Acts of Violet(24)
You know we’re rooting for you, right? Sasha might not be the magic nerd I am, but we always talk about how you’re gonna be big-time. We’re so sure of it. The point is, you might wanna be a little nicer to the people who believe in you the most.
Oh, and Sasha would kick my ass if she knew about this letter, so it stays between you and me.
—Gabriel
Notecard from Sofia’s House of Flowers
August 9, 1993
Dear Violet,
Best. Weekend. Ever.
Best. Sister. Ever.
You rock!!!
222,
Sasha
THE SOUTH JERSEY CHRONICLE
Legendary Performer Declared Legally Dead
By Jennifer Lansing
APRIL 28, 2013
Five years after her disappearance, in accordance with New Jersey presumption of death requirements, stage magician and self-help guru Violet Volk has been declared legally dead.
An extensive investigation was launched when Volk vanished from the Witkin Theater during a performance on February 22, 2008. After a week with no leads, the Willow Glen police department turned over the case to the FBI. While an indication of kidnapping or other illegal activity involving crossing state lines is normally required to bring in federal assistance, Volk’s high profile and the peculiar circumstance surrounding her disappearance added urgency to the case.
In the ensuing years, authorities have remained tight-lipped about Volk, offering no insight into her absence. None of the reported sightings have been verified, and if any clues to her whereabouts have been discovered, they have not been shared with the public.
“As my sister’s only next of kin, I had a very difficult decision to make, and I gave it proper consideration,” said Volk’s sister, Sasha Dwyer, to reporters gathered outside the Atlantic County Courthouse. She read from a prepared statement. “I am grateful to law enforcement and everyone else who supported our search for Violet these last five years. As much as we want to believe she’s out there somewhere, alive and well, unfortunately there has been no evidence to support that, and practical matters must be taken into account. I would like to assure everyone that my family had no personal stake with regards to the financial aspects of this matter. The majority of my sister’s estate will be used to pay off outstanding debt and the remainder will be donated to the wildlife conservation charities specified in her will.
“This is a sad day for me and my family, and I hope you will respect our privacy. No matter what court documents say, Violet will live on in our hearts.”
Despite today’s court ruling, which has issued Violet Volk’s death certificate, her case remains open. If you have any information concerning her disappearance, please contact your local FBI office.
Sasha
February 12, 2018
Renatta Nelson’s office is on the outskirts of Finchley, on a street with Victorian houses converted for commercial use, mostly law and medical services. Less of a chance I’ll run into someone I know out here, apart from a certain podcast host.
I park in a small lot behind a powder-blue house with white trim. When I ring the bell and announce myself, a low buttery voice says she’ll be with me in a few minutes and I can wait inside.
Her voice was one of the reasons I chose her, in addition to her credentials, and a last-minute cancellation that enabled me to see her so soon. I figure if I’m going to subject myself to a therapist, at least I could talk to one whose voice provides a modicum of comfort.
There’s nobody in the waiting area, so I’m spared awkward chitchat with a receptionist or other patients. On the coffee table is a stack of magazines. I pick up a copy of Psychology Today and start thumbing through it.
A door opens at the far end of the room. “Sasha Dwyer?” A heavyset forty-ish Black woman in a maroon shift dress steps out. Her eyebrows are perfectly sculpted and her mouth is set in a smile, but there’s a scrutiny in her stare, like she’s trying to figure me out before our session even begins.
I greet her and hold out the magazine. “You’re not worried the patients might learn your trade secrets and decide to fend for themselves?”
“I would never stand in the way of my patients’ education and empowerment when it comes to their mental health.” The corners of her eyes crinkle. “Please come through.”
I enter a sunny room with blond wood furniture and pistachio walls decorated with framed paintings of benign autumn landscapes. Renatta invites me to take a seat on the microfiber sofa beneath the window as she grabs a legal pad and perches on a leather armchair across from me. Between us is a coffee table with an unopened bottle of water and a box of tissues. I wonder how much you need to cry before your body starts to dehydrate.
“Help yourself.” She motions to the water.
“I’m okay, thanks.” It’s hard not to feel like every statement coming out of my mouth is loaded, with Renatta assessing each word on multiple levels.
She tilts her head and scribbles something on the pad, which I imagine to be: patient claims she is okay; immediate indication of denial.
“How are you doing today?” she asks.
“I’m…” Normally, I would offer a safe adjective like “good” or “fine,” something that would invite no concern and discourage additional inquiry, but I can’t bring myself to do that here. After all, what’s the point of paying a professional to listen to me if I give her nothing but hollow sentiments? “I don’t know how I am. I don’t know if coming here was the best idea.” I grab a sage cushion and hug it to my chest. “Can I be straight with you about something?”