Desires of the Dead
Page 35
She tried not to think about the things she’d said and those she hadn’t. She struggled to disregard what she’d sensed and what she’d overheard in the parking garage. But most of all, she did her best to ignore the ideas that Sara had planted in her head.
Her mom interrupted her attempt to scavenge together a meal when she appeared behind Violet, peering over her shoulder. She didn’t mention the hour, or that Violet hadn’t called to say where she was or when she’d be home, something Violet appreciated more than she could possibly express.
“Here, let me.” Her mom smiled, brushing her daughter aside.
Violet waited to see where this was going. Her mom wasn’t exactly . . . domestic. And cooking ranked somewhere near the bottom of her considerably weak household skills. But she surprised Violet, emerging from the fridge with a carton of eggs and a package of bacon. “How about breakfast for dinner?”
Violet smiled in response.
Breakfast for dinner had been one of her favorite meals ever since she was a little girl. Pancakes, eggs, French toast . . . even cereal somehow tasted better when it was served at the opposite end of the day.
“Absolutely,” Violet agreed. “Want some help?”
Her mom shooed her away, just like when she was little and always underfoot. “Pshh. Go sit down. It’s not every day that I get to fix my daughter dinner.”
That’s an understatement, Violet thought as she pulled out a chair, propping her chin on her hand. “Actually, Mom, it could be. I still live here, you know?”
Her mom cast a chastising look in Violet’s direction as she cracked the eggs into a bowl. “Can it, smart-ass. You’re lucky I cook at all.”
“Lucky, hmm? Not exactly the word I would have used.”
Her mom threw a hand towel at her and then began searching through the drawers, looking lost in her own kitchen. Violet watched, grinning to herself as her mom grew more and more frustrated, searching the same drawers over and over again. Finally, Violet decided to help her out.
“The whisk is on the counter. In the ceramic caddy . . . the caddy you made.”
Her mom stopped digging in the drawer and dropped her hands to her sides in defeat. “Thanks,” she sighed.
Violet’s mother was an amazing artist, an undiscovered talent lost in their obscure little town. Her paintings graced the walls of their home, along with her sketches. But, above all, she had a gift for working with clay, and it showed in the skillfully crafted canisters, vases, and ceramic bowls around their house.
Violet wasn’t creative, at least not in the way her mother was.
She had a different skill.
One that, apparently, the FBI had use for . . . or at least a consultant for the FBI did.
She ushered the unwelcome thought away as her mom placed the heaping plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her. Funny how something as simple as a childhood meal prepared by her mom could make everything feel so . . . so right again.
She ate in a hurry, not because she had somewhere to be but because each bite made her stomach feel a little more settled. During her drive home, the nausea had been replaced by the uncomfortable sensation of too much emptiness. Like there was a void where her stomach should have been.
Violet hadn’t noticed how lost she’d been in her own thoughts until she heard her mom’s voice and realized she’d been sitting right beside her the entire time.
“Everything okay?” her mom asked just as Violet took another bite.
“Perfect,” Violet answered, and then chugged her glass of milk. “This’s exactly what I needed. Thanks, Mom.”
“No problem. But that’s not what I meant. I mean is everything all right? Are you okay? You seem upset.” Her mother reached over and touched a strand of Violet’s hair, twisting a long curl around her finger and then releasing it. The look on her face was understanding, inviting. It had been forever since Violet had opened up to anyone.
But what did she expect? She should have known her mom would see right through her. Her mom always seemed to know when something was bothering her.
Violet sighed, thinking she would just shrug it off, keep her worries buried. But instead she heard herself asking, “Why has it always been such a secret?” And when she wasn’t sure that her question made any sense, she explained, “You know . . . the thing . . . that I do with the bodies? Why have you and Dad always made it so secret?”
“Hmm.” Her mom nodded as if she understood completely. “I wondered when you would ask that.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’m surprised it hasn’t come up sooner. I thought last year—when everything happened—that you’d want to talk about it. But you never did. You’ve always been so strong, trying to keep your feelings to yourself.” She smiled thoughtfully at her daughter. “I’m glad you want to talk now.”
Violet wasn’t as confident, and talk of feelings—and sharing them—made her feel uncomfortable. She had an overwhelming desire to take her question back, to forget that she’d ever even mentioned it in the first place.
But her mom made the decision for her. “It was never meant to be a secret, Vi. We wanted to protect you, of course, but we also wanted it to be your choice. Who you told, how much you told them. And when. It was never ours to tell. We decided early on to wait until you could make those decisions for yourself. We’re okay with people knowing—or not knowing, if that’s what you want.” She picked up her teacup, a pretty little antique thing, and took a sip.
