Charlotte continues, her face upturned toward me, “One day, I’m going to paint you a picture, Mrs. Dias.”
I tell her I can’t wait.
And I don’t know what comes over me, my sorrow at peak agony; maybe my unrest is from cramming a surfeit of sickly-sweet junk down my gullet alone in the chilly hours after days of hunger. It might arise from something as simple as Kumiko and Jason having no clue about Alicia; what could they possible offer, were I to break down and inform them? They clearly haven’t Googled me. Maybe I’ll flat-out die if I mount those stairs to my bide-a-wee lodgings tonight where, under a waning moon with my memories, I’ll tolerate another night of intoxicated dolts in shouting-distance putting their twelve-dollar drinks on their credit cards because, God knows, the hour of reckoning will never come. Maybe I’ve always been murderous about wanting to kill those guffawing bastards who took my Alicia. Or maybe I’m welling up with nothing, and everything, a formulating of an admission to the police: I thought my girl was gone, but she’s come back to say hello, to tell me, using the tea party I prepared for a birthday numerically matching the last one she knew on earth, that she would have been sensible and strong, lovely and thriving, unafraid of the arts and other people, maybe, just maybe, like the mother I lost my chance to have been. She’s come to my rescue. Or rather Charlotte has lightly muscled her into view.
A trance envelops me; a mist descends. The party’s streamers sway. Kumiko gathers the ripped paper and puts the gifts in our Wonderland tote bags. She says softly, “Bellevue wants me to start tomorrow, Mrs. Dias. A few days early. What should I tell them?”
I smile and hand her an envelope with the bonus I’ve been saving, along with a set of blank books with ornate covers. She has mentioned wanting to take notes about patients by hand. Her head is bowed. Mine, too.
The guests file out, profuse in their thanks, and Jason is rushing because he has an audition… I tell him I’ll clean up. Go on.
Kumiko cries at the door. I hug her and say, “There, there. Going now isn’t much different from leaving in a couple of days, right?” The children want to know what’s wrong, and I say nothing. Nothing; my friend is moving on. And I watch her disappear.
Betty is lingering over more champagne. As if it’s finger-painting, frosting mars the table, floor, and chairs. Betty glances up as if she just noticed she’s in my place. Empty now, except for her and Charlotte and me.
I’m behind the counter. While Charlotte heads to the ladies’ room, Betty comes over, weaving slightly, to pay the bill. “That was memorable,” she says. “So glad we found you.” She adds she’s not sure when they’ll be back but hopes it’s soon.
What possesses me? I’m calm. I take her money. The gratuity is twenty percent on the nose. I unlock the drawer that holds my silver pistol and take it out and put it on the counter, the business end pointing in her direction. Her eyes turn the size of saucers.
“I want to see your home,” I say. I stick the gun in my large, floppy handbag. Exhaling in gusts, she says, “Dorrie? What are you doing?”
“I won’t scare your girl,” I say, nestling the pistol against the debris in my bag. “She won’t see this, unless you refuse to do as I ask.” I need to absorb the dwelling that might have been mine, what it looks like, feels like; I want to observe, via Charlotte’s room, how Alicia might be enlivening her own space. The one upstairs is stuck in time.
Charlotte bounces back to us, haloed with the lavender from the bathroom’s soap dispenser. There are three tote bags of presents.
“Good thing there’re three of us!” I trill. “I’m free to help you carry the gifts to your house. It’s a way to keep the party from ending.” I keep one hand in my purse, as if I’m about to pull out my wallet. Betty’s mouth stays open.
“Oh,” says Charlotte. “That’s nice.” But she’s watching her mother and says, “Momma?”
“Yes, my sweetheart,” says Betty/Bird. A damp patch blooms on her white shift. She bends to kiss her daughter’s head. “Let’s go home.”
Out we go, and I fumble with the outer lock, and as Betty glances around, I bring my purse around to face her, and she freezes. Charlotte is merry from the festivities.
I don’t get out much. The air is crisp with fall, spiced and reddened and golden. People stride by, in a hurry. The sidewalk is cracked. “Slow down,” I hiss at Betty.
After a tiny yelp, she starts shaking. She whispers, “I would have invited you. I don’t understand. I would have invited you over.”
“That’s not true,” I say.
Charlotte, carrying the lightest tote bag, stops to adjust it on her shoulder.
“Did you have a lovely birthday?” I ask her.
“The best ever, Mrs. Dias,” she says. Her spider barrette catches a glint. “Thank you so much.”
Betty, color drained, begins to hyperventilate and gasps at me, “I don’t understand.”
“Charlotte,” I say, “didn’t you promise me a picture? Why don’t we get it, once we get home?” The child is slowing, staring at the grownups.
“But I haven’t done one specially for you,” she says.
“How about if you pick one you’ve already done, and I can have that?”
She weighs this and speaks with caution. “All right. Momma, what’s wrong?”
My hand rides the pistol, cool, silver. The poor woman loses the starch in her knees and buckles. “Momma!” Charlotte shrieks.
“She’s fine,” I say, gripping her arm to help her along. “It’s just a little too much champagne.”
“That’s right,” croaks Betty. “We’re almost home, honey.”
They live close but at a remove from the racket of the bars. An Indian market offers its scents of turmeric, star anise, and cumin; the fruits on display shine like jewels. I’m a mite faint myself. A boy on a phone jostles Betty, and her cry is sharp and anguished. Charlotte becomes more puzzled. She pats her mother fondly on her back. Leaves scratch the asphalt, and the tips of midtown peer over the streets to watch. The fear in Betty’s eyes has infected her whole being, saturating her. She’s quivering. Charlotte puts an arm around her mother and seems to be humming, singing. I had to witness a child giving comfort, a mother and daughter bound together to defy terror, while at the same time I protect the girl from the worst of it.
Their doorman in his cap and jacket with golden frog-closures leaps forward to help with the packages. I blurt, “No, we’re fine!”
“Mrs. Lezardo?” he says.
“We’re okay, Ralph. Thank you.” Betty looks ejected from a wind tunnel, and her daughter guides her ahead. My hand trembles on the gun.
Betty collapses into sniffling in the elevator as we shoot up to a top—but not the top—floor. There are mirrors and elegant brass trim, and the unscratched wood is polished. I adjust the angle where I stand to keep the pistol in my bag trained on her. Charlotte hasn’t registered how steadily I’ve kept my hand out of view.
And then at their threshold—her reaction is worse than I expected—Betty shoves the key in her lock after the fourth try and cracks, disintegrates into a shambles, weeping. She genuflects from trembling and drops her tote bag. I scoop it up. Charlotte bleats, “Momma, are you sick? What’s wrong? What can I do? What happened?” Her pleading eyes on me, she beseeches, “Help us. Help me.”
My turn to shake, rendered speechless. Did some disturbed part of me long to see a cheap imitation of my Alicia’s fear and worry in her last hour, so I could heal it? “Let’s go inside and get her some water.” I can’t look at Charlotte; I’m propelled forward despite knowing I should bolt.