Just Like Home(24)

“Vera,” Daphne said, the two syllables heavy with warning.

Duvall didn’t seem bothered. “Dad will cross over peacefully. All his business here was finished by the time he started to get sick. There’s no reason to think he’ll be haunting anywhere. Your father, on the other hand—his business was never really finished, was it?” He tapped the ring on his index finger against his plate rhythmically as he spoke. “He probably died wishing he could have wrapped things up a little tidier. He really hasn’t appeared to you at all in the time since he passed? You can tell me.”

Vera met her mother’s eyes then, compelling herself to bathe in the cold disdain there. It was the loveless regard of a landscaper eyeing a weed. It was so familiar, so much more familiar than the rest of this conversation, that it was almost comforting.

Before Vera could find an answer for Duvall, Daphne cleared her throat hard. She made a sound like a coffeepot percolating, going on for long enough that it felt like an act of aggression. After much too long, she worked her mouth into a little knot, then spat something thick and dark into her cup.

“Oh,” Duvall said, the revulsion thick in his voice. “I’ll, um. I’ll just get you a paper towel, Daph.”

“Cute nickname,” Vera hissed once he was out of the room. “Daph.”

Daphne wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb and forefinger, then looked right at Vera, smiling with black-streaked teeth. “You think you’re so smart,” she said. “Getting his attention.”

“What? I don’t want his—”

“The roll’s empty,” Duvall called from the kitchen, rummaging loudly through the cupboards. The replacement rolls were on top of the refrigerator, if he’d just look.

“Check under the sink,” Vera called, not looking away from Daphne’s glittering eyes.

Daphne’s smile curled into a sneer. “The disrespect. In my own home, the disrespect. You think you’re clever.”

“I thought you wanted me to talk to him. Am I supposed to stay in my room again, like the old days? Are we time traveling?” Vera asked, even though she didn’t want to hear more. She just wanted this dinner to be over.

But Daphne didn’t let go. “Old days. As if you have a right to talk about the old days. If you want to be a time traveler, maybe you can go back and do what I told you to do,” she hissed. “You have no idea how much I kept everyone away from you. They wanted to run you out of town on a rail, do you know that? They could see the grease inside you.”

Vera’s entire body stilled. “Sorry,” she said carefully, her lips numb, her tongue thick. “I think I misheard you. What did you—”

“The grease,” her mother hissed. She was on the far side of a tunnel, at the bottom of a well, a voice traveling along a string between tin cans. “The grease that’s in you, the filth, they saw it and so did I. I locked you up to protect everyone from your foulness.”

Daphne stared and Vera stared back and it was in that moment that Vera realized with a start that she’d never asked what exactly it was that Daphne was dying from. Why hadn’t she asked? If she was honest with herself—and she did not want to be honest with herself—she hadn’t asked because she didn’t care. She’d just wanted it to be over.

So she hadn’t asked. She’d assumed cancer. Was this what cancer looked like? Daphne’s eyes were coated with a patchy gray film that shifted every time she blinked, every time her gaze twitched to Vera’s mouth. Her skin seemed to slacken, hanging from her face in loose folds. Dark gray mucous gathered at the corners of her mouth, rimmed her nostrils, and she was tapping her index finger faster and faster on the lip of the last empty cup, one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four, tap tap tap tap, taptaptaptap, taptaptaptap.

Vera bit her tongue hard, closed her eyes tight, and snapped the fingers of her right hand, four times fast, not as quick as her mother’s tapping but quick enough to break Daphne’s rhythm. Then, with all her courage, she whispered, “Please. Please, stop it.”

It worked. Daphne didn’t make another sound. Still, Vera didn’t open her eyes again for the space of a few long breaths. She couldn’t have heard what she thought she heard. She couldn’t have seen what she thought she saw.

She was exhausted, and—although it was unthinkable to admit it—she was afraid. That was all. The strain was too much. Her mind was playing tricks.

Vera wasn’t altogether certain that she could handle eye contact with her mother. But she heard Duvall thumping back toward the dining room, so she opened her eyes.

Daphne was fast asleep again, chin-to-chest, a string of saplike black ooze hanging from one corner of her half-open mouth.

“They were on top of the fridge,” Duvall said, and then he froze, his eyes on Daphne.

“It’s fine,” Vera whispered. She took the paper towels from him. “Dinner’s over anyway. You should take yours to go,” she added, looking pointedly at his half-eaten pasta.

“Sure,” he replied. He looked nervous. “Sure, that’s fine—you’ll deal with this, then?”

“Oh, is this not inspiring enough for you?” she hissed, then grimaced at herself, wished she could be better than she was. “Sorry. Yes. I’ll deal with this,” she confirmed.