Acts of Violet(6)

Every year, I have to listen and stay silent.

This year, I’ll also have to listen to my daughter heap accolades on a woman who almost killed her. And stay silent.

I don’t know if I can show that much restraint.

“I’m not gonna have a panic attack, Mom.” Quinn’s exasperation brings me back to the present. “I’ve been taking my meds, I’ll make sure I eat right and sleep enough, and I’m gonna practice my speech like a thousand times beforehand.”

“Do you even know what you’re going to say?” I ask.

“Not really. I can’t remember much since I was what, in second grade the last time I talked to her? Weird how none of us had contact with her for years before she went missing.” Her words are sharp and launched with target precision. “And maybe I’d have more to say if you actually told me more about her. Unless you prefer to share your thoughts with the internet?”

I shove the cutting board away from me and whip around. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Quinn, is this about that takedown? You can’t possibly think I was behind it.”

“If you say so.” Her eyes remain narrowed.

A month before Violet vanished, a website called violetisafraud.com went viral. Its sole content was a scathing anonymous essay ripping my sister to shreds. Naturally, the immediate consensus was that only someone close to Violet could author something so intimate and furious. Naturally, I was the prime suspect. I thought I’d managed to convince at least my own daughter that it wasn’t me. Apparently not. Ironically, I did manage to convince Quinn the majority of that takedown was baseless drivel, so she wouldn’t believe the worst things about her aunt. Maybe that was a mistake.

“I don’t get it,” Quinn continues. “Why is it such a big deal for you to come out once a year to honor Aunt Violet? I mean, it makes me miss her like crazy, but I like people celebrating and remembering her—those strangers tell me more about her than you ever do.” Her skepticism of me mutates into something worse: disappointment. “You won’t even say why you wanna skip it—I mean the real reason instead of bullshit excuses about it being too emotional for you. What’s the real story? Jealousy? I mean, you obviously hate her being one of my role models.”

“No, I don’t.” That’s a lie. It eats at me that my daughter looks up to someone unworthy of her adoration, and I’ve been sorely tempted to tell her the harsh truth. But I won’t. Life will find endless ways to carve cynical edges into her. Is it so wrong to want to keep her bubble-wrapped and protected a little longer? “It’s not jealousy. Violet and I weren’t on the best terms when she disappeared, but I think I was starting to understand her a little better. I actually felt kind of sorry for her.” That used to be a lie, but over the years, my vitriol has evolved into pity. I saw what fame and money had done to her. “I just feel like I’m reliving the immediate aftermath—all the worst parts—of her going missing every time I go to the vigils. It … resurfaces things.”

“Yeah, for me, too.” Quinn’s eyes go big and shiny. “But you had decades with her. I have only some childhood memories. Remembering her, thinking about losing her, it all hurts. But not honoring her at all … I don’t know, I feel like that would hurt me more.”

“Are you sure?” I don’t know if she’s right about that. “Listen, sweetheart.” Placing my hands on her shoulders, I measure my words like a chemist with beakers of volatile compounds. “I know this takes a toll on you, too. I don’t want you to be let down again.”

Every vigil, Quinn paces the crowd. The first time, I thought it was her way of shedding nervous energy and expressing her grief. It would be a lot for any twelve-year-old to handle. The following year, just after we entered the park, she sprinted away from me, over to a bench where a slender, dark-haired woman in a trench coat sat reading a magazine. By the time I caught up, I heard Quinn say, “Oh. Never mind,” which earned her a sympathetic smile from the woman.

My heart found a new way to break that day.

Ever since, my discomfort at the vigils is compounded by Quinn’s scrutiny of the attendees and her yearning to discover her aunt among them. Seeing that hopeful glint in her eyes get extinguished year after year is brutal.

Back in the kitchen, Quinn stares up at me, her jaw set. “I want to speak at the vigil, and I need you to have my back on this, Mom.”

That’s it, then. “Of course.”

Gabriel links an arm around my waist and offers Quinn a soft smile. “Having your back is pretty much our mission statement, kiddo.”

Bolstered by her advantage, Quinn adopts a gentler tone. “I understand why you want to skip this thing. But people in Willow Glen talk. I don’t want them to become suspicious again that you’re hiding something or that there’s bad blood between you two.”

Me neither. Because I am. And there is.

It’s not about hiding it from the residents of Willow Glen, though. I don’t care what this town thinks, or Violet’s fans, or anyone except for the freckled girl standing before me who’s no longer a girl, who inherited my husband’s soulful eyes, and my dimpled chin.

Somehow, she also managed to inherit my sister’s fiery convictions.