“Nononononono!” we screamed in delight.
“Okay, okay. One more try.” He leaned back and cast his reel into the closet another time. For one breathless second, we thought he’d missed again, and the suspense was killing us. But then the line went tight, and Marlon was pulling, and the plushy, oversized letter Q emerged from the closet. Marlon reeled it in and grabbed it firmly. In his hands, the letter looked as though it were squirming, trying to escape. “I got him!” he said. Then the letter lurched away from him, making a break for it, before it careened back around and smashed into his torso. Marlon looked for all the world as though he had stepped on a banana peel as his feet went out from under him, and he fell to the ground in a slapstick parody. We giggled uproariously. Marlon had kept his grip on the rebellious letter, though, and he sprang back upright athletically, putting the letter Q in a headlock. When he smiled over at Ms. Prescott, she looked back at him with an expression of worship.
I laugh to myself now, remembering this episode. No other parent came close to Marlon’s performance; he won, hands down. Zelda and I enjoyed a brief moment of celebrity, refracted off our father. It was the sort of performance that so thoroughly demonstrated what a perfect dad he could be, how incandescently enchanting he was with us kids. And he was, I guess. He just couldn’t really have relationships with adults or teenagers, and he fled before we fully understood that.
—
It takes me all of thirty seconds to figure out what Zelda wants me to do next. She has finally tossed me an easy one, one that has all the clues and hints I need. Nadine is staring around wide-eyed, and when I set the laptop down, she again pushes play on the YouTube clip. I can hear the audio as I head for the closet. Zelda couldn’t possibly have planned for me to watch it on the big screen in this room, but it is a very nice touch.
I slide open the door to Marlon’s walk-in closet, which Nadine has still not really claimed. There’s a pair of Marlon’s boots in the corner, and an old winter coat of his that he never bothered to take to sunny California. Typical of him to decide that because he didn’t immediately need it, he didn’t have to do anything about it. It has hung in this closet for more than ten years. Nadine has hung a few of her own coats on the rack, and there are some old boxes filled with photos and other remnants of our family life. This closet is a mausoleum, the Antipovas pre-divorce. I stand on tippy-toe to reach what Zelda has left me.
My father’s old fishing box is elegant and timeworn. He found it in an antiques store during one of our autumn vacations as we drove through coppery leaves up in the Adirondacks. It has big buckles and a treasure trove of compartments, which Marlon diligently filled with expensive flies and other fishing accessories that I can’t identify. I imagine he can’t either. His fascination with fishing was mercifully brief, and he’d barely finished assembling this elaborate collection of accoutrements before abandoning the hobby. Whenever anyone asked why he gave up fishing, he’d answer with a grin and a wink: “Too dry.”
I flip open the clasps and stare at the rows of flies, wondering if one of them has been left by Zelda. But in the larger compartment, I find an envelope labeled “P (for Policy).” I pull the folded sheets of paper from the envelope and find myself looking at life insurance documents for Zelda, Nadine, and myself. I scan the opaque language. I don’t know what any of these terms mean, and everything is embedded in such bizarre legalese that I can’t tell if we owe them money or if it’s the other way around. But I’m willing to bet that Zelda has done her homework. I remain crouched in the closet for a few moments longer, inhaling the musty scents of old clothes and papers, before standing up and turning off the light. I take the envelope with me.
Nadine is rewatching the Sesame Street clip with a rapt expression, mumbling, “I remember this, I remember this.” I give her a kiss on the cheek and push the laptop closer to her. Let her watch Sesame Street on YouTube all night. I head downstairs to discover that Marlon has returned from the lake. His eyes look bloodshot, and he seems out of breath. He is standing in the kitchen, drinking lemonade directly from the container.
“Hey, Dad. You know anything about life insurance?” I ask.
He looks startled. “Not really, no. Why?”
“Well, we seem to have some.” I slap the envelope down on the kitchen island. “Not sure quite what to make of it.”
“Where did you find this?” he asks, flipping through the pages.
“Mom’s room.”
“Hmm. This is…Look, I’ll have to look into this. I don’t know if this complicates things. The police might want to know about it.”
“Why?”
