Verity

by Colleen Hoover

  Crew was a good baby (I’m assuming). By that point, I was making so much money, I was able to afford a full-time nanny at our new house. Jeremy was staying home with the kids after quitting his job and didn’t think a nanny was really necessary, so I called the nanny our housekeeper, but she was a nanny.

  She enabled Jeremy to work on the property every day. I had new windows installed in my office so I could watch him from almost every angle.

  Life was good for a while. I did all the easy parts of mothering and Jeremy and the nanny did all the hard parts. And I traveled a lot. I had book tours and interviews, which I didn’t really like leaving Jeremy for, but he preferred to stay home with the kids. I grew to appreciate those breaks, though. I noticed when I was gone for a week, the attention Jeremy gave me when I returned home was like the attention he used to pay me before the kids came along.

  Sometimes I would lie and say I was needed in New York, but I would hole up in an Airbnb in Chelsea and watch television for a week. Then I’d go home, and Jeremy would fuck me like I was his virgin. Life was great.

  Until it wasn’t.

  It happened in an instant. It was like the sun froze and darkened on our lives, and no matter how hard we tried, the rays couldn’t reach us after that.

  I was standing at the sink, washing a chicken. A fucking raw chicken. I could have been doing anything else…watering the lawn, writing, knitting, anything else. But I will forever think of that fucking disgusting raw chicken when I think about the moment we were told we lost Chastin.

  The phone rang. I was washing the chicken.

  Jeremy answered it. I was washing the chicken.

  He raised his voice. Still washing the fucking chicken.

  And then the sound…that guttural, painful sound. I heard him say no and how and where is she and we’ll be right there. When he ended the call, I could see him in the reflection of the window. He was in the hallway, gripping the doorframe like he was going to fall to his knees if he didn’t. I was still washing the chicken. Tears were streaming down my cheeks, my knees were weak. My stomach began to lurch.

  I vomited on the chicken.

  That’s how I’ll always remember one of the worst moments of my life.

  On our entire drive to the hospital, I was wondering how Harper had done it. Had she smothered her like in my dream? Or had she come up with a more clever way to murder her sister?

  They had been at a sleepover at their friend Maria’s house. They’d been there several times before. And Maria’s mother, Kitty—what a silly name—knew all about Chastin’s allergies. Chastin never traveled without her EpiPen, but Kitty had found her unresponsive that morning. She dialed 9-1-1, and then called Jeremy as soon as the ambulance took her.

  When we arrived at the hospital, Jeremy still had that faint hope that they were wrong and that Chastin was okay. Kitty met us in the hallway and kept saying, “I’m sorry. She wouldn’t wake up.”

  That’s all she told us. She wouldn’t wake up. She didn’t say, She’s dead. Just, She wouldn’t wake up, like Chastin was some kind of spoiled brat who wanted to sleep in.

  Jeremy ran down the hall, into the patient hallway of the E.R. They escorted him out and told us we needed to wait in the family room. Everyone knows that’s the room where they put the surviving members after someone has died. That’s when Jeremy knew she was gone.

  I’d never heard him scream like that. A grown man, on his knees, sobbing like a child. I’d have been embarrassed for him if I wasn’t right there with him.

  When we finally got to see her, she’d been dead less than a day, but she didn’t smell like Chastin. She already smelled like death.

  Jeremy asked so many questions. All the questions. How did it happen? Did they have peanuts in the house? What time did they go to sleep? Was her EpiPen taken out of her bag at all?

  All the right questions, all the devastatingly right answers. It was over a week before her cause of death was confirmed. Anaphylaxis.

  We were hyper vigilant about her peanut allergy. No matter where they went or who they were left with, Jeremy spent half an hour telling the mother their routine, explaining how to use the EpiPen. I always thought it was overkill since we’d literally only had to use it once in her entire life.

