Acts of Violet(59)
The last time I saw my daughter in distress onstage, she was thousands of miles away, and I was unable to come to her immediate rescue. The emerging horror and ensuing helplessness were unbearable.
This time, Quinn’s distress is unbearable not because I’m so far away from it, but because I’m so close to it, mere feet from the bandshell where she stutters into the microphone, her knuckles white from gripping it so tightly. When she goes silent and bows her head, I’m ready to launch myself forward and get her off that stage, but Gabriel’s hand at the small of my back stops me.
“Give her a minute,” he says in a low voice.
“Seriously?” I hiss back.
“Don’t think this isn’t killing me. But, if we try to help her too soon, she’ll take it the wrong way.”
Sally, who’s standing in front of us for a better vantage point, turns around and adds, “He’s right. You need to wait in case she gets it together.”
So we wait, each second a glacial torture, but Quinn does not get it together. When she finally flees the stage, the three of us follow her to a thicket of trees behind the bandshell. I reach her first, her body trembling as she presses her forehead to the trunk of a red oak.
“Devil, you played with her, now give her back,” she whispers, and goes mute as Gabriel and Sally rush over.
We all form a protective barrier around her, murmuring platitudes.
“Do you want to go home?” I ask.
“No, but I do want to get out of here,” she says, wiping tears from her eyes.
This is the first time she’s wanted to leave the vigil early. Up until a few minutes ago, it was the first time I wanted to stay for all of it.
“Are you absolutely sure?”
Even though the question comes from Gabriel, she directs her reply at me. “I’m positive. This is over. Whatever I thought might … yeah, I’m sure.”
For weeks, a low-grade hope had been humming through me. In that moment, it becomes muted. She’s right. This is over. Nothing miraculous will be happening here today.
Sally gives Quinn a sympathetic arm squeeze. “If you want to go home, I totally understand, but there’s gonna be nobody at the diner right now, and you should never underestimate the healing power of blueberry pancakes.”
A pause while Quinn considers and then, “I could go for some pancakes.”
The four of us say little on the short walk to the diner. Once inside, we take a curved corner booth farthest from the door, where we’re least visible.
“I didn’t even last a minute up there. I’m such an embarrassment.” Quinn slumps over the Formica table, her groans muffled as she buries her head in her arms.
“You are not.” I reach over and stroke her hair with one hand, using the other to politely shoo away the approaching waitress. “The fact you even tried to put yourself out there like that is a big deal.” The fact that she fled was my sister’s fault. If it weren’t for Violet, Quinn wouldn’t have been so shell-shocked facing an audience. Not that she remembers much of what happened before, outside of what the video cameras captured. Only the aftermath, of being yanked away from the glamorous clutches of her precious Aunt Violet, which was only meant to punish one of them yet somehow ended up punishing all of us.
She grunts and remains facedown.
Sally, who’s sitting next to Quinn, leans over her. “Listen to me, Queenie,” she says, using the nickname she coined that my daughter pretends to hate but secretly loves. “You have to stop underestimating yourself. What you did just now was put on a parachute, get in an airplane, and fly miles above the ground. It’s okay that you didn’t jump. Lots of people would’ve never even strapped on the chute or gotten on the plane. It doesn’t only take guts to do the brave thing. It also takes guts to try to do the brave thing.”
At that, Quinn raises her head, the desolation in her face softening. “You think so?”
I try not to take it personally that my friend is better at reassuring my own daughter than I am.
We all agree emphatically, just as the waitress returns.
Once our orders are in, Sally gets to her feet. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Winking, she rummages around in the pockets of her coat hanging beside the booth. Tonight’s outerwear, a black pleather trench, is more subdued than her usual rainbow attire.
“What did you forget, to return Catwoman’s coat?” Gabriel says. “She might get chilly during her heists without it.”
“Gabriel Sebastian Dwyer, you are a riot.” In addition to coining nicknames, Sally is fond of doling out fake middle names. “Here it is.” She pulls out a small round tin and hands it to Quinn. “I didn’t get a chance to label it, but it’s the juniper/yuzu balm you like so much.”
Perking up, she thanks Sally and immediately applies the balm to her wrists. By the time our food arrives, Quinn is back to normal, and throughout the meal, she does most of the talking: about local gossip she picked up tonight, how odd she found this year’s proceedings, and her thoughts on how to make the salon more environmentally friendly.
“We’ve been recycling for years,” I point out, avoiding Gabriel’s less-than-surreptitious glances at my untouched salad. “And we even made the switch to bamboo toilet paper like you suggested, at home and at the salon.”