Dead Letters

by Caite Dolan-Leach

  The shower mat is a few inches from my face, and I am forcibly reminded of having the flu as a little girl, of dragging myself downstairs to this bathroom so no one would hear me vomiting. I slept on this cold tile floor because I didn’t want to creep back up the stairs only to have to throw up again. Spaghetti. We had eaten spaghetti. Zelda snuck downstairs late that night; presumably she noticed that I was gone and sought me out through intuition. She tossed a towel over both of us, and we fell asleep here, the scents of youthful puke and lemon-scented cleaning liquid strong in our noses, our legs twined together. Her small hands holding my shoulder and her cold nose against my clammy neck.

  Shivering and remembering that night, I try to stand on wobbly legs, gripping the porcelain seat as I make my way back upright. I flush the toilet and stare at the swirl of my stomach’s contents spiraling away. I do feel better, and I know from experience that now I should try to drink something, before the nausea returns. If I hadn’t promised that I would try to clean myself up, this would be the moment for a neat swallow of gin, which would effectively halt the next few hours of trying desperately to keep something down.

  I peek through the glass doors to the deck to make sure Nadine is where I left her, and sure enough, she’s still huddled in her Adirondack chair, sipping her breakfast. Historically, it is the chair of the convalescent and the very ill. I wish my mother had consumption, rather than this other wasting disease. Better to drown in your own blood than sit in a chair while your mind disintegrates. I hear stirrings upstairs, and I close my eyes.

  Wyatt makes his way down a few minutes later, holding on to the railing for balance. He looks gray and haggard, deep pouches beneath his eyes and an unhealthy tint to his skin. In just a few short hours, he has transformed from wholesome country boy to debauched lout. Behold my workings.

  “Morning,” I say as casually as possible, glad that I haven’t rootled through the liquor cabinet for the gin. It wouldn’t look good.

  “Uh, morning.” Wyatt remains at the bottom of the staircase, clearly unsure what to do.

  “Don’t know what your excuse is. You only had about a bottle of wine,” I point out cheerily.

  “I’m not really used to drinking.”

  “And you’ve been spending all this time with Zelda? Unimaginable.” He flinches. “Well, you’re in luck. Marlon is out, so we’ll all be spared that lovely interaction.”

  “I’m going to run home and, uh, change.” He gestures at his rumpled clothes, his stubbly cheeks. I have to admit, he looks very masculine at the moment. I notice that he is in his socks and realize that he must have left his shoes at the door last night, like the good houseguest he always was, indulging my mother’s injunction that everyone take off their shoes before treading her hallowed floors. I nod. I have no idea what to say to him. I just want him gone. “Listen, Ava, about last night,” he starts, predictably.

  “No big deal. We don’t have to talk it to death.” I wave him off. I’m in no condition to have that discussion right now. Or ever. I know that Zelda is laughing hysterically somewhere.

  “Okay, I just—”

  “Really,” I cut him off. “Seriously.”

  He looks cowed and shamefaced. I suspect he doesn’t do a lot of slinking off the morning after. I suddenly wonder if he’s ever slept with anyone who isn’t an Antipova. There’s a chilling thought. I wonder if Zelda and I are different in bed, if we smell the same. I’m pretty sure that I’m better groomed than my gypsy sister; I religiously go to a very precise Thai woman in Paris who prunes my nether regions, a practice Zelda abhors for the infantilizing gesture that it is, as well as for its concession to order, tidiness, control. I wonder which Wyatt prefers. Maybe I will ask him later, tomorrow, once I’ve had a drink. Wyatt bobs his head politely and clumsily tries to administer his shoes; when he nearly topples over, I instinctively reach out my arm, and he grabs it with a muffled “Thanks.” As he straightens up, his face is red.

  “I’ll, uh, call you later?”

  We both wince at the cliché.

  “Suuuure you will,” I say with a smile. Just go. Please.

  “Okay. Well. You gonna be okay, Ava?”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” I snap unthinkingly. “I daresay I’ve had more experience with both hangovers and mornings after than you, darling.”

