Vera
Coraline has stopped sharing her location, the little message bubble on my phone informs me as I pull into Brock and Iggy’s driveway.
Funny. My daughter thinks she can jigger the app on her phone to disguise her location. As if. Like I’m some soccer mom who
doesn’t get technology. She has an app; but I have one, too. It doesn’t tell me where she’s going, but it does tell me when
she’s messed with her location on LifeWatch.
I consider texting my very clever daughter, but then she’ll know that I know she can trick the LifeWatch app. Instead, I switch over to Pop Map, where I have a fake account that follows Autumn, Ethan,
Coraline, and Grant. Tricky, right? And in spite of all my warnings to never allow someone you don’t know to follow you on
Pop Map, they all allow “May Linn,” cute little emo girl from Hollows High, to follow them, even though she has no posts and
doesn’t allow people to follow her. Coraline’s and Ethan’s cartoon avatars are in a little cartoon car, pulling onto Autumn’s
street. It’s a small town. How much trouble could they get into? I decide to let it slide.
Iggy and Brock’s place is dark, their electric car sitting in the driveway. I wait a moment, call Ana again. The call goes
straight to voicemail.
The houses up and down the street are lit and tidy.
Toyotas and Jeeps in driveways, televisions visible through bay windows, bikes askew on lawns left carelessly by their riders.
Normie, Ana would say derisively; but I’m happy for Iggy.
Or will be when she’s better, home with her family.
Sometimes safe and orderly is the best you can ask for in this life.
I finally climb out into the cold, look inside Brock and Iggy’s car, which is locked and unoccupied, car seat empty in the back. I try the trunk; it’s locked, too.
Then I walk up the flagstone path. Somewhere there’s a distant strain of piano music.
When I reach the porch, the red front door is ajar. My heart starts to thump. Something’s wrong. The energy is bad. I can
feel it on my skin.
But calling the police is not an option, so I press inside. I’m unarmed. I still have the knife Agnes gave me on my eighteenth
birthday. A woman must always be ready to defend herself, psychologically and physically. But the small, easily concealed switchblade is hidden in the back of one of the drawers in my closet.
But tonight, I wish I had it. It’s annoying how often Agnes’s words and warnings come back to me. How often she was right.
With a gentle tap of my foot, the red door swings open silently on a well-oiled hinge.
“Ana,” I say into the quiet dim of the foyer.
No answer. I stand a moment, then step inside, listening to the sounds of the house. Only the hum of the refrigerator in the
nearby kitchen fills the heavy silence.
“Ana,” I say louder.
When there’s still no response I walk inside, then head straight upstairs and to Noah’s nursery, the location of which I remember
from Iggy’s baby shower. At the door, I pause, bracing myself. I try to listen over the sound of blood rushing in my ears.
A dim light shines from inside. The tinkling of one of those wind-up mobiles carries out into the hallway. I force myself to move inside. Over the crib dangles a solar system, nine colorful planets revolving around a smiling sun.
There he is, sleeping soundly in his little onesie and cap. My whole system floods with relief. His breathing is deep, and
the urge to touch that soft, plump hand or the pink round of his cheek is strong.
I’m about to reach in and pick him up but decide to let this particular sleeping baby lie—and search the house for some clue
as to what in the hell is going on. Did my sister leave the baby here alone? Even she’s not that careless, that irresponsible.
Then where is she?
Taking the phone from my pocket, I snap a picture of sleeping Noah, send it to Brock, just to put someone’s mind at ease.
Baby’s fine, I type. All is well. Can Marge come to relieve me?
Thank God. Where’s Ana???
I debate about how to answer. Finally, I opt for a half-truth. She had to go. Not sure what she has going on tonight.
Or ever.
I back my way out and head downstairs.
In the kitchen I find the baby monitor and shove it in the pocket of my coat so I can keep it with me as I move through the
house.
I start rifling through drawers—Post-it notes and pens, receipts fastened with a paperclip, silverware in bamboo dividers,
potholders. Everything tidy and organized, clean. The pantry is stocked with staples—neat glass containers of sugar, flour,
oatmeal, rows of jars for freshly made baby food. In the refrigerator, I rifle through the produce drawers. Apples and red
leaf lettuce about to go off, carrots and radishes. All benign.
What am I looking for?
I’ll know it when I see it.
I head down into the basement, flip on the lights as I creak down the stairs. In the cool damp, I look around. A stack of boxes, the washer and dryer, a worktable; again it’s all fastidiously organized, nothing out of place. Something’s off, though. What is it?
I am about to go back upstairs when I figure it out.
The basement is shorter than the length of the house upstairs, similar to my own. Someone has built a wall. And in it there
is a door, locked tight.
