Dead Silence
Page 89
When the nurse was gone, Chelsea dismissed the notion. “My folks’ll be fine. They don’t hate you or anything. I already told them it was my idea to go down there. And it’s not like you were the one who drugged me.”
Violet knew Chelsea was right about all of those things, but she also knew parents. Fear could trump logic.
She reached for Chelsea’s hand, thinking how strange it was to hold one of her friends’ hands like this. When they were little, everyone held hands. Everyone hugged and shared Popsicles and sang songs, never caring if they were off-key or that everyone might be listening.
Now, they kept their hands to themselves and didn’t say things like “I love you” even when it was true.
“I’m so sorry, Chelsea. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I would never have let you go with me if I’d’ve known . . .”
Chelsea’s fingers twitched, and Violet wondered if she was trying to squeeze her hand. “Shut up, Vi. That’s messed up if you think I’m gonna let you take the blame. I knew what I was doing.” She smiled then, a small un-Chelsea-like smile with not enough oomph behind it. “Well, except for that whole stabbing part. That, I could’a done without.”
Violet shook her head. She had no idea what more she could say.
But she didn’t have to, Chelsea wasn’t finished yet. “Can I tell you something?”
“Anything, Chels.”
“You know in that room? When you came in and I . . . well, right before I . . .” She tried to shrug, but she grimaced when she tried. “. . . died?”
“Yeah.” Violet nodded, wondering where Chelsea was going with this.
Chelsea’s face scrunched up, her brow wrinkling as she concentrated. “This is gonna sound weird, but I thought I saw something. I swear I saw an angel. . . .”
Violet’s eyes widened as she waited for her next breath to come. It felt trapped, caught in the space between her lungs and her mouth. Stuck in the denial she wanted to voice, but couldn’t.
“I felt warm all over, and then saw this weird flash of light, and then, right before I closed my eyes,” she added, her voice so quiet Violet had to strain to hear it over the blood rushing past her own ears. “He just flew away.”
Chelsea’s eyes flitted closed then, and Violet just stood there, waiting to see if there was more. If Chelsea was going to open them and tell her this was all a hoax. That she was playing some sort of practical joke on her.
But there was none of that. Just Chelsea lying there, her breathing growing quieter, her eyelids flickering back and forth beneath her closed lids.
Violet waited a few more minutes, and then realized that she should go. Chelsea needed to rest, and it wouldn’t do Violet any good to hover over her and watch her sleep. She should probably get some rest too.
But how could she? After what Chelsea had just told her?
An angel. Chelsea thought she’d seen an angel.
But was that really so weird? Didn’t people who’d died often say they saw angels? She couldn’t have meant Evan Schulte, the boy who’d drugged her. She couldn’t have seen the same halo of light that Violet had seen.
Violet started to go, barely noticing the flowers and balloons that sat on tables and trays, already lining the wall near the door. But then something caught her eye. She took a step closer as she saw something peeking out from beneath one of the arrangements. Something familiar, something she’d seen too many times before not to recognize. She wandered closer and plucked it free, turning the small business card over in her hands.
On the back was a handwritten annotation:
PTSD Therapy
Violet shoved the card in her pocket and left the room.
EPILOGUE
My Sweetest Violet,
I’ve tried to sit down and write this letter so many times. And so many times I’ve given up, not quite sure where to start . . . or where to end it. I have so many things I want to say to you, about what you can do. About what we can do. But you’re still so young, and I don’t want to frighten you.
I used to fear my ability—hate it even. I used to wish I’d been born like everyone else, unable to sense the death all around me. I prayed for nothing more than to not pass this trait on to my children . . . on to you.
But I know better now. I know that this . . . this gift is part of what makes me who I am. That being different is never a bad thing. I’ve learned that unique is something to be treasured, to be valued.
I have no idea if this letter will ever find you, but if it does, I want to tell you to hold your gift close. To cherish it. And if the opportunity arises, to use it. Help others with what you can do; because you can help others, I just know it . . . even if I wasn’t able to find the way myself.
You, my dear, have something special. Something important. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Forever,
Grandma Louise
Violet folded the note and tucked it inside the pages of the diary where she kept the photograph of the Circle of Seven. She’d found the letter when she’d been repacking the box, poking out from beneath one of the cardboard flaps . . . hidden from view.
She wasn’t sure why, but the letter from her grandmother didn’t make her misty-eyed or nostalgic, the way it probably should have. Instead she felt empowered.