  He recoils. Shut up, Zelda. That’s enough.

  “Right. Bye, then.” He fumbles with the doorknob and stumbles outside, his usual grace impeded by dehydration and humiliation. I want to call after him, to apologize. Stay, Wyatt. I’ll make us something to eat; we’ll spend the day drinking ginger ale and cuddling. But I can’t. He’s in his truck and up the drive, while I stand there in my Lycra tank top and kimono in the doorway. What a fucking mess.

  I flop back down on the couch and check Zelda’s phone again. No new emails, no new posts. I flick through the apps she has downloaded. She doesn’t have many; Zelda was always suspicious of technology, uncertain. She shied away from it aesthetically, saying it interrupted her vibe. She was the sort of person who would use a typewriter or buy some vintage leather case for her phone to make everything appear decades older than it was. I’m surprised that she has an iPhone at all.

  I frown when I notice an app for the Paris Metro on the screen, and I tap it open. The familiar cobweb of Metro lines appears. What were you doing in Paris, Zelda? Did you really even come, or did you just book all that on the credit card to throw the cops off? And either way, why? She knew enough to choose a hotel just around the corner from my flat; she must have extracted my address from Marlon or Opal. What could have motivated her to plan the transcontinental jaunt? I sigh. My head is pounding, and my nausea has returned. I don’t want to throw up again. With nothing in my stomach, I know it will be the sour, viscous yellow sauce that lives deep in the belly, and it will come up thick and scorching.

  I set Zelda’s phone aside and pick my own up. I stare at the missed-call alert from Nico. He has left a voicemail.

  “Ava? Good morning. I’m at lunch, I was thinking to you—I wonder what you are doing. I imagined you in your bed and thought to call. Maybe you still sleep, maybe you go out. Call me when you are able, I miss your voice. Okay. Ciao ciao.”

  I wish I could cry. I stab the delete icon and immediately regret it. Ah, fuck. He’s French; maybe my infidelity won’t get under his skin too much. He’s probably fucking some long-legged Brazilian as we speak. But I know he’s not. I know he will care, of course. I can never tell him. And now we begin with the secrets.

  I shut my eyes, which makes the world spin. My mind skitters away from last night, from what I might have said and done with Wyatt. It’s all a little patchy, and I have only glimmers of images, shreds of conversation. “Does that feel good? I want you. I’ve always wanted you. Oh, God.” And me: “Yes, like that. Yes. Yes.” And then: “Fuck me like you fuck Zelda.”

  I roll over, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to repress the memory. But my brain compulsively returns to it, dredging up more details from the darkness of my bedroom. “Make me come. I’ve never come with him. Harder.” “I love you, Ava.” “Call me Zelda. Say my name.” “Zelda.” “Again.” “Zelda!”

  Afterward, we lay quiet, drunk, tangled up in my white sheets. I was still coasting on too many chemicals for the guilt to have begun, for the panic to have kicked in. Drunk and happy.

  “Was that true, what you said?” he mumbled into my hair.

  “Hmm?”

  “About never coming with…?”

  “With Nico?”

  “Is that your boyfriend?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you never…?”

  “No, not with him inside me,” I admit slowly.

  “Oh.”

  “And with Zelda? Did you like fucking her more?”

  “No, Ava. No.”

  “Right answer.”

  “I know how competitive you are.”

  “You really are a prisoner, caught between us,” I repeated, tracing
his nipple with a fingernail. My nails, usually so neat, have grown ragged in the few days I have been home. I am coming apart, from the edges all the way to my insides.

  Now I flip over on the couch, replaying the scene from last night, cringing at other confessions I might have made, tithes I may have exacted from Wyatt. Demands of fealty, declarations of love. I groan quietly to myself. I go still remembering what I said about Wyatt being a prisoner, reminded of the wine Zelda left us. Is P for prisoner? Seems logical. Wyatt could very easily be the prisoner. Unless the prisoner is Jason, maybe even now moldering in the Watkins Glen jailhouse, being questioned about Zelda’s murder? Are there more secrets to be learned from him? Does Zelda want me to go talk to him? Or to Wyatt? What if P isn’t for prisoner at all? What if it’s for Paris and Zelda wants me to trace her whereabouts during her crazy trip overseas? I’m exhausted and feel flimsy, miserable, depressed. I don’t want to chase after Zelda right now.

