Vera
I tidy up, wiping surfaces that don’t need wiping, sweeping floors that April has left spotless. It helps me to think, to
be moving, eradicating any dirt or grime, ridding a space of negative energy. I turn over the visit from the detective as
I fluff pillows; consider things my sister said and didn’t say as I wipe down baseboards. I think about that detective standing
in my foyer, then holding his news conference as I spray and polish already gleaming surfaces.
The house where Ana and I grew up was always filthy, walls in need of painting, carpet frayed and stained, dishes in the sink,
grime in the bathrooms, refrigerator empty most of the time. Sadie and Mac were only into themselves, either having a good
time or hurting each other. They loved us, each in their own measly way. There were good times, too, believe it or not. But
they didn’t take care of us the way I take care of Coraline and Grant. They didn’t make a home, the way I’ve made one for
my family. Because that takes work and a capacity for self-sacrifice, constant vigilance. And neither one of them were equipped
for that. That’s why I always had to take care of Ana. Still do.
On the couch where Ana was lying, there are strands of her long raven hair.
I pick them up and guiltily put them in my pocket.
Then I also take the stick figure from the drawer and stow it in the other.
Just as I do so, I see that Coraline has come to stand at the archway that leads to the living room.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say, forcing a smile. “Why?”
Coraline, unlike Grant, is a watcher. She reads expression and tone, listens for nuance. Grant is like a Labrador retriever,
happily crashing through life, not worried especially about what’s going on around him. Though I have to admit there was a
depth and a sensitivity to his short story that surprised me. A thriller of sorts about a detective trying to solve a case
that winds up forcing him to confront a truth about someone he loves. It was smart and edgy, thoughtful. I told him as much
and watched him blush.
Coraline bites at her thumbnail now, a nervous tic. “Lizzie from up the street texted me. She said the police were here?”
Fucking nosy neighbors.
“Is this about work?” she asks.
“Oh. No.”
Truthfully, there have been problems with the company. We try to keep our professional and home lives separate. But Brad has
been a wreck, tense at home, snapping at the kids, which is unusual because I’m the one with all the moods, according to Coraline.
And Brad is usually the moderator, the level one.
“What then?” she asks, sitting on the arm of the couch.
I’m the first to admit that I’m a bit of a helicopter parent.
Although I’m not sure that’s an apt analogy.
I’m more like a Bubble Wrap parent, protecting the kids if I can from the worst the world has to offer.
We never turned the news on when they were little.
I always offered to drive to every event, chaperone every field trip, hosted sleepovers because I didn’t like to let them out of my control.
They’ve never been out of my sight, technologically speaking.
Not because I don’t trust them. I actually do.
Despite Coraline’s fiery defiance and Grant’s occasional cluelessness, they are both smart, good humans.
It’s because I don’t trust the world, other people, that I keep an electronic leash on them.
Our family shrink brings this up a lot, my “desire for control.” When our children are little we have all the power. It’s our job and our biological imperative to protect. As they grow, we
have to believe that we’ve taught them well, hand them some autonomy over their lives and decisions, let them make mistakes.
That’s how they learn to become adults.
Let’s just say I’m having trouble with this part. My instinct here, right now, is to lie to my daughter. Make something up.
But she’s almost eighteen, will be going to college this fall. Where and if she’ll get in to any of the schools I imagined
with her just decent grades and middling test scores is a big source of angst in the house, lots of battles, tears, raised
voices.
“Do you remember Ana’s ex?” I ask.
“Which one?”
True, there has been a parade of them over the course of the kids’ lives. The only one I’ve ever liked was Brock. I knew he
was too nice for Ana. That she’d tire of him and eventually dump him.
“Paul?” I say.
She moves from her uncomfortable perch to sit in the big wingback chair by the window. I sit across from her. “I guess, yeah,”
she says. “The thirsty one?”
“He’s—um,” I say, stumbling over the words. “He passed away.”
I can’t bring myself to say he’s been murdered, that Ana might be the prime suspect.
She stares at me, two big blinks, mouth dropping open. “He’s dead?”
“That’s right.”
“Like—how?”
I steel myself and like a grownup tell her at least as much as the detective told the reporters at the news conference.
When we hide things from our children, we’re telling them that we don’t think they can handle the truth.
Just for the record, our family shrink is ridiculously young, has no children yet of her own. So how is she qualified to school
me? Even though she’s often right.
“Holy shit,” says Grant, who’s come to join us. “He was murdered?”
“Language,” I say weakly, still fighting a battle I lost long ago.
Grant flops on the couch, stares at his phone, is well trained enough to keep his shoes off the fabric by hanging them over
the side.
Coraline is still staring. I struggle for words.
“You spent some time with him at that July 4th barbecue. So, this must come as a shock,” I say finally. “Would you like to
talk about your feelings?”
See? I’m doing a lot better with this.