“Well, these policies are pretty new. Just over a year old. And with Zelda’s…I mean, any time a sizable life insurance policy appears in a murder investigation…” He suddenly laughs. “I have no idea what I’m talking about. I watch too much TV. But it seems to me that this is what they’re talking about when they go looking for motive.”
“Motive? Motive for what?” Opal calls from the living room.
“Nothing, Mom,” Marlon responds. Then he lowers his voice: “Let’s not tell her about this. She’s upset enough.”
I nod, agreeing to the conspiracy. “But if the cops think the insurance policy is motive, it will only implicate me and Mom,” I point out, suddenly a little nervous. Is that what Zelda has in mind?
“True, though it will look much stranger if you don’t disclose it. In any case, I’ll call these people in the morning, see if I can make heads or tails of it. You okay, Little A?”
“I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me that.”
“I just worry, that’s all.”
I wave him away. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”
“It has. How about I tuck Nadine in for you?” he offers.
The ungenerous part of me suggests that he knows I’ve already done it. “She’s fine. Gave her the pills, and she’s in bed with her nighttime baba.”
Marlon smiles wryly. “Well, I’m beat,” he says, yawning grandly. “I’m going to turn in on the couch. Sleep tight, Little A.”
“Night, Dad.”
18
R appears later that night when Nadine’s screams wake me. Her shrill cries make me leap from bed in a terrified fugue state, before I process what is happening. I dash to her room in a panic; in my half-asleep fog, I think that whoever murdered the person in the barn is here to finish off Nadine. In my speed, I fumble with the keys and find my hands shaking violently, in unhappy mimicry of Nadine’s tremors. My fingers twitch and dance like spastic insects, and I watch in disembodied dismay as I drop the key to her room again. Marlon has dashed up the stairs by this point, and I can hear Opal hoisting herself up out of bed too. Marlon grabs the keys from me and barges into Nadine’s room—his old room.
Nadine is in her bathroom, slamming her head against the mirror. She is screaming her sister’s name in a terrified keen, reaching out for her reflection in between head butts to the glass, which has cracked and cut her on her forehead. Blood mats the edge of her once-blond coif. Marlon stands helplessly observing this spectacle, and I stand next to him, looking at Nadine in pure terror.
“Niiiinnnaaaa!” she shrieks.
Opal is the one who musters the presence of mind to stride into the bathroom, fill a glass of water, and splash it in Nadine’s face. Nadine immediately stops screaming. She looks around, dazed, unclear about what is going on.
“Marlon? Honey?” she croaks, and Marlon flinches.
“Let’s go back to bed, Deeny.”
I’ve never heard this nickname. Nadine cooperates for him, and I happily let him fold her back beneath the blankets and fetch a washcloth to wipe the blood from her forehead. There are spots of red on her pristine nightgown. I think about getting her a fresh one, but it all seems so pointless.
“Do either of you know what this is about?” Marlon asks brusquely, as though Opal or I am somehow to blame for this episode. We both look back at him with guilty expres
sions, because we have no idea.
“I’ll go call the doctor,” I say. “Can you…?”
Marlon nods in response. He’s sitting next to Nadine on the edge of their big bed, and she’s clinging to him. He holds her hand. I leave the room, and lead Opal into the library.
Still shaking, I retrieve my phone from my room. I hunt through the contacts and call Dr. Whitcross. It takes a few minutes, but soon I’m listening to his groggy voice on the other line.
“Zelda?”
“What?” After a long, slow moment, I realize that I must have used Zelda’s cellphone. Ah, fuck.
“No, I’m sorry, Dr. Whitcross. This is Ava—there’s a medical emergency here?” I can hear Stuey sitting up straight, suddenly professional. A woman’s voice asks a question in the background.
“No, sweetie, it’s work.” He seems relieved to not be lying. “What is it?” he asks gruffly. “Normally there’s a different line for this.”
“I’m sorry to wake you up, but it’s my mother. She just woke up in the middle of the night screaming and slamming her head into the mirror. I was just wondering—”
“Has she been taking the right dose of clonazepam?” he interrupts.
“I—I don’t know. How can I verify that?”