  A car pulls up outside, and moments later, the front door opens. I struggle to look less dejected. Judging from Marlon’s and Opal’s expressions, I have not been successful.

  “Ava, sweetie, are you okay?” my grandmother coos. “You look a little under the weather.” Swooping to my side and pawing at my hair, my forehead. I probably stink of wine, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she ministers to me, her wrinkled fingers fondling the contours of my face. “Oh, my goodness, you really should go back to bed. I’m not sure what you’re thinking, being up and around!”

  “I’m okay, Grandma. Just stayed up kind of late. Might have a touch of the flu or something,” I mumble. I can see Marlon’s raised eyebrow. He doesn’t buy that.

  “Well, drinking wine certainly can’t help,” Opal chides. “Honestly. Ava, I think we should talk some more about your decision making. I know young women today are encouraged to experiment, but you’re not getting any younger, and maybe it’s time to start acting like the adult you are—or should be.”

  I sit up, looking for an escape route. Opal is perched on the edge of the couch, hemming me in, her body pressed too close.

  “I brought you a Coke,” Marlon says, holding up a familiar red can and setting it down with a metallic clink on the counter. Oh, sweet Jesus. He gives me a knowing smile that encompasses an ironic nod to this blatant bribery and an awareness of my pitiful condition.

  “Thanks,” I manage, scampering off the couch and seizing the chilled can.

  “And…a straw!” He produces a straw from the bag he’s holding and hands it to me. I shoot him an expression of profound gratitude that in this one instant is not even a little jaded.

  “Did you guys go for breakfast?” I ask.

  “The diner up the road,” Opal responds. “A very…gritty place. No pun intended. Though the grits are a poor impression of the dish. But it’s very…inexpensive.”

  I snort. I know the place, of course: $2.55 for eggs, toast, home fries, and coffee. I don’t even want to think about where they get their eggs. My stomach flip-flops portentously as I imagine dappled grease coating the surface of those lemon-colored yolks.

  “How’s your mother today?” Marlon asks, peering out at the deck.

  “Confused but mostly cooperative. I thought it might be nice for her to sit outside for a while.” Marlon and Opal both nod. “Actually, would you mind keeping an eye on her? I’d love a shower, and a minute to myself….” I suddenly realize that they must have seen Wyatt’s truck in the driveway this morning. Opal’s coy, knowing smile confirms that they did.

  “I’m sure, dear. It’s always nice to have some alone time after…” She winks at me, adding in a stage whisper, “You can tell me all about it later.”

  Inwardly, I despair, but I force a smile to my face. I don’t meet my father’s eyes. “Thanks. I’ll just be upstairs.” I scoop up both phones and conceal them with my kimono, hoping they haven’t noticed, and dash up the stairs as quickly as my pounding head will allow, clutching my Coke the whole while.

  I undress in the upstairs bathroom, stripping off my snug top and turning the water to a scalding temperature. Looking at myself in the mirror, I realize it’s been days since I showered. I do my best to scrape off all the makeup that has caked above and below my eyes, then comb my fingers through my tangled hair. Turning sideways, I scrutinize the curve of my belly, patting the small spot beneath my belly button to see if it moves at all. No sign that my teenage chubbiness is returning, thank God. I step beneath the steaming jet and scrub everything. Some fashion magazine I read a long time ago admonished readers against bathing in scorching water—it was supposed to dry out skin and induce premature aging. Another rule broken.

  I walk to my room in a towel, everything else bundled beneath my arms. My bed is made; Wyatt has fluffed up the pillows and even replaced the white throw at the base. Of course he did. I reach for a clean tank top and wind my hair in the towel before sliding beneath my sheets. I fondle Zelda’s phone, checking to see if she has any music on it. A few albums, some of which I recognize. A playlist or two. I pick out an Iron & Wine album that we used to listen to while driving around the national forest at dusk. I doze off while it plays, tears on my cheeks.

