Loud Silence

Chapter Eighteen

"Our condo," he corrects me, nudging my chin up to meet his lips, filling these dreadful hallways with newer, more ravishing memories.

"Jas! Come look!" Violet hollers from upstairs.

Hand in hand, we climb the carpeted stairs to the upper floor that was strictly forbidden beyond the retrieval of our clothes in the morning. Once at the top, I am surprised to see another set of stairs leading up to the ceiling—an attic.

"Up here, Jas, look," Violet calls out from the opening, already in the attic.

I climb up, as Taylor follows closely behind. The attic is very spacious, dusty, but an ample amount of light comes through the octagon window on the far end. Boxes are stacked all around, sheets cover an armoire and office desk, and two pink bicycles lean against the wall.

"Can you believe that bitch hid our bikes up here rather than letting us ride it to school?" Violet tells me angrily. I wish she wouldn't call her such a name, having some respect for the dead and all. But the truth is, she was a bitch.

There are boxes with my parents' names on them, Marieth and James, written in bold permanent marker across the front. Making a mental reminder to bring them back home with me, I wander around to examine other mysteries beyond the boxes.

There is an old photo album tucked behind a suitcase. I recover it, wiping off the webs and dust from the cover.

Flipping the rusty leather album open, the first picture is of my grandparents with two little girls, one of the girls I recognized as my mother. Even as a child, she was gorgeous, her blonde hair falling past her shoulders, green eyes light against the sun, smiling with the two dimples that had been passed down to her granddaughter. The other girl must be Aunt Maggy, shy and withdrawn, a frown plastered across her face, her beauty falling short compared to her sister's.

Turning the pages, the album consisted mostly of my mother's pictures—swimming lessons, apple picking, gymnastic competitions, carnival rides, Christmas shows, birthday parties. In the few photos that consisted of Aunt Maggy, she would be half hidden behind someone else, letting her sister take center stage.

"Jas, look at this." Violet hands me a pile of documents. "Apparently, Mom got almost everything when Grandma and Grandpa died, including the house we lived in and seventy five percent of their capital."

I remember our parents' house—a stunning five bedroom, two story, ranch-style house with a huge backyard holding an in-ground pool, where they would occasionally hold get-togethers with family and friends, to which our aunt never attended.

There was a gas leak and they sold the house, renting an apartment that was supposed to be temporary, until the accident happened.

"This must be why Aunt Maggy hated us so much. Mom took almost everything from her and she wanted us to feel her pain," I spoke wistfully.

Taylor steps beside me and takes the documents from my hands. "This," he holds it up, "is not an excuse to beat and torture two little girls their whole lives. And it was a decision made by your grandparents, not your mom."

"He's right, Jas," Violet agrees. "Stop trying to justify her actions. She is made of evil."

Leaning back, I notice a plastic bin with the date September 3 written on it, the day my parents died. Anxiously running over to fetch the items within, I tear the tape open and flick the lid to the floor.

A newspaper reveals itself on top of a stack of folders, dated September 3, 1999. I skim through the pages, finding a picture of a car accident, the car accident, remembering the blue sedan we rode in that morning, on that day.