Acts of Violet(19)

If you love your life, every last crumb of it, put down this book right now and go back to living it—you don’t need me. (P.S. You’re probably lying to yourself; I’ll be here when you’ve figured that out.)

But if your life could use more inspiration, more spice, more (and I roll my eyes as I write this, but my editor insists) magic, I’ll tell you what’s worked for me. And for the record, despite what the gossip rags might say, I fucking love my life.

Magicians are not supposed to reveal their secrets, but I’m seeing so many people drowning in misery or denial, feeling untethered and incapable of being their best selves, it’s time for me to step in and divulge a few things. Dedicating my life to magic has given me a unique existential perspective. Performing an effective illusion involves mastery: over yourself, the audience, and the elements involved in creating a sense of wonder.

So, am I here to teach you how to be more deceptive?

Yes and no.

Like I said, I’m not claiming to be an expert. I’m just here to show you how to discover your personal flavor of magic. What you do with it is up to you. What I hope you do is use it to astonish others.

And if you’re not interested in being astonishing, if you’re content with a “happy” or “good” or “simple” life, I have three words for you:

Fuck. That. Noise.

We’re on this planet for a millisecond, a blink of an eye. Don’t accept your innate insignificance. Don’t settle for being content. Aim higher than good or simple. Make that blink count. Your best self will emerge from the strife that accompanies chasing glory, from the climb to greatness, the quest for astonishment.

Dream bigger, aspire harder, pursue the impossible, and find that fucking magic.

Don’t worry, I’ll show you how.

—Violet Volk, August 28, 2002





Sasha


February 8, 2018

It’s cold and dark, and this mattress is so uncomfortable, like sleeping on tiny rocks. I turn my head and squint against the glare of a streetlight.

What.

The.

Fuck.

I swear, what seemed like a minute ago, I was in bed, fighting to keep my eyes open to finish one more chapter of the sci-fi novel I was reading. Now I’m lying on some gravel path, still in my pajamas, coatless and shoeless.

I shake off the fog of sleep and scramble to my feet. How the hell did I get here? Where, exactly, is here anyway?

Frenzied, I look every which way. Behind me is a parking lot and before me is an ashy brick building. It has arched windows and so many cornices it looks like it was attacked by an overzealous cake decorator with a piping bag and too much gray icing. The Witkin Theater. The last place I saw my sister, almost ten years ago. Wow, my subconscious mind has all the subtlety of an avalanche.

There are no cars in the lot, which means I walked here. It’s only a few blocks from home, but I have no recollection of this little jaunt.

It’s one thing for me to wake up in different parts of the house, but another to wake up outside it. I thought my sleepwalking was harmless, insignificant, cute, even.

This is not cute. I need to get back home. Now. Before my husband or daughter wakes up and starts worrying. Before an opportunistic criminal cruising the Jersey burbs sees me as a way to get his own Dateline special.

I hurry to my house, hoping nobody spots me, hoping this sleepwalking-with-expanded-radius is a one-off. I don’t want to be one of those people who has to be strapped into bed every night so I don’t go wandering off.

Thankfully, I make it back without incident. I reach for the front door and—it’s locked. Damn it. If I’d gotten that Hide-A-Key, I could let myself back in no problem, but Gabriel and Quinn, their minds saturated with true crime paranoia, were vehemently against it.

“Mom?” Quinn peeks at me through the window beside the front door. “What are you doing out there?” She unlocks the door and lets me in. “Is something wrong?”

Something is very wrong. “No, nothing is wrong. I was in the backyard getting some air and accidentally locked myself out. Thought I’d see if maybe we left the front door unlocked.”

“Like it’s the 1950s or something? Yeah, I don’t think so.” Her voice is hushed as she trails me down the hall.

“Dad still sleeping?” I ask.

“As far as I know. It’s weird I never heard you come downstairs.” Quinn’s eyes sweep me head to toe.

“I guess I’m just stealthy like that. You studying?” I point to the open laptop on the kitchen table.

“Working on my thesis. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Not at all, but I force a smile and kiss her forehead. “Of course. I’m gonna head back to bed. Don’t be up too late.”

“Mom.” The sharpness of her tone sends a whisper of dread through me.

“What’s up, honey?”

“You do realize I’m pretty much an adult at this point, and I’m not gonna blindly believe everything you tell me, right?”

That knocks the wind out of me. “Quinn, where is all this suspicion coming from?”

“You weren’t out for some air in the middle of the night. If you don’t want to tell me where you really were, fine, but enough with the lame excuses. After a while, it gets insulting.”

Bowing my head, I say, “You’re right. I didn’t want you to worry, but … I was sleepwalking again. I woke up in the backyard and found myself locked out.”