  15

  Ornery and still emotionally hollowed out, I am physically much better when I wake up a few hours later. Zelda’s phone shows nothing new. I swing out of bed, almost bouncy. I’m definitely still hungover, but I’m thrilled at the improvement. I head down the stairs, feeling better prepared to face the day, which is now half over.

  Marlon is reading the newspaper on the couch, and my grandmother is scrubbing the countertops. She looks vigorous and capable, with a spray container of bleach and some old rags.

  “You don’t have to do that, Grandma,” I say insincerely.

  “Nonsense. Just trying to be helpful.” She waves me off. I go over and plant a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek. She looks pleased with herself.

  “Well, thanks.”

  “Mom still outside?” I ask, hunting through the fridge for something to drink, maybe even something to eat. It’s a good sign that I’m hungry.

  “She refused to come in,” Opal says, annoyed. “She won’t budge. I asked Marlon to set up an umbrella for her, so she doesn’t burn to a crisp.”

  I peer through the doors, where I can see a pin-striped umbrella shielding Nadine from the worst of the midday sunlight. It has to be hot out there.

  “What are we eating?” Marlon asks from the couch, not looking up from the paper. Opal and I shoot him nearly identical looks of exasperation.

  “Don’t worry about it, Dad, we womenfolk will take care of the kitchen work,” I call. “We’ll just serve you, shall we?” Opal’s mouth curls in amusement. Marlon looks up, confused, as though he doesn’t understand what I’m saying.

  “Do you want help?” he offers, several beats too late.

  “Oh, no, sweetheart, we’ve got it,” Opal answers quickly. “But maybe if you could just get some plates for us?” She gestures toward the recently rearranged cupboards. We both know from frustrated experience that Marlon is not much help in the kitchen. I blame Opal, for never having inculcated in him the notion that a man should cook, too, and letting him coast through his childhood while she plated up breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  “There’s not really much to work with in this kitchen,” Opal says. I can’t help hearing censure in that comment, even though it was not me who was here to stock the fridge. Zelda seems to have failed to predict Grandma Opal’s exacting expectations when it comes to housekeeping. “But I thought sandwiches and potato salad?” she adds.

  I find several bags of tuna in the pantry, the fancy, expensive kind that doesn’t come in tins. Nadine loathes canned food; it offends her sense of class. Today for lunch we will be having only upper-middle-class tuna. I upend each bag into a bowl and mix it with fancy organic mayonnaise and capers and a handful of chopped celery. I note with amusement that a batch of the pickles I made before I left home is still nestled in the door of the fridge.
I’m surprised; Zelda loves my pickles, and I would have thought she would have eaten them immediately. These seem to be untouched. Maybe P is for pickle. I chuckle as I open the container, which, after some effort, comes unsealed with a satisfying snick. I sniff the vinegar solution laced with dill I grew just outside the house. The pickles smell fine, and I empty the slender slices into a little bowl.

  After Opal and I assemble the sandwiches, we bring everything outside. I drink a whole glass of lemonade almost immediately, and it is among the best things I have ever tasted. Nadine looks small and shrunken in her Adirondack chair, which Marlon has rotated to face the table, and we serve everyone a plate. Nadine rumples her nose and refuses to eat anything until I bribe her with a tot of gin in her lemonade. Marlon’s eyes light up as I stir her cocktail; rolling my eyes, I splash a dollop into his glass as well. I hover over my own for a second, sorely tempted, but instead I offer the bottle to Opal, who purses her lips censoriously. There is no talk around our table as we all munch mechanically.

  “So,” I start casually, “did Zelda have fun on her trip to Paris?”

  Marlon and Opal look at me like I’ve lost my mind, and my mother doesn’t even acknowledge what I’ve said, just keeps staring out at the lake and sipping her gin-laced lemonade through one of the straws Marlon bought this morning.

  “Zelda’s never been to Paris,” Opal says gently.