Her grandmother understood her like no one ever would. Her grandmother was telling her, even after everything she’d been through with the Circle, to find a way to make her ability useful if she could.
Violet knew Chelsea was right about all of those things, but she also knew parents. Fear could trump logic.
She reached for Chelsea’s hand, thinking how strange it was to hold one of her friends’ hands like this. When they were little, everyone held hands. Everyone hugged and shared Popsicles and sang songs, never caring if they were off-key or that everyone might be listening.
Now, they kept their hands to themselves and didn’t say things like “I love you” even when it was true.
“I’m so sorry, Chelsea. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I would never have let you go with me if I’d’ve known . . .”
Chelsea’s fingers twitched, and Violet wondered if she was trying to squeeze her hand. “Shut up, Vi. That’s messed up if you think I’m gonna let you take the blame. I knew what I was doing.” She smiled then, a small un-Chelsea-like smile with not enough oomph behind it. “Well, except for that whole stabbing part. That, I could’a done without.”
Violet shook her head. She had no idea what more she could say.
But she didn’t have to, Chelsea wasn’t finished yet. “Can I tell you something?”
“Anything, Chels.”
“You know in that room? When you came in and I . . . well, right before I . . .” She tried to shrug, but she grimaced when she tried. “. . . died?”
“Yeah.” Violet nodded, wondering where Chelsea was going with this.
Chelsea’s face scrunched up, her brow wrinkling as she concentrated. “This is gonna sound weird, but I thought I saw something. I swear I saw an angel. . . .”
Violet’s eyes widened as she waited for her next breath to come. It felt trapped, caught in the space between her lungs and her mouth. Stuck in the denial she wanted to voice, but couldn’t.
“I felt warm all over, and then saw this weird flash of light, and then, right before I closed my eyes,” she added, her voice so quiet Violet had to strain to hear it over the blood rushing past her own ears. “He just flew away.”
Chelsea’s eyes flitted closed then, and Violet just stood there, waiting to see if there was more. If Chelsea was going to open them and tell her this was all a hoax. That she was playing some sort of practical joke on her.
But there was none of that. Just Chelsea lying there, her breathing growing quieter, her eyelids flickering back and forth beneath her closed lids.
Violet waited a few more minutes, and then realized that she should go. Chelsea needed to rest, and it wouldn’t do Violet any good to hover over her and watch her sleep. She should probably get some rest too.
But how could she? After what Chelsea had just told her?
An angel. Chelsea thought she’d seen an angel.
But was that really so weird? Didn’t people who’d died often say they saw angels? She couldn’t have meant Evan Schulte, the boy who’d drugged her. She couldn’t have seen the same halo of light that Violet had seen.
Violet started to go, barely noticing the flowers and balloons that sat on tables and trays, already lining the wall near the door. But then something caught her eye. She took a step closer as she saw something peeking out from beneath one of the arrangements. Something familiar, something she’d seen too many times before not to recognize. She wandered closer and plucked it free, turning the small business card over in her hands.
On the back was a handwritten annotation:
PTSD Therapy
Violet shoved the card in her pocket and left the room.
EPILOGUE
My Sweetest Violet,
I’ve tried to sit down and write this letter so many times. And so many times I’ve given up, not quite sure where to start . . . or where to end it. I have so many things I want to say to you, about what you can do. About what we can do. But you’re still so young, and I don’t want to frighten you.
I used to fear my ability—hate it even. I used to wish I’d been born like everyone else, unable to sense the death all around me. I prayed for nothing more than to not pass this trait on to my children . . . on to you.
But I know better now. I know that this . . . this gift is part of what makes me who I am. That being different is never a bad thing. I’ve learned that unique is something to be treasured, to be valued.
I have no idea if this letter will ever find you, but if it does, I want to tell you to hold your gift close. To cherish it. And if the opportunity arises, to use it. Help others with what you can do; because you can help others, I just know it . . . even if I wasn’t able to find the way myself.
You, my dear, have something special. Something important. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Forever,
Grandma Louise
Violet folded the note and tucked it inside the pages of the diary where she kept the photograph of the Circle of Seven. She’d found the letter when she’d been repacking the box, poking out from beneath one of the cardboard flaps . . . hidden from view.
She wasn’t sure why, but the letter from her grandmother didn’t make her misty-eyed or nostalgic, the way it probably should have. Instead she felt empowered.
Her grandmother understood her like no one ever would. Her grandmother was telling her, even after everything she’d been through with the Circle, to find a way to make her ability useful if she could.
