Dead Silence (7 page)
She waited for her mom to say something else. But she didn’t, and they just sat there, silently assessing what the other might be thinking.
Finally Violet got up to go to her room. As she set her teacup down, her mom perked up. “I almost forgot,” she said, as if it were a natural transition in their awkward conversation. Her face twisted into a delighted grin. “I left something for you. On your bed.”
Cocking her head suspiciously, Violet asked, “What is it?”
“I don’t want to spoil the surprise . . .” her mom started, but Violet knew she would. Her mom hated keeping secrets almost as much as Violet hated surprises. “But I found a box of Grandma Louise’s things in the attic this afternoon. I thought you might want to look through it.”
At the mention of her grandmother’s name, Violet’s chest squeezed. She hadn’t thought of her grandmother in months . . . far, far too long. She wished she’d had more time with her grandmother before she’d died, longer to get to know her, to swap stories about their shared ability, the one Violet had inherited from her.
Suddenly grateful for the change in atmosphere, and subject, Violet sighed, “Thanks, Mom.”
Her mom shrugged, but Violet could see how pleased she was with herself. And suddenly Violet couldn’t wait to get to her room.
Staring into the musty-smelling box, Violet frowned. She glanced at all the knickknacks, a box filled with treasures that looked a lot like junk. Things that her grandmother had once held dear enough to save, to store away.
She reached in reverently, her fingers brushing over a collection that included a book with a tattered cover, its binding nearly threadbare; a shoebox filled with photos and newspaper clippings and letters; a perfume bottle, mostly empty; and a small ivory box with delicate carvings.
Violet reached for the carved box and drew it out, holding her breath as she ran her fingers over it. It felt both delicate and solid, and Violet worried she might break something that her grandmother had once considered special. Important.
She studied the etchings engraved on its lid, a labyrinth of people, trees, and birds, each intricate and carefully crafted. She flipped it over, her breath catching as she recognized the mechanism underneath it.
It was a music box. A windup music box.
Violet’s heart sped up as she wondered . . .
. . . if it were even possible that
this
music box and
her
music box—the one in her head—could possibly play the same tune. She knew there was only one way to find out.
She wavered for only a moment before winding the small silver dial, tightening the springs inside that would unleash the song within. Still, she didn’t lift the lid right away. She paused, the air around her growing thick with anticipation, her own song buzzing in her ears as her fingers froze above it.
And then she opened it . . . and the first notes played.
Soft and tinkling, the sound filled her room, bleeding into the imprint that followed her everywhere, that filled her every waking—and sleeping—thought.
The two weren’t a match.
She recognized the tune, though. She’d heard it before, the soft lilting of notes. Every child in the world would probably recognize that song.
Brahms Lullaby.
Violet could remember the song. She recalled hearing her grandmother hum it to her when she was small. She listened, letting the lullaby overtake the sound of her own imprint as she savored the bittersweet memories.
When the song ended, Violet closed the lid again, setting the box aside.
She began removing item by item, inspecting each one and then moving on to the next. It was fascinating to explore her grandmother’s life, all packed into one place.
When she reached the bottom, she realized it was filled with books. She plucked one of them out and flipped through its pages.
No, she realized, they weren’t just books. These were journals. There were at least fifteen of them, Violet counted, maybe more. Her grandmother had been a dedicated journaler, it seemed.
She felt strange just holding the private diaries that had once belonged to her grandmother, let alone contemplating opening one of them, peeking inside its cover.
But she felt like she
needed
to. Her grandmother was the only other person she’d ever known who could do what she could . . . find the dead.
Tentatively, falteringly, she flipped open the worn cover and looked at the scrawled, handwritten pages. The ink was clear and strong—not faded, as she’d expected it to be after so many years, and if Violet hadn’t known better, she could’ve easily believed that this had been written just yesterday.
June 14, 1960
Ian was there again today and I’m starting to suspect he might like me. I hope so anyway. After school, he waited by Bobby DiMaio’s locker, leaning against it and pretending he wasn’t there just to see me. Pretending that he and Bobby have so much to catch up on, like there aren’t enough hours in the day to say all the things they need to say. But I’m not buying it. It didn’t used to be that way. He never used to wait for Bobby, not until the night Judy and I bumped into him after the game. Now he waits at Bobby’s locker every day, stealing glimpses of me when he thinks I’m not looking. But I see him. And every day when they walk by, he wears a smile that I’m sure is meant for me.
Violet glanced up, her cheeks burning as if she’d just been caught looking through someone’s bedroom window. Like she was some sort of Peeping Tom.
Still, it didn’t stop her from reading the next passage.
June 16, 1960
Bobby wasn’t at school today, but Ian was still waiting anyway. Only this time he didn’t stand at Bobby’s locker, he stood at mine. When he said “Hi, Lu,” my stomach did nervous flips and I was terrified to open my mouth and try to talk, afraid I wouldn’t be able to answer him. How is that possible? How can a boy make me suddenly speechless? He did, though, and I didn’t even care. When he smiles at me, it’s like staring into the face of an angel. He makes me forget about all the things my mother taught me . . . about being good and faithful and pure. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
July 3, 1960
It happened! I can’t believe it happened, but it did. Ian Williams kissed me. Me! I let him, and I even kissed him back. My mother would have a heart attack if she found out. I’d never be allowed to leave the house again. But I’d do it all over. A hundred times over! It was the most amazing, wonderful, beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced. I know I shouldn’t say things like that. I know what that makes me, but I don’t care. Ian kissed me, and I kissed him back.