But neither of them answers. They’re both on their phones now, searching for more information. You can’t protect them anymore,
not once you put that phone in their hands. It helps you keep track of them, sure. But it’s a portal to every awful thing
the world can offer up.
Grant starts listing off facts from whatever news article he’s found. Coraline is scrolling, too, frowning deeply.
“So why did the police come here?” she asks.
“To question Ana. Because they were dating.”
Coraline stays quiet, but I can see the wheels turning. We both know Ana very well. There is another knowledge we share as
well, much as I’ve tried to keep her from it. Grant on the other hand is oblivious.
“What’s for dinner?” asks Grant, stowing his phone. He’s already lost interest in the murder of his aunt’s ex-boyfriend. Should
I be concerned about that?
I smile, grateful for now for the self-centeredness of youth, the desensitization to violence that comes from overexposure
to video games, film and television, true crime podcasts, or whatever it is that’s making us so cold.
“Roast chicken and sweet potatoes, maple-roasted Brussels sprouts. Dinner in an hour. Your father’s on the way home.”
If Coraline has more thoughts, she’s distracted by a text she says is from Ethan, and soon they’ve both headed upstairs, leaving
me alone with my thoughts.
I am filled with anxiety as I take the big roasting pan from the fridge and pop the already-prepped chicken to cook in one
oven, vegetables on baking sheets into the convection oven above it. Even as I busy myself in the kitchen, I can’t stop thinking
about Ana, Paul, the kids. I take some cleansing breaths, try to center myself.
Finally, I head downstairs to the basement. I pass the boxes of old toys and outgrown baby clothes, the old furniture from
other style iterations in the house. There’s my father’s guitar. Grant’s crib. Clutter, I’m sure some would say. But everything
feels like a piece of the past, the physical manifestation of memories. So, they remain.
Behind Brad’s untouched workbench filled with the most expensive possible tools that have rarely been used, I unlock a door
by pressing a code into the keypad.
This is my space, and only Brad and I know that it’s here. I already feel better just stepping over the threshold.
From my stores, I pull some dried lavender, basil, chamomile, some white sage, and a stick of palo santo wood. I take Ana’s
hair from my pocket and use it to bind the items together with a big piece of tigereye. If I had time, I’d make a doll, a
little effigy like the one I found on my porch, but I don’t. Or I’d put the whole concoction outside to absorb the light of
the sun.
Instead, I place it all in a metal bowl, sprinkle it with salt for protection and purity, then light a black candle to drip
wax to absorb negativity. Then with a match, I light the palo santo and let it burn, the scent of all the herbs wafting up
in a single twist of smoke.
I whisper, “Protect my sister, and my family. Surround us in love and positive energy. We do no unnecessary harm, and no harm is done to us. Light is my weapon and my shield.”
A warmth fills my body, and the wood burns. I repeat the mantra several times, as the words and the scent soothe me. Finally,
when my nervous system has calmed, and the wood has turned to ember, I turn on the exhaust fan, then cover the bowl with a
lid. The scent lingers; I draw it in deeply.
From my pocket, I lift the doll I found on the porch. I might recognize the handiwork. It could have come from a number of
places. I inspect it more closely—the dove feathers, tiny rose quartz crystals, rose petals, lavender embedded in the dried
sticks tell me that it’s for protection, not for harm. But who put it on the porch? I prop it up on my workbench.
“Who left you?” I ask. No answer comes.
I am startled by a sound outside the door, realizing that I’ve left it ajar. But when I look out into the basement, there’s
no one there. After a moment, I hear the door at the top of the stairs close quietly.
My cheeks burn. It could only have been Coraline. Grant doesn’t have it in him to be quiet. If he was looking for me, he would
have thundered down the stairs, calling for me. I’ve tried to keep Coraline from The Knowledge, but I know she’s learning
from Ana and Lisander. I’ve discouraged her and am embarrassed that she caught me doing something that I have told her not
to do. That’s extremely poor parenting.
“You should be the one to teach her these things,” Lisander admonished when last we discussed it over tea at Aunt Agnes’s
place where we often meet.
“I never wanted this for her.”
“Or for yourself. But you have it all the same.”
I heard the notes of sadness and resentment in her tone. My Aunt Agnes was Lisander’s mentor, but I was Agnes’s star pupil.
You have the gift, she used to tell me. You can have The Knowledge without it. But you have both. There’s great power in that. You’ll be a leader to others.
Aunt Agnes bestowed something upon me that Lisander wanted for herself, but I tossed it away. We’ve never discussed it, but
it’s a wall between us.
I make sure that the palo santo has gone cold, leave it in the metal bowl just in case some embers remain smoldering. Then
I exit the space, pull closed the door.
Often it feels like there are two selves within me. The person I am in that room, and the one I am in the world.
Which one of them is real? I have no idea.