Acts of Violet(12)
The salon is filled with photos of Violet—not something I was in favor of, but Gabriel insists it helps draw in clientele and keeps her fans happy. It was also his idea to name the place Volk Salon instead of Dwyer like I wanted to—I took his name, so why shouldn’t our business? But Gabriel’s marketing acumen prevailed, so my sister’s name and image are all over this place. I’ve gotten used to operating within a Violet shrine, but some days are more insufferable than others. Particularly the ones when Mrs. Toback comes in for her monthly appointment, and a land mine–filled stroll down memory lane ensues.
“How old are the two of you here, seven, eight?” She examines the picture intently.
“She’s eight, I’m seven.”
“That’s Brigantine Castle, right?”
“Yeah. We used to spend summers in Brigantine when we were little. My uncle had a house down there.” My voice softens at the memory. “We loved that pier. I think this was taken the last year it was open. Not long after that, it burned to the ground right before they were set to demolish it. Violet and I cried when we saw what was left.”
Brigantine was part of the secret code we used to sign our notes, emails, texts … when we were on speaking terms. At first it was “BBB” for Brigantine (our favorite place), Bottle Caps (our favorite candy), and Barbra Streisand (our favorite actress by osmosis—Mom watched her movies nonstop). After several failed attempts by our parents to teach us Russian (we were lazy, and the alphabet, which looked like jumbled spiders, scared us), we experimented with creating our own secret language by swapping the letters of the alphabet for numbers. “BBB” became “222”—not exactly something it would’ve taken Alan Turing to crack. It wasn’t long before we grew tired of how tedious it was to encrypt and decrypt simple messages like “Bugs and birds live in Mrs. Toback’s hair,” so we opted for phonetic Pig Latin when we wanted to be stealthy, keeping our “222” sign-off.
In early 2008, when I heard Violet was playing the Witkin Theater on February 22, I wondered if she was sending me a coded message, taking a step toward reconciliation. A couple of days later, when I received three front-row tickets to the show with a note saying she hoped we’d be able to make it—its humble wording a far cry from the hubris and entitlement I’d come to expect from Violet—I was able to briefly set aside the years of resentment. It was like I’d been wearing a backpack filled with bricks, and suddenly the bottom gave way, releasing a burden I didn’t realize I’d been carrying around.
Maybe I’ll get my sister back.
But then, of course, February 22 came, she went, and I was left to make sense of it all. Though I never could. Still can’t.
“How darling. Violet looked like she was ready for the stage even back then.” Mrs. Toback’s face is somber as she hands me back the photo. “Oh, Sasha, you poor dear. The time around her vigil must be terribly arduous for you. Especially with this being the decennial.” Only Mrs. Toback could casually drop words like “arduous” and “decennial” into a conversation. I bet her favorite gift to give anyone is a dictionary. “What do you make of this recent spate of sightings?”
“It is what it is.” I cringe at my monosyllabic nonresponse. It’s been thirty years since she was my teacher, yet I still feel like she’s silently grading our interactions. “I don’t think there’s any legitimacy to them. It’s just the latest social media fad. People got tired of dumping buckets of ice water on themselves and pretending to be mannequins so now they’re pretending to be my sister. Some don’t recognize the artifice for what it is.” There, that should score me extra vocab points with her.
“I think you’re right.” Her thoughtful tone makes me stand taller (I am too old to be seeking validation from this woman). “I also believe, while the intentions behind this copycat behavior aren’t malicious … it’s grossly inconsiderate toward you and your family.”
The sting in my eyes is sudden, and I purposefully drop a comb so I can wipe away my tears in private as I bend down to retrieve it. Gabriel, Quinn, and I made a pact not to search the hashtag, but every night we break it, furtively scrolling on our individual screens as we pretend to watch TV. For weeks now, I’ve been asking myself what’s worse, having no hope or false hope? It has to be the second one … right?
“How old would she have been now, forty-one?” Mrs. Toback asks.
“Forty-three. Not would’ve been, is. Legalities aside, last I checked, they haven’t found a body.” I swallow the lump in my throat and hold up a lock of her hair between two fingers. “How short are we going today, Mrs. Toback?”
“Just a trim. And please, it’s Eleanor.”
But there’s something unnerving about calling a teacher by their first name, even as an adult. It’s too intimate, like I’d be seeing Mrs. Toback in her underwear.
“How are Sophocles and Euripides?” Asking about her cats is usually an effective way to change the subject.
“Oh, they’re fine, fine. Still a little lackluster since we lost Aeschylus, but they’re recovering. We all are.” Uh-oh. There’s that sentimental gleam in her eyes. I know what’s coming next. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you, all these years, wondering what happened to your sister.”