Dead Silence
Page 52
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Violet felt a stab of guilt as she turned her back on her friends and climbed into her car. More secrets, she thought regretfully, trying to squelch the feeling as she pulled out of her driveway and watched her friends disappear in her rearview mirror.
While she was driving, she reached for her purse, digging around for the directions she’d printed, but couldn’t find them. It didn’t matter, though. She knew the general direction, and even before she’d reached the gates of the cemetery, she knew she was in the right place. She had to blink several times as colors began to blot her vision. And, of course, there was the smell.
This was definitely it, she thought, pulling her car to a stop behind a large procession that was already parked up and down the narrow road. She had to get out and walk the rest of the way, picking her way past the grave markers and headstones as other—less familiar—sensations pricked at her.
Most were dull, the way they always were once they were buried . . . staticky and bleeding into one another. Like the animals buried in Shady Acres. But some managed to find their way above the rest, demanding to be noticed.
A ripping sound, like paper. Tear after tear after tear.
The smell of laundry detergent, strong enough that it nearly made her eyes water.
And then there was the one that made Violet turn around, more than once, checking to make certain there was no one standing behind her. The feel of warm air—like someone breathing too near the base of her neck. It persisted even when she tried to rub it away.
But she continued to follow the smell of coffee and the trail of cars that led her toward the service, which was already underway in the central part of the cemetery.
Far off, she could hear a man’s voice, speaking in the resonant tone of a minister or a priest—someone reading passages and trying to give comfort to those who were grieving. Violet hadn’t been to many funerals, but she imagined they were all sort of alike in that regard.
She stood back, keeping her distance as she spied on the funeral from behind both a tree that blocked her from view, and the medley of colors that clouded her eyesight.
There were three coffins, one much smaller than the other two, and Violet wondered if it was strange that they were holding the service without the daughter being present . . . without even knowing where she was, or whether she should be joining her family in the ground today. She supposed they had to have the funeral eventually, and that those left behind deserved their closure too.
There were flowers everywhere, making it look more like a garden show than a funeral. And behind the caskets, there was an easel with a blown-up family photograph propped up on it—one that included the girl.
They were a lovely family, Violet couldn’t help thinking, as she gripped the rough tree bark, trying hard not to look too long at the little boy with freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose.
She turned instead to the people in attendance. There were so many of them, far too many to simply be family members. But Violet’s attention was drawn by a couple sitting in the front row, closest to the three caskets. They were older, much older than the couple being buried, and she watched as they leaned into each other. Or rather, as she leaned into him. She blubbered mournfully against his shoulder, while he did his best to maintain a stoic expression. His lips were pressed so tightly they were nearly bloodless.
Parents, Violet thought, guessing at their relation to either the man or woman in the caskets.
Beside them, two women squeezed hands, each pressing tissues to their mouths. One cried soundlessly as the other sniffled and choked loudly on her sobs. From their resemblance, Violet thought the two might be sisters.
When the man speaking, the minister or preacher or priest or whoever he was, finished, he asked if anyone wanted to share stories of the family. He said their names, and even from where she stood, Violet could hear them: Brian, Dawn, and Tyler.
Tyler. The little boy with the freckles was Tyler.
Her chest constricted as she thought of all the things Tyler would never get to experience, of all the things he’d miss out on: kissing a girl, driving a car, getting married, watching his children grow old.
She wondered if his sister missed him. If she’d be crying too if she were here.
She felt the hot air on the back of her neck again and she brushed at it, trying to make it go away.
“I knew you were up to something,” the voice behind her said. Violet jumped, whirling to stare into Chelsea’s I-told-you-so expression. “I knew I’d catch you eventually. So what’s the deal, V? Why are you all dressed up like you’re going on a job interview or something? You applying to be a gravedigger?”
Violet just stared at her friend, her throat constricting as she tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for why she was standing in a cemetery, hiding behind a tree.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Chelsea said when Violet didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t answer. “So what is it then?”
Violet blinked, mustering up the only words she could manage, “Where are Jules and Claire?” She looked past Chelsea, still trying to figure out what her friend was doing here, how she’d found her. “Are they . . . are they here?”
Chelsea shook her head. “I dropped ’em off at school. But after I saw you, I decided I had better things to do than learning inverse trig functions.” She wiggled her eyebrows, letting Violet know that she was that better thing. “Oh, and you dropped this.” She waved a piece of paper in front of Violet, the printed directions she’d been searching for.