“Have you been giving her a pink pill that says clonazepam on it every day?” Dr. Whitcross answers testily.
“I’ll have to check,” I respond. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“Give her one and put her back to bed.”
I hear a click, and Dr. Whitcross is gone. Annoyed, I go back to Nadine’s bedroom and flip open her drug dispenser. I rifle through tomorrow’s drugs, but there are no pink pills, or anything with a C on it. I open the top drawer of her nightstand, and there’s a prescription pill bottle right there, clearly labeled “clonazepam.” I unscrew the top and tap out a pill. A piece of paper comes out with it.
I wasn’t sure whether to make this the letter C, but timing-wise, R seemed more appropriate: R, for Rapid Eye Movement behavior disorder, a rather unpleasant condition. REM disorder typically presents in people with Lewy body dementia and can be pretty alarming. You may remember these details from the early diagnostic sessions! A real treat. She’s been doing quite a bit better, but she needs her clonazepam like a junkie craving the next fix, and she will turn into a horrific fiend if she doesn’t get it promptly. She hasn’t taken any since the night before the fire, and based on earlier test runs, it should take her about three days to start in on the really unpleasant dreams. Hopefully this letter is snuggled in right where it’s supposed to be, darling A. By the way, how have you been sleeping? You may consider thinking about your own health. May I recommend some light medical reading to keep you up at night? I’ve got a dossier that you may find alarmingly familiar.
I glance from Zelda’s handwritten note to Marlon, to see if he has noticed. He is too preoccupied with Nadine, who is shaking and staring straight ahead. I hand him the clonazepam, and he barely looks at it.
“Deeny, will you take this, please?” he asks very pleasantly, and she immediately opens her mouth. He pops the pink pill between her pink gums and reaches around for a glass of water. My parents are weirdly intimate, touching each other, and I find it more than a little unsettling. I stand up to leave the room.
Opal is still sitting in the library, staring out across the deck. The sun is just starting to lighten the sky, and I sit down next to her on the couch. For once, she doesn’t lean over to be closer or reach out for my skin.
“Getting old is terrible,” she says flatly. “A true horror.”
“Nadine isn’t old. She’s just really sick,” I answer.
Opal shrugs, more cynical than I’ve ever seen her. “Does it matter?” she asks softly. We stare out at the fields, which are becoming clearer with every second. “Was she screaming ‘Nina’?” Opal finally says, breaking the silence.
“I think so. Her sister,” I explain.
“I know, sweetheart.” Opal turns her watery green eyes on me suddenly, catching me by surprise.
“She died of some sort of childhood illness, when they were little,” I explain. Opal squints closer at me, alert.
“Oh, darling. No, she didn’t.”
“What do you mean? It was, I don’t know, measles or something,” I answer.
“It was her parents, and your family curse,” she says blankly, and suddenly I have goose bumps. I don’t really want to hear more. “Patrick, your mother’s father. He was supposed to watch the girls at the beach. Maureen was a teetotaler, but there were days when she couldn’t get out of bed. Depression. Patrick drank a quart of whiskey and fell asleep on the beach in front of the house. It was hours before anyone realized what had happened, when they found Nadine shivering in the surf, calling her sister’s name.”
“What are you saying?”
“Your mother’s sister. She drowned. While Nadine watched.”
—
I walk around in the dewy grass, my toes freezing cold. The sun is almost up, casting that weird foreign light I associate with dawn. It’s a chilly light, not the warm, burnished sunlight of happy hour. Opal has gone back to bed, and Marlon is still in Nadine’s room, both of them presumably asleep. I prowl the front yard, thinking. Zelda is clearly suggesting that I go looking for more information about my mother’s disorder, but it’s not obvious what she has in mind. The Internet? A medical textbook? I sit down in a damp deck chair and stare out at the property, at the family kingdom. I doze off when the sun is finally up in the sky, drying off the grapevines and my stiff, wet toes.
The jangle of a new message awakens me hours later. I feel confused, thirsty, and too warm. It’s fully daylight now. I crack my neck stiffly and check my phone. Nico.