  Kitty was well aware of her allergy and kept nuts out of their reach when the girls were there. What she wasn’t aware of was that the girls had snuck into the pantry and grabbed a handful of snacks to take back to their room in the middle of the night. Chastin was only eight; it was late at night and dark when the girls decided they wanted a snack. Harper said they didn’t realize anything they were eating contained peanuts. But when they woke up the next morning, Chastin wouldn’t wake up.

  Jeremy went through a period of denial, but he never questioned that Chastin unknowingly ate the nuts. But I did. I knew. I knew.

  Every time I looked at Harper, I could see her guilt. I had been waiting on this to happen for years. Years. I knew, from when they were six months old, that Harper would find a way to kill her. And what a perfect murder she committed. Even her own father would never suspect her.

  Her mother, though. I was a little harder to convince.

  I missed Chastin, obviously, and I was saddened by her death. But there was something unpleasant in how hard Jeremy took it. He was devastated. Numb. After she’d been dead for three months, I was growing impatient. We’d only had sex twice since her death, and he hadn’t even kissed me with tongue either time. It’s like he was disconnected from me, using me to get off, to feel better, to get a quick rush of something other than agony. I wanted more than that. I wanted the old Jeremy back.

  I tried one night. I rolled over and put my hand on his dick while he was asleep. I rubbed my hand up and down, waiting for it to grow hard. It didn’t. Instead, he brushed my hand away and said, “It’s okay, Verity. You don’t have to.”

  He said it like he was doing me a favor. Like he was turning me down for my reassurance.

  I didn’t need reassurance.

  I didn’t.

  I’ve had over eight years to accept it. I knew it was coming—I had dreamt about it. I gave Chastin all the love I had every minute she was alive because I knew it would happen. I knew Harper would do something like that to her. Not that it could ever be proven that Harper had any involvement. Even if I had tried to prove it to him, Jeremy would never believe me. He loves her too much. He’d never believe such an atrocious thing—that a twin could do that to her own sister.

  Part of me felt responsible. Had I just tried choking her again as an infant, or leaving an open bottle of bleach near her as a toddler, or ramming the passenger side of my car into a tree while she was unbuckled with the airbag turned off, all of it could have been avoided. So many potential accidents I could have staged. Should have staged.

  Had I stopped Harper before she acted, we would still have Chastin.

  And then maybe Jeremy wouldn’t be so fucking sad all the time.

  Verity is in the living room. April brought her down in the elevator right before she left for the evening. An unusual change in their routine that I’m not sure I like.

  April said, “She’s wide awake this evening. I thought I’d let Jeremy put her to bed tonight.” She left her in front of the television, her wheelchair parked near the sofa.

  Verity is watching Wheel of Fortune.

  Or…staring in that direction, anyway.

  I’m standing in the doorway to the living room, looking at her. Jeremy is upstairs with Crew. It’s dark outside, and the living room light isn’t on, but there’s enough light from the television that I can see Verity’s expressionless face.

  I can’t imagine anyone going to such great lengths to fake an injury for this long. I’m not even sure how someone could pull it off. Would she startle at a loud noise?

  Next to me, near the entryway to the living room, is a bowl full of decorative glass balls mixed in with wooden ones. I look around, then pluck one of the wooden ones out of the
bowl. I toss it in her direction. When it hits the floor in front of her, she doesn’t flinch.

  I know she’s not paralyzed, so how does she not even flinch? Even if her brain damage is too severe to understand the English language, she’d still be alarmed by noise, right? Have some kind of reaction?

  Unless she’s trained herself to not react.

  I watch her for a little longer before I start to creep myself out with my own thoughts again.

  I return to the kitchen, leaving her alone with Pat Sajak and Vanna White.

  There are only two chapters left of Verity’s manuscript. I’m praying I don’t find a part two anywhere before I leave here because I can’t take the ups and downs of it all. The anxiety I get after every chapter is worse than the anxiety I get after I sleepwalk.

