Not alone? Even though he hasn’t answered any of my questions, I think I understand the implications of what he’s saying: He knows others who can do what I do. He knows people who have “gifts” like mine. Still, it’s hard to trust anyone, so I can’t bring myself to actually say the words to him. To admit that he’s right about me, that I can do the things he says I can.
But I listen. And I desperately want to know if there are others.
Violet sat up now, chewing the side of her fingernail, tugging at the skin with her teeth. She knew exactly how her grandma felt. She knew what it meant to no longer be alone, to realize that there might be someone out there who understands you.
She kept reading.
April 6, 1987
I’m not even sure I should be writing this down, but I feel like my world has just been tilted upside down. The man—I know his name is Ari Espinda now—has finally persuaded me to come to where he works, although I’m not sure I’d call it work, exactly. This time, he made clear what I’d already suspected in my heart: that I shouldn’t tell John anything about him or our meetings. I suppose this should be a red flag to me, a clue that something might be wrong about this whole situation, but I’m so curious lonely. The idea of meeting someone else like me is seductive. I’m certain that was his intention. Either way, I’ve agreed to meet him. Tomorrow . . . after Maggie leaves for school.
April 7, 1987
It wasn’t the building that impressed me, although it was impressive, in a strange sort of way. There’s more security than I’d expected (cameras that moved whenever I did), almost like visiting some secret government facility. It wasn’t though—I’m almost sure of it.
It was the people I met today that impressed me most. They weren’t exactly what Ari said they’d be—they weren’t like me. But how could they be? I’m not sure anyone else can do what I can. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t have their own amazing abilities. The best way I can describe those I met was to call them psychics. Real ones. Not like the ones who advertise on television, charging people by the minute for relationship and career advice. No, these were the kinds of psychics who truly can communicate with a world beyond our own.
I’m generally not a skeptic—someone in my position has no right to be. But I couldn’t help having reservations. Or at least I did, until Ari introduced me to a woman named Muriel. She was intense—maybe it was her penetrating eyes. When she focused them on me I felt as if she were looking inside me. It turns out, she was. Ari used her to allay my doubts by asking Muriel to “read” me.
At first the reading felt generic, like I could’ve been at the carnival having my palm read. But then . . . then she started to tell me things that were intimate and detailed. She said Maggie’s name, which could have been easy enough to find out, but she told me other things too. She knew about the miscarriages. And how later, after Maggie was born, I’d lain awake night after night worrying that she might have inherited my ability. She knew, also, that she hadn’t. She told me the names of my childhood pets, and that I’d once dreamed of being a ballerina (although what girl didn’t?), and that I secretly wished I could see my aunt once more, so I could tell her that what we can do isn’t so bad after all.
By the time she was finished, I was exhausted, as if her gift had used up every ounce of energy I had. And then they invited me to join their group.
I have no idea what I’ve agreed to, but for the first time in my life, I feel like there might be others who know exactly what it’s like to be as different as I am.
April 21, 1987
Ari insists we meet almost daily, which means I have to hurry downtown as soon as I see Maggie off to school. Since I’m home before she is, John never even realizes I’ve been gone.
We’ve spent most of our time so far testing what I can do. Strange, since I’ve never really known myself. The hardest part has been the bodies. Human bodies. It took some getting used to, and it helped to hear them being referred to as “cadavers.” Somehow the word dehumanizes them for me, at least a little. The autopsies were tough too, but they were necessary, to help us understand how exactly the “echoes” work.
The two things I’ve learned so far:
First, I was right about the heart. It must remain with the body in order for the echo to stay intact. During the autopsies I’ve witnessed, the heart is actually removed from the cadaver. First it’s weighed, and sometimes tissue samples are taken to test for drugs or toxins or anything else they can think of. It’s then that the body stops emitting an echo. It just goes . . . silent, so to speak. But once the heart is replaced—and it’s almost always placed back inside the chest cavity—the echo returns, exactly as it was before. I’m stunned every time this happens.
Second, cremation changes nothing. That caught me completely off guard. I thought for sure that once the body—including its heart—was turned to a pile of ash and bone, it would eliminate the echo altogether. How could it not?
How indeed? I have no idea, but the echo was still there. Still strong.
And what I know more than anything else: Everything remains a secret. This fact is constantly drilled into me, although I have no idea why. I have to assume that the others are as worried about their privacy as I have been. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.
Violet thought about what she’d always known about echoes and imprints. She’d known that people in law enforcement and military could carry imprints as could those like her—people who’d killed in self-defense.