In Violet's Wake. Robin Devereaux-Nelson

Jessa and Inky Weaver.

      “Oh.” Violet’s huge doe-eyes caught Brian’s green ones and nailed him to his seat. Something in his stomach did a flip-flop. It was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. She was so petite and pretty. Brian caught himself staring.

      “Have you called anyone?” he asked. It came out all hoarse and squeaky. He cleared his throat nervously, and Jessa looked over at him and snickered. He shot her a dirty look.

      Violet’s eyes welled. “I . . . I just left my husband,” she said, blinking rapidly to quell the tears.

      Brian slid over in the seat next to her. He grabbed a handful of napkins from a stack on the bar and handed them to Violet. “Oh, hey,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

      “Thank you.” Violet took the napkins and wiped at her eyes. “I was just upset, you know? And I guess I wasn’t paying enough attention. To where I was going or the car.”

      “Understandable,” Brian pushed his dark blonde hair out of his eyes. He wished he’d gotten that haircut last week like he’d intended. He was glad he’d gone home and showered off the greasy dirt of the garage before coming down for a beer. He smoothed his flannel shirt and gave himself a cursory glance in the mirror behind the bar. “I know what it’s like.”

      “You’re divorced?”

      “Oh . . . um . . . no,” Brian stammered. “There was this girl though . . . it was really, you know, tough when we split.” Another snicker from Jessa. Brian narrowed his eyes at her, and she turned from the couple and made a show of wiping at some bar glasses.

      “Yes,” Violet said, blowing her nose on a bar napkin “It’s . . . difficult.”

      “Listen, where’s your car?” Brian asked. “Maybe I can help?” Violet told him she’d made a wrong turn off US 23 about a mile down the road. She’d walked back to Beanies after the car went dead.

      “You walked on a dirt road in those shoes?” Brian said, grinning.

      This got a wan smile out of Violet. “Yeah. Not too smart, huh.” She wiped at her eyes again. “I mean, I had tennis shoes in the car. I just didn’t feel like digging through all the stuff in the back for my bag in the rain and all.”

      Brian told her he was a mechanic and offered to get her car running. He’d thrown a tenner at Jessa and told her to make Violet something hot to eat, then promised Inky he’d buy him a couple of beers if he drove Brian out to round up Violet’s car. “And I’ll bring your bag back too, if you want.” Brian offered. “So you can put something warm and dry on.”

      That evening, Brian introduced Violet to his Aunt Linda who owned a rooming house in the village, and before long she and Brian started seeing each other, much to Aunt Linda’s displeasure. There was something about that girl she hadn’t liked. She was too . . . perfect, which Linda translated as phony.

      For Violet though, Omer turned out to be a great place to hide out. She was a tragic princess, and Brian enjoyed playing the hero. She told him about her life with Costa, how she couldn’t give him a child, about what hard work it was, owning the restaurant and club. How she just wasn’t appreciated by the Pavlos family. Brian listened to Violet’s stories, held her hand, told her she was wonderful and what a shame it was that other people just couldn’t see that. She listened to him, too—and he shyly found his way to telling her things he’d never talked about before. He’d look at himself in the mirror, seeing his long, skinny frame, his pale skin, and his longish curly hair that just never seemed to look right, and he’d wonder how he’d gotten so lucky. It was just like an angel had fallen right out of the sky.

      When Violet’s divorce from Costa Pavlos was final, Brian asked her to marry him. He was scared to death that she’d say no, but she just jumped into his lap and put her arms around his neck and cried that he was the sweetest thing. They bought a little ranch-style house on an acre of land bordered by fields and a wooded lot. Violet lay in Brian’s arms at night filling him in on her childhood and her abandonment issues, her life with Poor Dead Winston, with Costa, about therapy and the support groups that she found to be so comforting. It was then that Brian revealed his issue as well: He was bipolar—but on his medication. And thanks to Violet coming into his life, he would stay on it this time.

      This promise made Brian’s sisters, mother, and Aunt Linda roll their eyes. How many times had they heard that? They weren’t crazy about Violet either. She was stuck up, they said. Thought she was better than everybody else. Wanting to drink wine with funny names rather than have a cold beer. Not going to bingo with the other women. Reading, for Christ’s sake. Painting the rooms in the house funny colors. Who could understand it?

      Violet wept and told Brian how this always happened to her, how she was continually ostracized. It had happened with the Pavlos family, the Montgomerys—with her own parents, for that matter, the girls at school. She’d cry big, fat tears, and tenderhearted Brian would find his eyes welling, too, as he took her in his arms. Did he think they were . . . jealous of her, she wanted to know? Brian didn’t know about that, but what he did know was that his position between the bickering women in his family made him more than a little uncomfortable—in fact, it felt downright dangerous at times, and he’d had many a heated argument trying to get them to include Violet.

      So Violet learned to play bingo and went to Beanies on Friday nights with Brian to shoot pool, and the women grudgingly made an attempt to include her. She tried gardening with Aunt Linda but was a miserable failure at it. She was bored, and Brian’s mechanic’s paycheck was far below anything Violet was used to. She’d even gone into Standish and tried to find a job herself, but it was hopeless unless she wanted to waitress, which, of course, she did not. No way.

      They fought about it. Brian wanted her to contribute—his salary as a mechanic was meager, even though he worked hard and steadily. Violet told him she’d been to college and she’d taken a few business classes—she could do better than restaurant work. She’d never even waited tables when she was with Costa and they owned the restaurant, so why would she want to do that now? She wanted to work in an office, but with no secretarial experience, there was nothing available. By the time Brian was sorry about the arguments, it was far too late. Violet was unhappy.

      Then she began to say things that made him feel confused. Things like she could see how unhappy he was, how she could see she wasn’t the right one for him. That no matter how hard she tried, his family would never accept her, and she couldn’t bear to see him torn between them and her. That he’d be better off without her. No matter how much he protested and told her how much he loved her, she walked around with a sad little smile. He began to drink a little more than usual. Not long after that, he started forgetting to take his medication.

      It was a quick spiral downward. Despite Violet’s many years of therapy and group work, she had no idea what to do when presented with an actual mental health situation. Brian knew his bouts of euphoria were more palatable to her—the times when he felt sublimely, wanting to dance in the grass with her barefoot in the early morning dew. But when the blackness came upon him, Brian could see that Violet was terrified.

      One night, Brian staggered into Beanies talking crazy. His shaggy hair was dirty and unkempt, and though it was freezing outside, he wore no jacket. He kept saying someone had drugged him, kept slurring his words, his eyes rolling alarmingly up into his head. Violet called the bar looking for him, but instead of calling his wife, Jessa had already phoned Brian’s mother, who said she’d be right over. She’d seen Brian like this many times before.

      The ambulance arrived just seconds before Violet did. She watched Mrs. Jankowicz take charge with the EMTs, ignoring Violet’s presence, giving them the list of Brian’s medications, his history, getting him packed into the ambulance. As it pulled out of the driveway, Brian’s mother looked at Violet. “Well, come on,” she said tersely, pulling her windbreaker around her, her cigarette clamped between her yellow teeth.

      “I . . . uh . . . I’ll drive