  I’m relieved she had nothing to do with Chastin’s death, but disturbed by her thought process during all of it. She seemed so detached. Two-dimensional. She’d lost her fucking daughter, yet all she thought about was how she should have killed Harper, and she was fed up with waiting for Jeremy to get over his grief.

  Disturbing is putting it mildly. Luckily, it’s coming to an end soon. Most of the manuscript details things that happened years ago, but this last chapter was more recent. Less than a year ago. Months before Harper’s death.

  Harper’s death.

  It’s the thing I plan to get to next. Maybe tonight. I don’t know. I haven’t slept well the last few days, and I’m worried after I finish the manuscript, I won’t be able to sleep at all.

  I’m making spaghetti for Jeremy and Crew tonight. I try to focus on dinner and not at all on Verity’s lack of a soul. I purposely timed this meal so that April would be gone before dinner was ready. And I’m hoping Jeremy takes Verity up to bed before it’s time to eat. My birthday is almost over, and I’ll be damned if I eat my birthday meal seated next to Verity Crawford.

  I’m stirring the pasta sauce when I realize I haven’t heard the television in a few minutes. I carefully loosen my grip on the spoon, placing it on the stove next to the pan.

  “Jeremy?” I say, hoping he’s in the living room. Hoping he’s the reason there’s no sound coming from the television anymore.

  “Be down in a second!” he calls from upstairs.

  I close my eyes, already feeling the quickening of my pulse. If this bitch turned off that goddamn television, I’m walking out that front door without shoes on and I’m never coming back.

  I clench my fists at my sides, growing really tired of this shit. This house. And that fucking creepy-ass, psychotic woman.

  I don’t tiptoe into the living room. I stomp.

  The television is still on, but it’s no longer making noise. Verity is still in the same position. I walk over to the table next to her wheelchair and snatch up the remote. The television is now on mute, and I am over this. I’m over this. Televisions don’t just mute themselves!

  “You’re a fucking cunt,” I mutter.

  My own words shock me, but not enough to walk away. It’s as if every word I read of her manuscript fans the flames inside of me. I unmute the television and drop the remote on the couch, out of her reach. I kneel down in front of her, positioning myself so that I’m directly in her line of sight. I’m shaking, but not from fear this time. I’m shaking because I am so angry at her. Angry at the type of wife she was to Jeremy. The kind of mother she was to Harper. And I’m angry that all this weird shit keeps happening and I’m the only one who is witnessing it. I’m tired of feeling crazy!

  “You don’t even deserve the body you’re trapped in,” I whisper, staring straight into her eyes. “I hope you die with a throat full of your own vomit, the same way you attempted to kill your infant daughter.”

  I wait. If she’s in there…if she heard me…if she’s faking it…my words would reach her. They would make her flinch or lash out or something.

  She doesn’t move. I try to think of something else to say that would make her react. Something she wouldn’t be able to keep her composure after hearing. I stand up and lean into her, bringing my mouth to her ear. “Jeremy is going to fuck me in your bed tonight.”

  I wait again…for a noise…for a movement.

  The only thing I notice is the smell of urine. It fills the air. My nostrils.

  I look down at her pants right when Jeremy begins to descend the stairs. “Did you need me?”

  I back away from her, accidentally kicking the wooden ball I tossed toward her earlier. I motion toward Verity while bending down for the ball. “She just… She needs to be changed, I think.”

  Jeremy grabs the handles of her wheelchair and pushes her out of the living room, toward the elevator. I bring a hand to my face, covering my mouth and nose as I exhale.

  I don’t know why I’ve never been curious about who bathes her or changes her. I assumed the nurse took care of most of that, but she obviously doesn’t do it all. That Verity is incontinent and has to wear diapers and be bathed makes me feel even sorrier for him. Jeremy is now taking her upstairs to do both of those things and it makes me angry.

  Angry at Verity.

  Surely her current state is a result of the terrible human she’s been to her children and to Jeremy. Now, for the rest of his life, Jeremy will have to suffer the consequences of Verity’s karma.