Ava, please call me. I thought I saw you at the café, but you left before I talk to you. I miss you so much I’m imagine you.
I close the message and stumble back toward the house. I’m vaguely indignant; I should be feeling better, considering how sober I was yesterday. A single glass of wine. Ish. A triumph.
The house is quiet, everyone still sequestered in their rooms. Last night’s disruption hangs over us; I can sense the palpable impression of disturbance. Someone has made coffee, though, a hint that routines are still being observed. I pour myself a cup and head upstairs. In my room, I grab my iPad and fluff my downy white comforter over myself. I don’t want anything to do with Zelda’s game right now. She doesn’t control me, not completely. I spend the rest of the day lost in finishing A Clash of Kings before plunging into A Storm of Swords. For the first time, I feel sorry for Cersei Lannister.
My iPad finally dies, at a fairly crucial moment in the third book, and my charger is nowhere to be found. I howl in frustration at this narrative blue balls. I know that I’m merely forestalling the moment when there will be no more books to read, when I’ll reach the end of the fifth book and will have to wait in agony for the sixth. And then the sixth will be finished, and the seventh, and the bottle will be dry forever. But right now, all I want is my next fix. I’m certain there will be a copy somewhere in this house.
I check my bookshelves first, then head immediately to Zelda’s, sure that she’ll have acquired a copy somewhere. Her bookcases are empty of all George R. R. Martin–related texts, but I wind up sucked into the disarray of her shelves, the buried treasure on every surface. I find an atrocious poem I wrote in fourth grade, folded into an origami crane. I have no idea who could have done this; Zelda didn’t have the patience or the dexterity for origami. I turn up Zelda’s “ghost series” (an art school project) in a carved wooden box: overexposed Polaroids of outdated technology (typewriters, gas-lit lamps, Marlon’s modish cellphone from the nineties). Zelda’s labored, handwritten alphabet from kindergarten. Each letter is messy and unfinished. I know my own sheet was obsessively completed, carefully imitated.
Surrounded by all these physical traces, I wonder what it will be like to go to kindergarten fifteen years from now. W
hether kids will practice their letters on iPads instead of these lined papers, yellowed and curled and horrifically fragile. Maybe there will be a digital record of every single paper that people produce in their lifetime, a file for each grade. I wonder if this is what so terrifies people about digital technology, the idea that there will be a record of every moment, every mistake, every bad poem or carelessly carved-out letter. These scattered artifacts are just a tiny portion of our lives; what if I could flip through my tablet and find Zelda’s history, everything she’s ever done? What if the people you met could scan through your drawings from third grade, your U.S. history essays from eleventh grade, your college applications? I realize that this is already reality, that the ancient desktop in our house will have those papers, those applications, in addition to a startling number of our IM conversations from high school onward. I have a primal, irrational desire to destroy that computer. People must be terrified of losing all mystery. No one wants the complete picture, the whole story. It would leave no room for the fictions we need to tell ourselves about ourselves.
Amid this juvenilia, I find a portrait Zelda did of our family in sixth or seventh grade. She was gifted at mimesis, could cleverly capture strange, realist details. Ever the artist. This portrait is elaborate, colored with paint and pencil, the mediums blended together. A different story of our family. One of the four edges is jagged, evidence of having been torn. Marlon has been removed from the picture. Zelda, in an uncharacteristically childish gesture, tore him out shortly after he left. And effectively cut him out of her life. His betrayal was final for her, and while they were always civil, Zelda and Marlon were, in effect, done for when he walked out the door.
In the weeks and maybe months before he decamped, Marlon had barely been home, and every time our parents wound up in a room together, there was a verbal eruption. Nadine would bait him until he cracked, and nothing was more alarming to me than seeing Marlon’s other side, his dangerous side. We were so used to Nadine’s nastiness that we found her explosions unsurprising—in a way, her behavior reinforced consistency. Nothing to see here. But Marlon’s quick rage was unsettling, and whenever I heard the two of them start—usually in the kitchen, where they were both forced to venture regularly in order to refill their glasses—I would try to disappear. Outside, into a book, anything. I hated their catalogue of wrongdoings, the scripted recriminations.
Dead Letters Page 23