I reach up over the door frame for a key, but there isn’t one. Noah issues a little squeak on the monitor. But when I pull
it from my pocket, the grainy image shows me that he’s still sleeping, little legs kicking, fists clenched. What do babies
dream about?
In an old coffee can on the tool bench, hidden behind a row of little drawers filled with nails, screws, washers, bolts, I
find a key. It slides easily into the lock, and I push open the door.
After I flip on the light, it takes me a moment to register what I’m seeing. A long wooden table, an apothecary cabinet, rows
of brown glass bottles, several stone mortar and pestle sets in various sizes and hues. A shelf of beakers, sets of measuring
spoons and cups. An elaborate potted herb garden, irrigated, and lit in the orange glow of grow lamps. A leather-bound volume,
open on the table. Branches, herbs, sprigs, and stalks of flowers hang upside down, tied with twine drying out.
I walk through the orderly and well-stocked room. It’s an apothecary’s workshop, much like Agnes’s though less involved and
elaborate. Lite.
The aromas of sage and lavender, maybe a note of mint, linger on the air.
There’s a shipping station, a desk with shelving, storing high-quality mailers, a big roll of opalescent Bubble Wrap, sheets
of labels—Iggy Rose’s Cures, Salves, and Potions. Her logo is a rose comprised of stars, leaves, and flowers. Cute.
More, smaller labels read:
Love Potion—Attract the love of your life
Protection—Guard against negative energy
Money—Bring a flood of wealth into your bank account
Health—Feel well and be your best self every day
Tummy Troubles—Soothe your belly
Headaches
Colds, coughs, and runny noses
Girl Problems
Broken Heart
Etc. Etc.
When I notice Iggy’s Instagram tag, I open the app on my phone and look her up. There she is, most often dressed in white,
blond hair flowing, looking ethereal and wise.
“Sometimes it’s setting your intention and opening yourself up that invites love in,” she says sweetly, staring at the camera
with her pretty, heavily lashed dark blue eyes. “But we can all use a little help, so just dab a little love potion on your
wrists and neck—this is a proprietary organic blend of herbs, florals, and oils—to lift your spirits and open your heart chakra,
making you more able to receive all the love the universe has to offer.”
I scroll through similar videos for her other potions, then look through the comments, lots of raves for her products, hearts,
and riots of glittery emojis.
I found the man of my dreams on a day I was least expecting it—thanks to your love potion.
I put your money potion in my aromatherapy oil diffuser. Not only does it smell heavenly, but the very next day I got a raise
and a promotion. Thank you, Iggy Rose.
Oh my god. Are people really this gullible?
On her post about headaches and eucalyptus oil, a comment from someone named GirlBoss80 catches my eye.
Do you have anything for revenge? I have a headache that won’t go away if you know what I mean. ??.
Iggy’s response: “All my cures and potions are for love and positivity, but DM to talk if you like.” I click on GirlBoss80,
but the account is private, and the profile picture is a black-and-white sketch of a dark-side Hello Kitty—eyes narrowed,
teeth and claws bared.
Interesting.
I dig through Iggy’s apothecary drawers—filled with pouches of dried herbs, vials of oils, flower petals, seeds, sprigs, powders.
Truthfully, I only find the most innocuous substances—lavender, rose, turmeric, basil, rosemary.
Still, I wonder—what have you been up to, Iggy Rose?
Noah stirs on the baby monitor, just as I hear footsteps creaking on the floor above my head.
I remember Agnes’s warning again, and in the tool chest on the worktable in the outer room, I find a claw hammer.
It will do.
I head upstairs. The hallway is dark. Wasn’t there a light on when I went down? I pause, listening. Noah chirps over the monitor
again. I breathe, take in the night. There’s someone here.
“Ana?”
I move quietly toward the kitchen, hammer ready.
A sound behind me has me spinning around too late.
I take a hard blow to the head, the hammer falling, thunking to the wood floor, spinning away. The ground rises up fast to
greet me with a hard smack to the side of my face. The world rattles. My first thought is the kids. Coraline. Grant.
The form is just a shadow, masked, dressed in black. The form straddles me, small but strong. A great soft mass presses hard to my nose and mouth. I know the scent—hemlock, mandrake, henbane, poppy. The Deadly Trance.
I watch, pinned and helpless, struggling as a second figure heads up the stairs toward the baby. Another comes to stand over
me, looking down. Oh, god.
It’s only seconds before I’m overcome, totally paralyzed. Rage and fear are a five-alarm fire inside my immobilized body.
Only a single tear can escape from my eye.
Noah crying in his crib is the last thing I hear before everything goes black.