Chapter 7: The Worst She Could Do
Vanessa moved quickly after that.
By Monday, she had called my father's mother — my grandmother, Nana Rose — and told her version of events before my father could.
By Tuesday, two of my father's colleagues had received emails from an address I didn't recognize, suggesting that Marcus was going through a difficult time at home due to his daughter's behavioral issues and that he might need support.
My father showed me the email on Wednesday evening.
His face was the controlled kind of calm that meant he was working very hard to stay that way.
"She sent this to your office?" I said.
"To two people I work with closely.
And cc'd our neighbor, Janet, who is apparently now a character witness."
"What does it say exactly?"
He read it aloud.
It described a troubled teenager with a history of dishonesty, a father too emotionally compromised to see clearly, and a stepmother who had done everything possible to maintain stability in the home.
It mentioned the missing money.
It mentioned my mother — not by name, but as a prior unstable influence.
When he finished reading, I said, "She's trying to embarrass you into backing down."
"Yes."
"Is it working?"
He set the phone on the table.
"No."
"What are you going to do?"
"I've already spoken to the attorney again.
And I've asked Denise to write down everything Vanessa said to her in October.
Dated, specific, signed."
"Vanessa will say Denise is biased."
"She probably will." He looked at me steadily.
"But Denise isn't the only one who received those calls.
Vanessa spoke to three other people over the past year with variations of the same story.
Two of them have already contacted me to say they're uncomfortable with what she told them."
I sat with that.
"She told too many people," I said.
"She thought she was building a wall.
She was actually building a record."
That night, Vanessa came to my room.
She knocked once and opened the door without waiting.
I was at my desk.
I did not turn around.
"I want to talk to you," she said.
"Okay."
She came in and stood near the door.
"This doesn't have to go the way your father is taking it.
You could tell him you exaggerated.
That you were upset and things got blown out of proportion."
I turned in my chair to face her.
"You want me to say I lied."
"I want this family to stay together."
"You locked the refrigerator."
"That was a mistake.
I've admitted that."
"You threw my dinner in the trash while I was standing there."
"I was frustrated.
I overreacted."
"You told my aunt that my mother was unstable and that I inherited her problems."
Something moved across her face.
Not guilt.
Something more calculating.
"Denise misunderstood what I said."
"You said it to three other people too."
Her chin lifted.
"You don't know what I said to anyone."
"My father does." I held her gaze.
"And they're writing it down."
The room was very quiet.
"You think this ends well for you," she said.
Her voice had dropped to something I hadn't heard before.
Flat.
Stripped of performance.
"You think you win and everyone goes back to normal.
But if your father and I separate, this house changes.
Your life changes.
You want to carry that?"
"I've been carrying things since I was thirteen," I said.
"I'm not afraid of carrying more."
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she walked out and closed the door behind her.
I turned back to my desk.
My hands were shaking slightly.
May you like
But my breathing was steady.
I picked up my pencil and went back to work.
