down a margarita to show that she’s supporting Rocco.
Ruth says, “I missed my connection. This nice woman at the airline desk helped me find a driver who would get me here, so I wouldn’t have to stay in Mexico City.”
“That’s a seven-hour drive,” Charlotte says.
Ruth says, “Six and a half. And the driver wasn’t speeding. He seemed like a nice guy. He drove very smoothly. His English wasn’t one hundred percent. But we could communicate. No problemo. He made it clear that he wasn’t going to rape and murder me—or charge the stupid gringa a fortune.
“But here’s the crazy part. Outside Oaxaca he stopped the car for no reason, and all these . . . all these . . . skinny dirty children ran out from the bushes. They swarmed the car, they just . . . swarmed it. They had their hands out, begging. The driver yelled at me to roll up the windows, but I had the feeling that he was part of it, that he’d brought me there because he wanted me to give them money. I asked him if he could drive on without hurting the children. He edged through the crowd, and finally the kids scattered and ran back into the shrubs. Wasn’t that a crazy thing to happen in the middle of the night?”
“That is the crazy part all right.” Rocco sounds impatient. And tired. Especially tired.
Mom says, “In all my years here I’ve never heard anything remotely like it.”
Charlotte doesn’t know if any of them believe Ruth’s story about the kids. But why would Ruth make that up? Charlotte can hardly interrogate her brother’s girlfriend, who has come all the way to Mexico to celebrate Mom’s birthday. It would only make the situation more awkward than it already is.
Charlotte says, “Strange. Really strange.”
Rocco and Mom are disappointed. They’d expected something more from Charlotte, more inquisitorial, more conclusive. A swarm of children? Really? But Ruth seems satisfied with her introduction to the household, and Charlotte’s glad to leave it at that. For now. Still she wonders how this has happened so fast. Mom is a powerful personality, yet somehow even Mom seems to have rolled over for Ruth—at least enough to let her absurd story go unchallenged.
Mom says, “Are you sure you weren’t dreaming? Once I took a sleeping pill for a flight, and I had no idea how I got to the place where I wound up.”
Ruth says, “I never take pills. Not even to go to sleep.”
“Lucky you,” says Mom.
“Trust me,” says Ruth, “I can tell the difference between a dream and reality.”
“You take Ambien,” Rocco says. “I’ve seen you.”
Ruth glares at him, then says, “TMI, dear. Too much information,” she explains to Mom.
“I know what ‘TMI’ means,” says Mom.
“I’ll take a pill maybe once in a million years,” says Ruth. “Everyone has those nights.”
“You must be very tired.” Doesn’t Ruth hear how unfriendly Mom sounds?
Ruth goes straight to sleep and spends most of the next day working on her laptop in Mom’s courtyard. She doesn’t eat anything, and she makes a glass of orange juice last all day. At home she’s always had such a thing about food. Surely whatever Luz is offering is no more unfamiliar than that Chinese meal in Queens. Is Ruth afraid of getting sick?
“Is she all right?” Charlotte asks Rocco.
Rocco says, “Leave her alone. She’s fine.”
But Rocco doesn’t seem fine.
Mom is making a genuine effort to be hospitable. A superhuman effort. Unheard of, for Mom. The first evening Ruth’s there, just before dinner and just after Mom’s gotten Eli and Charlotte (and herself) trashed on margaritas, Mom asks what Ruth would like to do in Oaxaca. Is there anyone she wants to meet?
Ruth says, “My favorite thing, wherever I go, is to meet a cool local chef. It was useful when I traveled with the baroness, to scope out the best cooks, even though she made suc
h a production of eating half of whatever she was served, a tiny portion. It was my job to explain that it wasn’t an insult or a sign that the Baroness Frieda didn’t like the food. Half portions were her brand.”
Waiting for Mom to ask who the Baroness Frieda is, Ruth pauses. But Mom doesn’t care, or already knows. Charlotte waits for Mom to say that leaving half of what you’re served is the most decadent thing she’s ever heard of, unless you’re planning to give the other half to someone who’s hungry. But Mom doesn’t say that, either.
What Mom does care about is showing her family the fabulous life she’s made for herself, without their help, in Oaxaca. That includes having a chef on her contacts list. A young Mexican rising star would have been better, but at least Mom knows an expat cook. Chef Basil, who ran a fine-dining restaurant in Atlanta, has retired with his partner to Oaxaca, where they run a cooking school.
“Have you heard of Chef Basil, Ruth?” asks Mom. “I believe he appeared on Martha Stewart.”
“Yes, I think so,” says Ruth.
“He’s one of those guys who puts the fun in cooking fundamentals.” Mom giggles, and Charlotte wonders how many cocktails she had before she started mixing them for her and Eli.
Chef Basil owes Mom a favor. She watered his plants when he and Ernesto went back to Atlanta to collect an inheritance. Maybe he’ll agree to give Ruth a quick free lesson. Their classes are usually sold out for weeks, but Mom will give it a try.
Mom likes creating the impression that all of expat Oaxaca is at her beck and call. She leaves the room, and they can hear her purring into the phone. Then she tells them that it’s all set up for two people tomorrow morning at Chef Basil’s house. Two people? She must have assumed that Rocco and Ruth—the happy couple—would go, but Rocco says, “I wouldn’t go to a shit show like that if someone held a gun to my head.”
Well! Charlotte’s puzzled. Rocco loves food. Normally, he’d go along just to see what it was like. It reinforces Charlotte’s sense that some strain is making him watchful around Ruth. Maybe her implausible story about the car swarmed by children has put him on guard. It did seem preposterous, yet Charlotte is still puzzled by why she would invent it.
