Jeremy takes a seat next to me and picks up one of the pictures of Chastin.
“Why did Harper never smile?”
Jeremy leans over, taking the picture of Harper from my hand. “She was diagnosed with Asperger’s when she was three. She wasn’t very expressive.”
He runs a finger over her picture and then puts it aside, pulling another from the box. This one is of Verity and the girls. He hands it to me. The three of them are dressed alike, in matching pajamas. If Verity didn’t love the girls in this photo, she was certainly good at faking it.
“Our last Christmas before Crew was born,” he says, explaining the photo. He pulls a handful out and begins flipping through them. He pauses every now and then on pictures of the girls, but flips past pictures of Verity.
“Here,” he says, pulling one out of the stack. “This is my favorite picture of them. A rare smile from Harper. She was obsessed with animals, so we had a zoo come in and set up in the backyard for their fifth birthday.”
I smile down at the picture. But mostly because Jeremy is in the photo with a rare look of joy spread across his face. “What were they like?”
“Chastin was a protector. A little spitfire. Even when they were young, she could sense Harper was different from her. She mothered her. She’d try to tell me and Verity how to parent. And God, when Crew came along, we thought we were going to have to hand him over to her. She was obsessed.” He puts a picture of Chastin in the pile of pictures he’s already looked at. “She would have made a great mother someday.”
He picks up a picture of Harper. “Harper was special to me. Sometimes I’m not sure Verity understood her like I did, but it’s almost as if I could sense her needs, you know? She had trouble expressing her emotions, but I knew what made her tick, what made her happy, what made her sad, even when she didn’t quite know how to reveal that to the world. She was mostly happy. She didn’t have an immediate interest in Crew, though. Not until he turned three or four and could actually play with her. Before that, he might as well have been another piece of furniture.” He picks up a picture of the three of them. “He hasn’t asked about them. Not even once. Hasn’t even mentioned their names.”
“Does that worry you?”
He looks at me. “I don’t know if I should be relieved or worried.”
“Probably both,” I admit.
He picks up a picture of Verity and Crew, right after Crew’s birth. “He went to therapy for a few months. But I was scared it was just a weekly reminder of the tragedies, so I pulled him out. If he shows signs that he needs it when he’s older, I’ll take him back. Make sure he’s okay.”
“And you?”
He looks at me again. “What about me?”
“How are you?”
He doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t skip a beat. “My world was turned upside down when Chastin died. And then when Harper died, it ended completely.” He looks back down at the box of pictures. “When I got the call about Verity…the only thing left in me to feel was anger.”
“Toward who? God?”
“No,” Jeremy says, his voice quiet. “I was angry at Verity.”
He looks back at me, and he doesn’t even have to say why he was angry at her. He thinks she hit the tree on purpose.
It’s quiet in the room…in the house. He’s not even breathing.
Eventually, he scoots back in his chair and stands. I stand up with him because I feel like that’s the first time he’s ever admitted this to anyone. Maybe even to himself. I can tell he doesn’t want me to see what he’s thinking, because he turns away from me and clasps his hands behind his head. I place my hand on his shoulder, and then I move so that I’m standing in front of him, whether he wants me to or not. I slip my arms around his waist and press my face against his chest and I hug him. His arms clasp around my back with a heavy sigh. He squeezes me, tight, and I can tell it’s a hug he’s needed for no telling how long.
We stand like this longer than a hug should last, until it’s obvious to us both that we shouldn’t still be clinging to each other. The strength in his hug eases, and at some point, we’re no longer hugging. We’re holding each other. Feeling the weight of how long it’s been since either of us has probably felt this. It’s quiet in the house, so I hear it when he tries to hold his breath. I feel all of his hesitation as his hand moves slowly up to the back of my head.
My eyes are closed, but I open them because I want to look at him. There’s a pull in me, tilting my head back into his hand as I lift my face from his chest.