  It isn’t right.

  And even though she flinched at nothing I said, the fact that I seemed to scare her has me convinced she’s in there. Somewhere. And now she knows I’m not afraid of her.

  •••

  I ate dinner at the table with Crew, who played on his iPad the whole time. I wanted to wait for Jeremy, but I knew he didn’t want Crew to eat alone and it was getting past his bedtime. While Jeremy was tending to Verity, I put Crew to bed. By the time Jeremy got her showered, changed, and put to bed, the spaghetti was cold.

  Jeremy finally comes downstairs as I’m washing the dishes. We haven’t talked much since our kiss. I’m not sure what the vibe will be between us, or if we’re going to be awkward and go our separate ways after he eats. I can hear him behind me, munching on garlic bread as I continue to wash the dishes.

  “Sorry about that,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Missing dinner.”

  I shrug. “You didn’t miss it. Eat.”

  He takes a bowl out of the cabinet and fills it with spaghetti. He puts it in the microwave and then leans into the counter next to me. “Lowen.”

  I look at him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing, Jeremy. It’s not my place.”

  “It is now that you said that.”

  I don’t want to have this conversation with him. It really isn’t my place. This is his life. His wife. His house. And I’m only going to be here for another two days at the most. I dry my hands on a towel just as the microwave beeps. He doesn’t move to open it because he’s too busy staring at me, attempting to coax more out of me with that look.

  I lean against the island and sigh, dropping my head back. “I just…I feel bad for you.”

  “Don’t.”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “You can.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  He opens the microwave and pulls out his bowl. He sets it on the counter to cool off and then faces me again. “This is my life, Low. And I can’t do anything about it. You feeling sorry for me doesn’t help.”

  I roll my head. “But you’re wrong. You can do something about it. You don’t have to live like this, day in and day out. There are facilities, places that can take much better care of her. She’ll have more opportunity. And you and Crew won’t be tied to this house every day for the rest of your lives.”

  Jeremy’s jaw hardens. I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. “I appreciate that you think I deserve better. But put yourself in Verity’s shoes.”

  He has no idea how far I’ve walked in Verity’s shoes over the past two weeks. “Believe me, I have been.” I make a frustrated fist a
nd tap it on the counter, trying to find a better way to word it all. “She wouldn’t want this for you, Jeremy. You’re a prisoner in your own home. Crew is a prisoner in this home. He needs to get away from this house. Take him on vacations. Go back to work and put her in a facility where she can receive full-time care.”

  Jeremy is shaking his head before I even get the sentence out. “I can’t do that to Crew. He’s lost both of his sisters. He can’t go through another loss like that. At least if she’s here, Crew can still spend time with her.”

  He didn’t indicate his own desire to have her here. Only Crew’s.

  “Take moments, then,” I tell him. “You can put her in a facility part time so it’s not weighing you down. Bring her home on the weekends, when Crew is out of school.” I walk over to him and take his face in my hands. I want him to see how much I worry for him. Maybe if he sees that someone actually cares about his well being, he’ll take this conversation more seriously.

  “Take moments for yourself, Jeremy,” I say quietly. “Selfish moments. You deserve to live a life where you have moments that have nothing to do with her and everything to do with you and what you want.”

  I feel his teeth clench beneath my palms. He pulls away from me and presses his hands into the granite, dropping his head between his shoulders. “What I want?” he says quietly.

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  His head falls backward and he laughs, once, like that was a stupid question. Then he says one word, like it’s the easiest question he’s ever answered.

  “You.”

  He pushes off the counter and marches toward me. He grips my waist with both hands and presses his forehead to mine, looking into my eyes with nothing but need. “I want you, Low.”

  My relief is met with a kiss. It’s different from our first kiss. This time he’s patient as his lips move lazily against mine and his hand curves around the back of my neck. He’s savoring the taste of me, drawing up my desire with every motion of his tongue. He bends a little, lifting me, and then he wraps my legs around his waist.