Dead Silence
Page 14
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“And you don’t find that . . . odd?”
She shrugged again, repeating the word she’d said far too many times in the past few months. “It’s fine.” It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s just fine. She was starting to hate that word.
“What about Jay? What did he think about Rafe being there?”
This time it was Violet’s turn to scoff, to make light of the matter, but she couldn’t manage to make it as believable as she’d wanted. Maybe because she didn’t believe it herself. “Why would he care?” she asked, taking a too-large gulp from her cup and wishing there was something stronger than just tea in there. She watched her mom’s eyebrows inch up meaningfully. “Mom,” she complained as if her mother had actually accused her of something. “We’re just friends. Jay knows that.”
But she could see her mom wasn’t buying it.
She waited for her mom to say something else. But she didn’t, and they just sat there, silently assessing what the other might be thinking.
Finally Violet got up to go to her room. As she set her teacup down, her mom perked up. “I almost forgot,” she said, as if it were a natural transition in their awkward conversation. Her face twisted into a delighted grin. “I left something for you. On your bed.”
Cocking her head suspiciously, Violet asked, “What is it?”
“I don’t want to spoil the surprise . . .” her mom started, but Violet knew she would. Her mom hated keeping secrets almost as much as Violet hated surprises. “But I found a box of Grandma Louise’s things in the attic this afternoon. I thought you might want to look through it.”
At the mention of her grandmother’s name, Violet’s chest squeezed. She hadn’t thought of her grandmother in months . . . far, far too long. She wished she’d had more time with her grandmother before she’d died, longer to get to know her, to swap stories about their shared ability, the one Violet had inherited from her.
Suddenly grateful for the change in atmosphere, and subject, Violet sighed, “Thanks, Mom.”
Her mom shrugged, but Violet could see how pleased she was with herself. And suddenly Violet couldn’t wait to get to her room.
Staring into the musty-smelling box, Violet frowned. She glanced at all the knickknacks, a box filled with treasures that looked a lot like junk. Things that her grandmother had once held dear enough to save, to store away.
She reached in reverently, her fingers brushing over a collection that included a book with a tattered cover, its binding nearly threadbare; a shoebox filled with photos and newspaper clippings and letters; a perfume bottle, mostly empty; and a small ivory box with delicate carvings.
Violet reached for the carved box and drew it out, holding her breath as she ran her fingers over it. It felt both delicate and solid, and Violet worried she might break something that her grandmother had once considered special. Important.
She studied the etchings engraved on its lid, a labyrinth of people, trees, and birds, each intricate and carefully crafted. She flipped it over, her breath catching as she recognized the mechanism underneath it.
It was a music box. A windup music box.
Violet’s heart sped up as she wondered . . .
. . . if it were even possible that this music box and her music box—the one in her head—could possibly play the same tune. She knew there was only one way to find out.
She wavered for only a moment before winding the small silver dial, tightening the springs inside that would unleash the song within. Still, she didn’t lift the lid right away. She paused, the air around her growing thick with anticipation, her own song buzzing in her ears as her fingers froze above it.
And then she opened it . . . and the first notes played.
Soft and tinkling, the sound filled her room, bleeding into the imprint that followed her everywhere, that filled her every waking—and sleeping—thought.
The two weren’t a match.
She recognized the tune, though. She’d heard it before, the soft lilting of notes. Every child in the world would probably recognize that song.
Brahms Lullaby.
Violet could remember the song. She recalled hearing her grandmother hum it to her when she was small. She listened, letting the lullaby overtake the sound of her own imprint as she savored the bittersweet memories.
When the song ended, Violet closed the lid again, setting the box aside.
She began removing item by item, inspecting each one and then moving on to the next. It was fascinating to explore her grandmother’s life, all packed into one place.
When she reached the bottom, she realized it was filled with books. She plucked one of them out and flipped through its pages.
No, she realized, they weren’t just books. These were journals. There were at least fifteen of them, Violet counted, maybe more. Her grandmother had been a dedicated journaler, it seemed.
She felt strange just holding the private diaries that had once belonged to her grandmother, let alone contemplating opening one of them, peeking inside its cover.
But she felt like she needed to. Her grandmother was the only other person she’d ever known who could do what she could . . . find the dead.
Tentatively, falteringly, she flipped open the worn cover and looked at the scrawled, handwritten pages. The ink was clear and strong—not faded, as she’d expected it to be after so many years, and if Violet hadn’t known better, she could’ve easily believed that this had been written just yesterday.