He’s looking down at me now, and I have no idea if he’s about to kiss me or pull away, but either way, it’s too late. I feel everything he’s been trying not to say in the way he holds me. In the way he’s stopped inhaling.
I can feel him bringing me closer to his mouth. But then his eyes flicker up and his hand falls.
“Hey, buddy,” Jeremy says, looking over my shoulder. Jeremy steps back. Releases me. I grip the back of the chair, feeling as if I weigh twice as much now that he’s let go of me.
I glance at the doorway, and Crew is staring at us. No expression. He looks a lot like Harper right now. His eyes fall to the box of pictures on the table and he rushes toward them. Lunges, almost.
I step back in a hurry, shocked by his movements. He’s picking up the pictures, angrily slamming them back into the box.
“Crew,” Jeremy says, his voice gentle. He tries to grab his son’s wrist, but Crew pulls away from him. “Hey,” Jeremy says, leaning down closer to him. I can hear the confusion in Jeremy’s voice, as if this is a side of Crew he’s never seen before.
Crew starts crying as he’s slamming all the pictures back inside the box.
“Crew,” Jeremy says, unable to hide his concern now. “We’re just looking at pictures.” He tries to pull Crew to him, but Crew rips himself out of Jeremy’s arms. Jeremy grabs Crew again, pulling him to his chest.
“Put them back!” Crew yells toward me. “I don’t want to see them!”
I grab the rest of the pictures and shove them into the box. I put the lid on it and pick it up, clutching it to my chest as Crew tries to wrangle himself from Jeremy’s grip. Jeremy picks him up and rushes out of the kitchen with him. They go upstairs, and I’m left standing in the kitchen, shaken, concerned.
What was that?
It’s quiet upstairs for several minutes. I don’t hear Crew putting up a fight or yelling, so I think that’s a good sign. But my knees feel weak and my head feels heavy. I need to lie down. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken two Xanax tonight. Or maybe I shouldn’t have brought family pictures out and put them on display in front of a family who still hasn’t recovered from their loss. Or maybe I shouldn’t have almost kissed a married man. I rub at my forehead, suddenly feeling the urge to bolt—flee—and never come back to this house of sadness.
What am I still doing here?
Even at the height of day, when the sun is keeping watch over this part of the world, it still feels eerie inside this house. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Jeremy is working on the dock again, and Crew is playing near him in the sand.
An unsettling energy buzzes throughout the house. It’s always here, and I can’t seem to shake it. It seems to be getting worse at night, nocturnal and intense. I’m sure it’s mostly in my head, but that doesn’t put me at ease, because the things lurking around inside the mind can be just as dangerous as tangible threats.
I woke up last night to use the restroom. I thought I heard a noise in the hallway—footsteps lighter than Jeremy’s and heavier than Crew’s. Then, shortly after, it sounded as though the stairs were creaking, one at a time, as if someone were creeping up them with a deliberately light foot. It took me a while to go to sleep after that because in a house this size, noises are inevitable. And with the imagination of a writer, every noise becomes a threat.
My head jerks toward the office door. I’m jumpy, even now, and all I hear is April in the kitchen talking to someone. She uses the same cal
ming tone when she speaks to Verity, like she’s trying to coax her back to life. I’ve never heard Jeremy speak to his wife. But he did admit to being angry at her. Does he still love her? Does he sit in her room and tell her how much he misses the sound of her voice? That seems like something he would do. Or would have done. But now?
He cares for her, helps feed her sometimes, but I’ve never actually seen him speak directly to her. It makes me wonder if he doesn’t believe she’s in there at all anymore. As if the person he cares for is no longer his wife.
Maybe he’s able to separate his anger and disappointment toward Verity from the woman he cares for, because he no longer feels they’re the same person.
I go to the kitchen because I’m hungry, but also because I’m curious to watch April as she interacts with Verity. I’m curious to see if Verity has any sort of physical response to her interaction.