While she was driving, she reached for her purse, digging around for the directions she’d printed, but couldn’t find them. It didn’t matter, though. She knew the general direction, and even before she’d reached the gates of the cemetery, she knew she was in the right place. She had to blink several times as colors began to blot her vision. And, of course, there was the smell.
This was definitely it, she thought, pulling her car to a stop behind a large procession that was already parked up and down the narrow road. She had to get out and walk the rest of the way, picking her way past the grave markers and headstones as other—less familiar—sensations pricked at her.
Most were dull, the way they always were once they were buried . . . staticky and bleeding into one another. Like the animals buried in Shady Acres. But some managed to find their way above the rest, demanding to be noticed.
A ripping sound, like paper. Tear after tear after tear.
The smell of laundry detergent, strong enough that it nearly made her eyes water.
And then there was the one that made Violet turn around, more than once, checking to make certain there was no one standing behind her. The feel of warm air—like someone breathing too near the base of her neck. It persisted even when she tried to rub it away.
But she continued to follow the smell of coffee and the trail of cars that led her toward the service, which was already underway in the central part of the cemetery.
Far off, she could hear a man’s voice, speaking in the resonant tone of a minister or a priest—someone reading passages and trying to give comfort to those who were grieving. Violet hadn’t been to many funerals, but she imagined they were all sort of alike in that regard.
She stood back, keeping her distance as she spied on the funeral from behind both a tree that blocked her from view, and the medley of colors that clouded her eyesight.
There were three coffins, one much smaller than the other two, and Violet wondered if it was strange that they were holding the service without the daughter being present . . . without even knowing where she was, or whether she should be joining her family in the ground today. She supposed they had to have the funeral eventually, and that those left behind deserved their closure too.
There were flowers everywhere, making it look more like a garden show than a funeral. And behind the caskets, there was an easel with a blown-up family photograph propped up on it—one that included the girl.
They were a lovely family, Violet couldn’t help thinking, as she gripped the rough tree bark, trying hard not to look too long at the little boy with freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose.
She turned instead to the people in attendance. There were so many of them, far too many to simply be family members. But Violet’s attention was drawn by a couple sitting in the front row, closest to the three caskets. They were older, much older than the couple being buried, and she watched as they leaned into each other. Or rather, as she leaned into him. She blubbered mournfully against his shoulder, while he did his best to maintain a stoic expression. His lips were pressed so tightly they were nearly bloodless.
Parents, Violet thought, guessing at their relation to either the man or woman in the caskets.
Beside them, two women squeezed hands, each pressing tissues to their mouths. One cried soundlessly as the other sniffled and choked loudly on her sobs. From their resemblance, Violet thought the two might be sisters.
When the man speaking, the minister or preacher or priest or whoever he was, finished, he asked if anyone wanted to share stories of the family. He said their names, and even from where she stood, Violet could hear them: Brian, Dawn, and Tyler.
Tyler. The little boy with the freckles was Tyler.
Her chest constricted as she thought of all the things Tyler would never get to experience, of all the things he’d miss out on: kissing a girl, driving a car, getting married, watching his children grow old.
She wondered if his sister missed him. If she’d be crying too if she were here.
She felt the hot air on the back of her neck again and she brushed at it, trying to make it go away.
“I knew you were up to something,” the voice behind her said. Violet jumped, whirling to stare into Chelsea’s I-told-you-so expression. “I knew I’d catch you eventually. So what’s the deal, V? Why are you all dressed up like you’re going on a job interview or something? You applying to be a gravedigger?”
Violet just stared at her friend, her throat constricting as she tried to come up with a reasonable explanation for why she was standing in a cemetery, hiding behind a tree.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Chelsea said when Violet didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t answer. “So what is it then?”
Violet blinked, mustering up the only words she could manage, “Where are Jules and Claire?” She looked past Chelsea, still trying to figure out what her friend was doing here, how she’d found her. “Are they . . . are they here?”
Chelsea shook her head. “I dropped ’em off at school. But after I saw you, I decided I had better things to do than learning inverse trig functions.” She wiggled her eyebrows, letting Violet know that she was that better thing. “Oh, and you dropped this.” She waved a piece of paper in front of Violet, the printed directions she’d been searching for.