Violet covered her mouth, trying not to giggle at the idea of her grandmother—a woman who’d always seemed so . . .
so old
to Violet—having a crush on a boy.
She couldn’t get over how old-fashioned it all was, the notion that a girl wouldn’t be allowed to kiss a boy.
Violet flipped through the pages, skimming the entries.
August 28, 1960
We have to sneak around to see each other now. Mother says Ian’s not the right kind of boy for me, that he’s not good enough. I don’t know what makes us any better than him since Daddy works at the factory, same as Ian’s father, but that’s what she says. I think she expected me to go to college and find a husband, not to marry a local boy who will likely end up at the factory too. I don’t care though. I want to be with Ian. Only Ian. Besides, I can still go to college—Ian will wait for me. Who knows, maybe he’ll go to college too. Or maybe neither of us will. Maybe we’ll run away and get married before our parents can stop us.
Mrs. Ian Williams
.
Mrs. Louise Williams.
September 6, 1960
Ian’s away with his father for the week. Hunting season started and his daddy decided he was old enough to go with the rest of the men. I miss the smell of him. I miss his lips and his strong arms. I miss him.
September 13, 1960
I tried not to be alarmed when I saw him, but I knew it the moment he came strutting down the hall at school on Monday morning—he’d killed something. I hadn’t considered what his hunting trip might mean beyond the two of us being separated for an entire week. I hadn’t thought about the consequences of him carrying a gun. He may as well have come to school still wearing his bloodied hunting gear—I could see it just as clearly. More so maybe. It was revolting. The smell he was carrying was sickly and sweet, like the decayed vegetation in my mother’s garden at the end of the season. Like rotting, rancid, moldering fruits. Except that I was the only one who noticed it. I was the only one who’d known what he’d done to earn the mark he now wore. That he would always wear.
September 15, 1960
I’ve been avoiding Ian for two days, but I know he knows something’s wrong. How do I tell him that it’s not his fault . . . not really? I’ve tried to ignore it, but it’s impossible, it comes off him in waves, like heat. Holding my breath only made me dizzy, but at least I could be with him, even if it was only for a few minutes. Until I let him kiss me. That was when I tasted it. It was on his lips, and then it was on mine. I actually gagged before I could push him away. I told him I had to go, that I had to catch my bus, and then I ran away. I can’t avoid him forever, can I?
September 16, 1960
I’ve decided to tell him. I’m afraid. I haven’t told anyone since I was a little girl, before I knew it was something to be ashamed of, when my parents made it clear that I was never to talk about it again. That, like my great-grandmother and my aunt Claire (who they pretend doesn’t exist), I’m touched.
Touched
. I know what they mean when they say that. They mean crazy. It used to bother me that they felt that way about me, but I’ve learned to hide the things I see and hear and smell from them. I’ve learned not to tell them about the dead animals I sense. But now, with Ian, I feel like he needs to know, otherwise he’ll wonder why I’ve backed away from him. Maybe together we can figure this out. Maybe we can find a way to change it. Or at least to live with it.
Violet sat up, her heart racing despite the fact that she was reading about events that had unfolded over fifty years ago. She no longer felt guilty about reading her grandmother’s private thoughts; she had to find out what had happened next.
September 20, 1960
It was a mistake. I knew it almost immediately. I could see it in his eyes, the way the spark that was always there, just for me, flickered and then faded away, dying completely. His expression went blank as I tried to explain—about the bodies I could find, about the colors I would see and the smells I would smell. About the smell I could smell on him. No, he didn’t go blank exactly—he went cold. Cold as ice. I wanted to go back in time, to do it over and not say anything, but it was too late. I’d already said the words. It’s been three days now and I haven’t seen him once. Not at school, not at the river where we used to meet in secret, and not at his house when I ride my bike past. Now he’s the one avoiding me.
September 23, 1960
The whispers follow me everywhere, even into the stalls of the girls’ room when I think I’m alone, hiding, trying to find some peace and quiet. But there is no peace for me. Everyone knows now. Everyone at school believes the same things my parents do, the same thing that Ian does. That I’m touched.
October 11, 1960
My mother says we’re moving again. My own father no longer speaks to me. He can’t even look me in the eye. I know he’ll get over it, but for now, when I feel like I need my parents the most, the frosty look that passes over his face whenever I enter the room cuts worse than any blade ever could. My mother’s not much better. She resents me and has a hard time hiding it. I’d rather have the silent treatment from her than listen to her offhanded comments about the friends she’ll be leaving behind and the church groups she’ll miss when we’re gone. As if I haven’t lost anything.
I’ve lost everything.
The first diary entries ended there, the rest of the pages in the book Violet was holding were blank, as if her grandmother had given up on her journal when she’d given up her secret. Violet tried to imagine what that must have been like for her, tried to reconcile the grandmother she knew—the one with quick-smiling eyes that could never decide whether they were blue or green—with the lonely girl in the pages of the diary. She must have been, what, fifteen . . . sixteen at the time? Young. And with no one to turn to.
Violet had no idea what that would be like; she’d always been able to count on her parents, and her aunt and uncle. She had Jay too.
She set the journal aside and climbed on her bed, bringing the music box with her and setting it on her nightstand. It was pretty, and it reminded her of her grandmother. It reminded her that her life wasn’t so lonely.
She flipped it over and wound the silver key, opening the lid and listening to the sound of her grandmother’s lullaby.