April is seated at the table with Verity’s lunch. I open the refrigerator and watch as she feeds her. Verity’s jaw moves back and forth, almost robotically, after April feeds her a spoonful of mashed potatoes. It’s always soft foods. Mashed potatoes, apple sauce, blended vegetables. Hospital foods, bland and easy to ingest. I grab a cup of Crew’s pudding and then sit at the table with April and Verity. April acknowledges me with a fleeting glance and a nod, but nothing else.
After eating a few bites of the pudding, I decide to try making small talk with this woman who refuses to interact with me.
“How long have you been a nurse?”
April pulls the spoon out of Verity’s mouth and dips it back into the potatoes. “Long enough to be in the single-digit countdown to retirement.”
“Nice.”
“You’re my favorite patient, though,” April says to Verity. “By far.”
She’s directing her answers at Verity, even though I’m the one asking the questions.
“How long have you worked with Verity?”
Again, April answers toward Verity. “How long have we been doing this now?” she asks, as if Verity is going to answer her. “Four weeks?” She looks at me. “Yeah, I was officially hired about four weeks ago.”
“Did you know the family? Before Verity’s accident?”
“No.” April wipes Verity’s mouth and then places the tray of food on the table. “Can I speak with you for a moment?” She nudges her head toward the hallway.
I pause, wondering why we need to leave the kitchen in order for her to have a conversation with me. I stand up, though, and follow her out. I lean against the wall and spoon another bite of pudding into my mouth as April shoves her hands into the pockets of her scrub top.
“I don’t expect you to know this, especially if you’ve never been around someone in Verity’s condition. But it’s not respectful to discuss people like her as though they aren’t right in front of you.”
I’m gripping my spoon, about to pull it out of my mouth. I pause for a moment, then shove the spoon back into the pudding cup. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware that’s what I was doing.”
“It’s easy to do, especially if you believe the person can’t acknowledge you. Verity’s brain doesn’t process like it used to, obviously, but we don’t know how much she does process. Just watch how you word things in her presence.”
I stand up straight, pulling away from my casual position against the wall. I had no idea I was being insulting.
“Of course,” I say, nodding.
April smiles, and it’s actually genuine for once.
Luckily, our awkward moment ends thanks to Crew. He runs through the back door, cupping something in his hands. He rushes between me and April, into the kitchen. April follows him.
“Mom,” Crew says, excitedly. “Mom, Mom, I found a turtle.”
He stands in front of her, holding the turtle up for her to see. He runs his fingers over its shell. “Mom, look at him.” He’s holding it up higher now, trying to get Verity to make eye contact with the turtle. Of course she doesn’t. He’s only five, so he probably can’t even process all the reasons she can no longer speak to him or look at him or react to his excitement. I immediately hurt for him, knowing he’s probably still waiting for her to fully recover.
“Crew,” I say, walking over to him. “Let me see your turtle.”
He turns and holds it up for me. “He’s not a snapping turtle. Daddy said those kind have marks on their necks.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s really awesome. Let’s go outside and find something to put him in.”
Crew jumps with excitement, then brushes past me. I follow him out of the house and help him search around the property until he finds an old red bucket to put him in. Then Crew plops down on the grass and brings the bucket onto his lap.
I sit down next to him, partly because I’m starting to feel really bad for this kid, but also because we have a clear view of Jeremy from this spot in the yard as he works on the dock.
“Daddy said I can’t have another turtle because I killed my last turtle.”
I swing my head toward Crew.
“You killed him? How did you kill him?”
“Lost him in the house,” he says. “Mommy found him under her couch and he was dead.”
Oh. Okay. My mind was going somewhere much more sinister with that. For a second, I thought he’d murdered the turtle intentionally.
“We could let him go right here in the grass,” I tell him. “That way you can watch and see which direction he crawls. He might lead you to his secret turtle family.”
Crew picks him up out of the bucket. “Do you think he has a wife?”
“He might.”
“He could have babies, too.”
“He could.”
