Vera #2
“He said it was up there with the best he’s seen in his years as a teacher.”
That’s the longest sentence Grant has uttered in a week. My heart swells.
“That’s awesome.” I lift a palm and he high-fives me. “I’m proud of you. Can I read it?”
He hesitates a moment, then nods, and I slide it in my bag. I don’t ask twice. I’m eager for any window into my fourteen-year-old
son who used to be attached to my body, and who is now so totally self-possessed that he’s nearly a stranger. That’s the way
of it, I suppose. But I miss the nights where he slept between Brad and me, and we had no idea how we were going to get him
to sleep in his own bed. “I’ll read it tonight.”
The front passenger door opens, bringing with it the sound of youthful exuberance—laughter and shouts, screeches and hoots.
“God,” Coraline says, blustering in like a little thunderhead. “I hate this place so much.”
“I’m still here, you know.” Ana, on the Bluetooth. The kids both roll their eyes.
“Rough day?” I ask Coraline.
“Ugh. I’m exhausted.”
“Oh, right. Because life’s so hard for the child of extreme privilege,” says Ana, breaking up a bit over the speaker. “Let
me tell you about how your mom and I grew up.”
“You don’t know about my life,” snaps Coraline, flashing me an angry look like why is she even here?
“See you Sunday, Ana,” I cut in. She’s saying something else when I hang up. Did I hear cassoulet? I’ll put an end to that.
Ana has no business in the kitchen. She’s a terrible cook. Really, dangerous is more like it. And cassoulet is a whole thing.
“Tell me,” I say, as I pull though the rest of the driveway.
Coraline is talking about her day, how she barely got a 90 on her chem lab because her partner didn’t do his part of the work,
and she had to hustle during study hall to complete what he’d forgotten. How Emma, the meanest girl in school, told her that
no one wore Doc Martens anymore. Like, that they weren’t even cool in a retro way. There was something about how weird Ethan is acting. And some rumor about Mr. Wilson and Ms. Crabtree, that they’d been
caught by a student making out in the break room.
Huh, good for them.
Little Valley Academy, never a dull moment. Well, truthfully, nothing but dull moments. Still always abustle with rumors and mini-dramas, banal events, ridiculous conflicts. I find it all fairly
amusing. As much as I am a fixture here, donating preposterous sums for the new gym, or the scholarship program, running fundraisers,
and volunteering for committees on diversity and inclusion, or student mental health initiatives, I am not really a part of
it all. I float above, move through, smile and nod.
Ana’s right, of course. This life in no way compares to how we grew up.
“She’s so—needy,” says Coraline, conversation veering back to Ana again.
This is actually dead-on. Because Ana has a shiny veneer of icy beauty, a sharp tongue, and exudes a nearly pathological apathy for the feelings and needs of others, it’s hard to spot.
I’ve been taking care of her since before we lost our parents, and I know that beneath it all is a scared little girl, one who still relies on me in ways that she shouldn’t.
And I’m a bit of an enabler, because for so long it was just the two of us.
“She’s right,” I say. “We didn’t have it easy.”
“Yeah,” says Coraline. “But she’s like almost forty. Time to grow up, right? She needs her own life.”
My daughter, wise beyond her years, is not wrong about this either. But Ana and I are too entangled; there’s too much history.
I reach for Coraline and put a hand on her thigh, give her a look. She softens, smiles. Even with all the rough-and-tumble
between us, there’s a closeness, a mother-daughter love that is foundational to our relationship, also hard to spot most days.
“I know,” she says. “We’re all she has.”
“Family,” I say. “Imperfect, but indelible.”
She mouths the words along with me because I’ve said it a million times.
A glance in the rearview mirror reveals that Grant’s got his AirPods in now. Then Coraline is tapping on her phone. My thoughts
turn to the brunch, creating a mental checklist of everything that will have to be done between now and then for it to be
perfect. Because perfection and order are a comfort to me, a need, really. It’s a kind of wall that keeps the chaos at bay.
One little crack and the whole thing can crumble.
And Ana and I know too well what the world looks like when that wall comes crashing down.
As I pull on the road and head toward home, I hear the distant wail of a fire engine siren, and after a few moments the truck
rounds the bend and is barreling in our direction, lights flashing, horns blaring.
I find myself cringing against the assault of sound as it passes, a red wall of angry urgency—though the kids barely seem to notice, only Coraline side-eyeing the passing vehicle because the noise is an annoyance to her.
Then the truck disappears around the next bend—leaving a ghostly echo in the air and a cold finger of worry pressing into my belly in its wake.
I flip on the radio to the local news channel and listen for any information about what has burned. But no news comes.
I am aware of a white noise of unease, the slight sense that something is wrong. It lingers as we drive, even though Coraline
has turned off the news and has her music blaring, and the kids are safe in my care. Usually, if this feeling came up, I’d
reflexively check the LifeWatch app where I can track the kids, my husband, my sister. But I just talked to Ana, and Brad
is in a big meeting at the office. Everyone’s safe. For now.
Stop it, I chastise myself. Free-floating anxiety. The child of trauma, I am no stranger to this feeling. I used to think I had some
powers of prediction, largely because my mother always claimed I was borderline psychic. I know better now. The world dishes
up more beauty and horror than you can ever conjure in your own imagination, and it usually comes out of nowhere.
When we arrive home, pulling up the circular drive in our neighborhood, each house grander than the next, I come to a stop
and the kids thunder out of the car, leaving me in silence.
After a moment of gathering my things, I follow them. They’ve left the door ajar behind them.
I almost miss it, am over the threshold before it catches my eye.
On the ground behind the enormous potted plant, a small, tied collection of sticks in the shape of a person. I put down my
things inside the door and reach for it, hold it in my hand. The tiny arms and legs are tied with red ribbon; inside the collection
of sticks there are small feathers, crystal shards.
My heart thuds a little.
I know what it is.
The question is—who put it there? And why?