Her mom interrupted her attempt to scavenge together a meal when she appeared behind Violet, peering over her shoulder. She didn’t mention the hour, or that Violet hadn’t called to say where she was or when she’d be home, something Violet appreciated more than she could possibly express.
“Here, let me.” Her mom smiled, brushing her daughter aside.
Violet waited to see where this was going. Her mom wasn’t exactly . . . domestic. And cooking ranked somewhere near the bottom of her considerably weak household skills. But she surprised Violet, emerging from the fridge with a carton of eggs and a package of bacon. “How about breakfast for dinner?”
Violet smiled in response.
Breakfast for dinner had been one of her favorite meals ever since she was a little girl. Pancakes, eggs, French toast . . . even cereal somehow tasted better when it was served at the opposite end of the day.
“Absolutely,” Violet agreed. “Want some help?”
Her mom shooed her away, just like when she was little and always underfoot. “Pshh. Go sit down. It’s not every day that I get to fix my daughter dinner.”
That’s an understatement, Violet thought as she pulled out a chair, propping her chin on her hand. “Actually, Mom, it could be. I still live here, you know?”
Her mom cast a chastising look in Violet’s direction as she cracked the eggs into a bowl. “Can it, smart-ass. You’re lucky I cook at all.”
“Lucky, hmm? Not exactly the word I would have used.”
Her mom threw a hand towel at her and then began searching through the drawers, looking lost in her own kitchen. Violet watched, grinning to herself as her mom grew more and more frustrated, searching the same drawers over and over again. Finally, Violet decided to help her out.
“The whisk is on the counter. In the ceramic caddy . . . the caddy you made.”
Her mom stopped digging in the drawer and dropped her hands to her sides in defeat. “Thanks,” she sighed.
Violet’s mother was an amazing artist, an undiscovered talent lost in their obscure little town. Her paintings graced the walls of their home, along with her sketches. But, above all, she had a gift for working with clay, and it showed in the skillfully crafted canisters, vases, and ceramic bowls around their house.
Violet wasn’t creative, at least not in the way her mother was.
She had a different skill.
One that, apparently, the FBI had use for . . . or at least a consultant for the FBI did.
She ushered the unwelcome thought away as her mom placed the heaping plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast in front of her. Funny how something as simple as a childhood meal prepared by her mom could make everything feel so . . . so right again.
She ate in a hurry, not because she had somewhere to be but because each bite made her stomach feel a little more settled. During her drive home, the nausea had been replaced by the uncomfortable sensation of too much emptiness. Like there was a void where her stomach should have been.
Violet hadn’t noticed how lost she’d been in her own thoughts until she heard her mom’s voice and realized she’d been sitting right beside her the entire time.
“Everything okay?” her mom asked just as Violet took another bite.
“Perfect,” Violet answered, and then chugged her glass of milk. “This’s exactly what I needed. Thanks, Mom.”
“No problem. But that’s not what I meant. I mean is everything all right? Are you okay? You seem upset.” Her mother reached over and touched a strand of Violet’s hair, twisting a long curl around her finger and then releasing it. The look on her face was understanding, inviting. It had been forever since Violet had opened up to anyone.
But what did she expect? She should have known her mom would see right through her. Her mom always seemed to know when something was bothering her.
Violet sighed, thinking she would just shrug it off, keep her worries buried. But instead she heard herself asking, “Why has it always been such a secret?” And when she wasn’t sure that her question made any sense, she explained, “You know . . . the thing . . . that I do with the bodies? Why have you and Dad always made it so secret?”
“Hmm.” Her mom nodded as if she understood completely. “I wondered when you would ask that.”
“Really?”
“Really. I’m surprised it hasn’t come up sooner. I thought last year—when everything happened—that you’d want to talk about it. But you never did. You’ve always been so strong, trying to keep your feelings to yourself.” She smiled thoughtfully at her daughter. “I’m glad you want to talk now.”
Violet wasn’t as confident, and talk of feelings—and sharing them—made her feel uncomfortable. She had an overwhelming desire to take her question back, to forget that she’d ever even mentioned it in the first place.
But her mom made the decision for her. “It was never meant to be a secret, Vi. We wanted to protect you, of course, but we also wanted it to be your choice. Who you told, how much you told them. And when. It was never ours to tell. We decided early on to wait until you could make those decisions for yourself. We’re okay with people knowing—or not knowing, if that’s what you want.” She picked up her teacup, a pretty little antique thing, and took a sip.