Crew puts him down in the grass, but naturally, the turtle is too scared to move. We watch him for a while, waiting for him to come out of his shell. I can see Jeremy approaching out of the corner of my eye. When he’s closer, I look up at him, shielding the sun from my eyes with my hand.
“What’d you two find?”
“A turtle,” Crew says. “Don’t worry, I’m not keeping him.”
Jeremy shoots me an appreciative smile. Then he sits down next to Crew in the grass. Crew scoots closer to him, but when he grabs Jeremy’s arm, Crew pulls away. “Gross. You’re sweaty.”
He is sweaty, but I don’t really think it’s gross.
Crew pushes off the grass. “I’m hungry. You promised we could go out to eat tonight. We haven’t been to a restaurant in years.”
Jeremy laughs. “Years? It’s only been one week since I took you to McDonald’s.”
Crew says, “Yeah, but we used to go out to eat all the time before my sisters died.”
I watch Jeremy’s shoulders tense with that comment. He said himself that Crew hasn’t mentioned the girls since they died, so this moment feels significant.
Jeremy breathes deeply and then pats Crew on the back. “You’re right. Go wash your hands and get ready. We’ll need to be back before April leaves tonight.”
Crew rushes toward the house, forgetting all about the turtle. Jeremy watches him for a while, his eyes full of thoughts. Then he stands up and reaches out a hand to help me up. “Wanna come?” he asks.
He’s asking me to a friendly dinner with his child, but my wistful heart responds like I was just asked out on a date. I smile as I brush off the backs of my jeans. “I’d love that.”
•••
I haven’t had a reason to make an effort with my physical appearance since I arrived at Jeremy’s house. Even though I still didn’t make much of an effort before we left, Jeremy must have noticed the mascara, the lip gloss, and the fact that my hair is down for the first time. When we arrived at the restaurant and he was holding the door for me, he said quietly, “You look really nice.”
His compliment settled in my stomach, and I can still feel it, even though we’re finished eating. Crew is sitting on the same side of the booth as Jeremy. He’s been telling jokes since he finished eating his dessert.
“I have another one,” Crew says. “What is E.T. short for?”
Jeremy doesn’t attempt to answer Crew’s jokes because he says he’s heard them a million times. I smile at Crew and pretend I don’t know the answer.
“Because he has little legs,” Crew says, falling back into his seat with laughter. His reaction to his own jokes make me laugh more than the jokes themselves.
And then, “Why don’t they play poker in the jungle?”
“I don’t know, why?” I say.
“Too many cheetahs!”
I don’t know that I’ve stopped laughing since he started telling us jokes.
“Your turn,” Crew says.
“Mine?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s your turn to tell a joke.”
Oh, God. I’m feeling pressure from a five-year-old. “Okay, let me think.” A few seconds later, I snap my fingers. “Okay, I’ve got one. What is green, fuzzy, and if it fell out of a tree, it could kill you?”
Crew leans forward with his chin in his hands. “Ummmm. I don’t know.”
“A fuzzy green piano.”
Crew doesn’t laugh at my joke. Neither does Jeremy. At first.
Then, a few seconds later, Jeremy releases a burst of laughter that makes me smile.
“I don’t get it,” Crew says.
Jeremy is still laughing, shaking his head.
Crew looks up at Jeremy. “How is that funny?”
Jeremy puts his arm around Crew. “It’s not,” he says. “It’s funny because it’s not funny.”
Crew looks at me. “That’s not how jokes are supposed to work.”
“Okay, I have another one,” I say. “What’s red and shaped like a bucket?”
Crew shrugs.
“A blue bucket painted red.”
Jeremy squeezes his jaw, trying to hold back his laughter. Seeing him laugh is probably the best thing that’s happened since I showed up here.
Crew scrunches up his nose. “You aren’t very good at telling jokes.”
“Come on. Those were so funny.”
Crew shakes his head, disappointed. “I hope you don’t try to make jokes in your books.”
Verity Page 12