Just Like Home(84)

She knows because her father won’t look at her as those police officers lead him around the side of the house.

There’s a car in the driveway. It’s a silver sedan. There aren’t flashing lights on top, or a screen between the front seat and the back seat, but it’s a police car, and it’s here to take Francis Crowder to jail.

“Watch,” Vera’s mother whispers, her fingers digging into Vera’s shoulders. “Don’t you even blink, Vera Marie Crowder. You did this.”

So Vera watches. Her father’s hands are behind his back, cuffed, but there’s a jacket over his shoulders so Vera can’t see the handcuffs. She’s not sure if she wants to see them. She’s not sure what she wants to see anymore.

But she knows she has to watch. It’s the only way to learn.

There’s nobody here now except for Vera and Daphne and Francis and the police and a man in a suit. He’s the detective who has been in their home all day. Asking tense questions, peeking in cupboards, drinking coffee from their mugs and leaving those mugs in the sink, dirty—and now, waiting for Francis beside the sedan.

He opens the back door and Vera watches as the officers guide her father down into the backseat. The tall skinny Black police officer cups the back of his head to keep him from bumping it, which is nice. They obviously don’t want him to get hurt, which means they can’t be that mad at him.

Maybe that’s why they got rid of all the reporters before they came to get him—because they’re not actually mad, and they don’t want the papers to get the wrong idea. Maybe, Vera thinks, this will be okay. Maybe her father won’t be hurt by any of it.

All he needs to do is tell them that what happened to Brandon was an accident. Then they’ll understand, and they’ll let him come home.

And then everything will be okay again.

She allows herself a small, hopeful smile as the car backs out of the driveway. She waves, low and subtle in front of her waist so her mother doesn’t see. She doesn’t know if her father sees, and even if he does, he can’t wave back with his hands cuffed behind his back like that.

“Watch,” Daphne hisses again. Vera frowns, because she is watching, and she doesn’t really see how her mother could expect her to watch harder. But she’s still in trouble, so she bites her tongue and doesn’t say anything.

It’s only a few more seconds until the car containing her father is gone, and then she and her mother are alone on the front porch. They’re alone with the house. They’re alone in all the world, it seems.

The second the car is out of sight, Vera feels her mother’s hands propelling her toward the front door. She opens the door just in time to keep from smashing into it, and then she’s inside, tripping in the doorway, Daphne shoving her across the threshold. She stumbles, catches herself on the little table beside the door with the bowl that’s just for keys. Her eyes are locked on the backs of her hands as she listens to the sound of the front door closing behind her, the deadbolt sliding home.

Behind Vera, too close for comfort, Daphne lets out a long, shuddering breath.

Vera starts to walk toward her bedroom, but her mother stops her with a word.

“No.”

Vera freezes in place.

“Turn around.” Daphne’s voice is low and even and it does not cast even a shadow of love.

“Mom, I—”

“Enough,” Daphne snaps. “It’s just us now, and it’s going to be just us until you graduate. We can quit playing those games.”

Vera knows she isn’t supposed to answer back, but she can’t help herself. “But when Dad comes home—”

Daphne crosses the entryway in two long strides, her fury palpable enough to strike Vera silent. “He isn’t coming home,” she spits. “He confessed. He confessed to everything. He’s going away forever because of you.”

“Once he explains, they’ll let him go,” Vera insists, her heart climbing the ladder of her ribs toward her throat.

“If you say another word,” Daphne hisses, her white lips pulling back to reveal the dull shine of her teeth, “I will hit you. I swear to god I’ll do it, I’m angry at you enough to do it, and nobody will be here to get in my way. Do you understand me?”

Vera doesn’t reply, but she nods, even though she doesn’t understand. She knows that this is the right response, whether it’s true or not. She knows that Daphne doesn’t mean it, won’t hit her. She just needs to do this. She needs to act so mad and scary. That’s how Francis had explained it, back when Vera was little enough to be surprised and frightened by her mother’s moods.

Sometimes, moms just need to be mad like that, he’d said. Sometimes they need to say and do things that hurt you. It’s how they love you. It’s part of what being a mom is all about. You’ll learn someday, he’d added, laying an affectionate hand on her head.

Of course, that conversation happened a long time ago. Vera is not a baby anymore. She’s thirteen now. She knows that adults sometimes need to become furious, animal things, driven only by their rage at the existence of the small creature in front of them. She knows that she is supposed to think this is not her fault, although she’s not entirely certain that’s true. She is still full of hot shame and fear and she wants to run away, but she knows that isn’t the right move.