Acts of Violet(47)
“Sometimes the smaller things have a larger meaning than you’d expect,” Renatta points out. “You mentioned the whole family followed these superstitions. Were you the only one who didn’t?”
“What are you getting at, that I was somehow left out of the family because I rarely joined them in yanking on each other’s ears and spitting to ward off jinxes?” Even though my tone is mocking, I tense up. I’ve hit enough nerves with all this poking around.
“Is that how it felt?”
“No … it felt more like a hobby they all shared that I wasn’t a part of. Which was fine. They were all fooling themselves, anyway. Except when Violet was trying to fool me.”
“Was it possible that was Violet’s way of including you?”
“By trying to make me believe that she and I were princesses, and Mom and Dad were spies? Or that she could make objects float and I could teleport? Yeah, no thanks. I was fine being left out of that bullshit.” Before Renatta can challenge me, I hurry to add, “But let’s get back to this Violet photobomb. I need to know if I might be … there’s a Russian expression for when you’re questioning your sanity, maya krisha poyekhala. It translates to ‘my roof is slipping.’ Should I worry my roof might be slipping?”
“Have you been hearing voices or having hallucinations?”
“No and no—unless that picture of Violet counts. Does it?”
“You mentioned your client saw something in the image, too.”
“Yeah, but she seemed less sure of it after. I thought maybe I clicked on Instagram and pulled up a #violetisback image. But it was definitely Sally in that picture. Who knows, maybe it was that shared delusion thing—what’s that French term for it?”
“Folie à deux. Do you think it was a shared delusion?”
My head feels like it’s being flooded with ink, blacking out rational thoughts. “I don’t know. This kind of thing happens to me and I think I’m losing it. But then I read something batshit about my sister online or listen to a podcast where her ex-husband goes into all the insane things she put him through—and I think I can’t be the crazy one. At least, not as crazy. Nowhere near.”
“Have you had any additional sleepwalking occurrences since our last session?”
“No, so at least I have that going for me.”
“And this podcast you mentioned, is it the same one you were so distraught about in the last session?” A faint rustle as she flips through the pages of her legal pad. “Strange Exits?”
“That’s the one.”
“Let’s talk about that.”
“Do we have to? Seems like everyone else in the world is already going on about it.”
“In earlier sessions, you seemed pretty adamant about not listening to it. What made you change your mind?”
I give her an isn’t-it-obvious glare but she lobs a patient half-smile back at me. “It’s kind of unavoidable. At first, it was the local papers and some true crime bloggers mentioning it, and I told myself I wouldn’t listen because I didn’t want to give it any importance. But now it’s blown up—people are calling it the next Serial. So if I ignore it, I come off like I don’t give a shit about Violet, which might piss off her precious Wolf Pack. I do give a shit. It’s about my sister—how could I not listen? On top of that, my daughter is getting more fixated on her dear aunt Violet. She tells me she’s working on her thesis when I know she’s working on her speech for the vigil or going down another #violetisback rabbit hole…” A sudden urge to curl up under the coffee table. “There’s no escaping it. No escaping her. When Violet was alive—I mean, around, among us, whatever—it was like living next to the train tracks. There’d be periods of stillness, but then she’d pass through and rooms would get noisy and the walls would rattle and occasionally something would break. After she disappeared, it felt like she left behind an echo. Like the walls would never stop shaking, the ground would never be steady beneath my feet, the residual din resonating forever in my head. It took years, but things finally got quieter. Until Violet Mania. And the podcast. And the sleepwalking. And the numbers. And the photo.”
“Sounds like things are getting pretty noisy for you again.”
The compassion in her voice makes me tear up once more. “They are. Which makes me wonder”—the rest comes out in a strangled whisper—“if I’m losing my mind.”
Renatta rests her elbows on her knees and interlaces her fingers, fixing me with an intent stare. “I am less concerned about whether you’re losing your mind and more concerned with what your mind is trying to tell you.”
“I know what it’s trying to tell me. My brain is about as subtle as a pink neon sign spelling out SISTER ISSUES. I thought I had a handle on all that. I’ve gone through the whole spectrum you’re supposed to when you lose someone: anger, fear, bargaining, acceptance—it’s five stages, right? So I’m missing one … Oh, the obvious, sadness. I was plenty sad. I’m over it. But no matter how much I’m done with the Violet drama, it won’t be done with me.”
The way she frowns and scribbles in her pad makes me feel like I’m tanking a job interview.
“We’ve got a few things to unpack there,” she says. “If you go by the Kübler-Ross model, yes, there are five stages of grief, though not everyone experiences each one, and the order can vary. In your case, you’re also coping with ambiguous grief in reaction to a loss with no closure. This comes with added levels of stress, which can leave you stuck in any one of these stages. What I find interesting is that you listed fear as one of them.”