Acts of Violet(46)

We go silent as Renatta waits for me to say more. I stare at her brown oxfords, marginally comforted by her continued selection of sensible footwear, until eventually, she asks, “Did you try any other methods to recover the photo?”

“Of course. I googled the shit out of it when I got home. Downloaded some kind of data recovery software, hooked up a USB cable to my laptop, but guess what?”

“It didn’t work?”

“It might’ve worked, but when I went to get my phone out of my coat, it wasn’t there. I turned the house upside down, retraced my steps to the salon, checked every inch of the place … nothing. Quinn tried to find it using some app … no luck. I was so desperate, I even called out this superstitious phrase my parents used to recover lost objects: Devil, you played with it, now give it back. Still nothing.” There’s a sour taste in my mouth and an unexpected sting in my eyes.

“That must have been frustrating.”

“God yes. I wanted to break things, but trashing the salon would’ve been pointless, so I did what I always do—I went for a long run. I’m so mad at myself about that phone. The last thing we need is another unnecessary expense.”

“But it’s not so much about the phone itself, is it?”

“Nope.” I breathe through my nose and give my nemesis, the Kleenex box, a dirty look. It won’t get me this time. “Gabriel thought it was silly for me to get so worked up about it, but I couldn’t tell him what really happened.”

“Why not?”

“For the same reason I haven’t told him about the other weird stuff that’s been happening.” My foot wiggles, demands more motion from the rest of the body, so I get up and pace the carpeted office. “Stress makes me lose my appetite and I enjoy running. It’s not that complicated. But Gabriel makes it a bigger thing than it is, which is what he’d do if he knew about the sleepwalking or the number patterns.” Wait, did I already tell her about the twos?

Renatta’s pen goes into hyperdrive taking notes. “What kind of number patterns?”

Shit. Guess not. Pausing in front of the bookcase, I aim my response at the vase of sunflowers. “It’s not important. I didn’t mention it earlier because of how unimportant it is.” A sudden glint diverts my attention to the bronze swan figures and I’m unable to resist the urge to touch them, one, two, three, running a finger down the curve of each cool neck.

“Since you brought it up now, humor me.” Her tone is casual but her penetrating gaze says I have no chance of evading the subject.

I sit back down, push the tissues to the opposite end of the coffee table, and tell her about the twos.

“It’s so stupid,” I conclude. “I know it doesn’t mean anything, that it’s my subconscious way of creating order out of chaos, yada yada yada.”

When I stop there, Renatta makes a beckoning gesture. “Sounds like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“But … it’s still a little weird. Our house number is 233, but all of a sudden, we’re getting mail for 222 Persimmon Drive. All the time. That’s never happened before. Whenever I look at a receipt or inventory number, it seems like it always ends in triple twos. It’s the type of synchronicity bullshit my sister would’ve made a big deal of, but I have no time for it.”

“It sounds like you were irritated by Violet’s penchant for magical thinking.”

A dry chuckle rattles out of me. “Magical thinking, I see what you did there.” A hint of a smile but Renatta says nothing. Jesus, this woman is diversion-proof. “It wasn’t just Violet. It was my whole family and their obsession with superstitions. Here’s an example. We were forbidden from giving sharp objects—scissors, knives, safety pins, et cetera—to anyone. We couldn’t receive them from others, either, because according to lore, you’d take on their troubles. So when Gabriel and I got a set of steak knives as a wedding gift, my mother was beside herself until we mailed the sender a dollar bill—apparently, paying for sharp objects protects you from being cursed by them.” My eye-roll would surely rival one of Quinn’s best. “As if all the Russian nonsense wasn’t bad enough, Violet added American superstitions to her repertoire, and she could get … extreme about it.”

“How so?”

“She hated the number thirteen. Wouldn’t even stay on the fourteenth floor of any hotel, because it was technically the thirteenth. Refused to schedule any performances or travel that fell on a Friday the thirteenth. It could be maddening. When our father had a stroke that put him in the ICU, it was on a Thursday. Violet was doing a show in Toronto and couldn’t get a flight out that night. But the next day was Friday the thirteenth, so she booked the earliest Saturday flight to Jersey. He died Friday night, and she didn’t get to say goodbye because of her stupid fucking superstition. If anything, him dying on Friday the thirteenth further affirmed her belief that it was an unlucky day.” My jaw clenches as I remember those first hours of loss and confusion, putting any personal needs for solace aside to tend to immediate logistics and my hysterical mother. “I would’ve lost my mind if I hadn’t had Gabriel, but it would’ve been nice not waiting an extra day for my sister.” I blink at the ceiling, refusing to cry. “Not that Violet was of much use. She argued over everything, from where to bury our father to what to do with all his clothes—and she left the morning after the funeral. Had to get back to Canada because she couldn’t afford to cancel any more shows. She couldn’t even help much with funeral expenses, because she said she wasn’t getting paid more than a per diem until the end of her tour.” Sucking in a long breath through my teeth, I shake my head. “I guess I had bigger things to get mad about than her superstitions. But sometimes the smaller shit is easier to focus on, you know?”