June 14, 1960
She shrugged again, repeating the word she’d said far too many times in the past few months. “It’s fine.” It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s just fine. She was starting to hate that word.
“What about Jay? What did he think about Rafe being there?”
This time it was Violet’s turn to scoff, to make light of the matter, but she couldn’t manage to make it as believable as she’d wanted. Maybe because she didn’t believe it herself. “Why would he care?” she asked, taking a too-large gulp from her cup and wishing there was something stronger than just tea in there. She watched her mom’s eyebrows inch up meaningfully. “Mom,” she complained as if her mother had actually accused her of something. “We’re just friends. Jay knows that.”
But she could see her mom wasn’t buying it.
She waited for her mom to say something else. But she didn’t, and they just sat there, silently assessing what the other might be thinking.
Finally Violet got up to go to her room. As she set her teacup down, her mom perked up. “I almost forgot,” she said, as if it were a natural transition in their awkward conversation. Her face twisted into a delighted grin. “I left something for you. On your bed.”
Cocking her head suspiciously, Violet asked, “What is it?”
“I don’t want to spoil the surprise . . .” her mom started, but Violet knew she would. Her mom hated keeping secrets almost as much as Violet hated surprises. “But I found a box of Grandma Louise’s things in the attic this afternoon. I thought you might want to look through it.”
At the mention of her grandmother’s name, Violet’s chest squeezed. She hadn’t thought of her grandmother in months . . . far, far too long. She wished she’d had more time with her grandmother before she’d died, longer to get to know her, to swap stories about their shared ability, the one Violet had inherited from her.
Suddenly grateful for the change in atmosphere, and subject, Violet sighed, “Thanks, Mom.”
Her mom shrugged, but Violet could see how pleased she was with herself. And suddenly Violet couldn’t wait to get to her room.
Staring into the musty-smelling box, Violet frowned. She glanced at all the knickknacks, a box filled with treasures that looked a lot like junk. Things that her grandmother had once held dear enough to save, to store away.
She reached in reverently, her fingers brushing over a collection that included a book with a tattered cover, its binding nearly threadbare; a shoebox filled with photos and newspaper clippings and letters; a perfume bottle, mostly empty; and a small ivory box with delicate carvings.
Violet reached for the carved box and drew it out, holding her breath as she ran her fingers over it. It felt both delicate and solid, and Violet worried she might break something that her grandmother had once considered special. Important.
She studied the etchings engraved on its lid, a labyrinth of people, trees, and birds, each intricate and carefully crafted. She flipped it over, her breath catching as she recognized the mechanism underneath it.
It was a music box. A windup music box.
Violet’s heart sped up as she wondered . . .
. . . if it were even possible that this music box and her music box—the one in her head—could possibly play the same tune. She knew there was only one way to find out.
She wavered for only a moment before winding the small silver dial, tightening the springs inside that would unleash the song within. Still, she didn’t lift the lid right away. She paused, the air around her growing thick with anticipation, her own song buzzing in her ears as her fingers froze above it.
And then she opened it . . . and the first notes played.
Soft and tinkling, the sound filled her room, bleeding into the imprint that followed her everywhere, that filled her every waking—and sleeping—thought.
The two weren’t a match.
She recognized the tune, though. She’d heard it before, the soft lilting of notes. Every child in the world would probably recognize that song.
Brahms Lullaby.
Violet could remember the song. She recalled hearing her grandmother hum it to her when she was small. She listened, letting the lullaby overtake the sound of her own imprint as she savored the bittersweet memories.
When the song ended, Violet closed the lid again, setting the box aside.
She began removing item by item, inspecting each one and then moving on to the next. It was fascinating to explore her grandmother’s life, all packed into one place.
When she reached the bottom, she realized it was filled with books. She plucked one of them out and flipped through its pages.
No, she realized, they weren’t just books. These were journals. There were at least fifteen of them, Violet counted, maybe more. Her grandmother had been a dedicated journaler, it seemed.
She felt strange just holding the private diaries that had once belonged to her grandmother, let alone contemplating opening one of them, peeking inside its cover.
But she felt like she needed to. Her grandmother was the only other person she’d ever known who could do what she could . . . find the dead.
Tentatively, falteringly, she flipped open the worn cover and looked at the scrawled, handwritten pages. The ink was clear and strong—not faded, as she’d expected it to be after so many years, and if Violet hadn’t known better, she could’ve easily believed that this had been written just yesterday.
June 14, 1960
