“No, no, I’d love—”
“Yeah, yeah. Sure you would.” I wave him off. “It’s okay. I should sit with them and take care of some odds and ends anyway. I’ll call you later today?”
Wyatt looks both relieved and distressed. I’ve managed both to dismiss him and to make him feel guilty for abandoning me during such a traumatic time.
“If you’re sure that’s okay…”
“I think I can manage.” I wink, guiding him out of Zelda’s room. As we walk by the library, whose sliding doors lead out to the balcony, I hold up one finger, signifying “one minute” to Marlon as he looks over at me, and follow Wyatt down the stairs. I walk him to the front door and pause on the threshold, leaning out onto the steps to plant a kiss firmly on his mouth, taking him by surprise. “Thank you. For last night. For everything.”
“Oh, Ava. Of course. You know I—” He cuts himself off. “I’m here for you,” he concludes.
“I know.” He kisses my forehead and wanders back to his truck, waving to me before hoisting himself up into the cab. I wave back and shut the door.
I bound up the stairs and out onto the balcony, where Marlon is on the phone. It sounds like he’s talking to a catering company. We aren’t surrounded by the sort of people who will inundate us with casseroles to serve at a memorial service. Just Betsy, and more tuna. He’s smart to plan a full table lavishly prepared by strangers. It will make us seem less lonely. I grab his mostly untouched mimosa and bob my head in thanks.
“Ava, we could use help getting in touch with some of Zelda’s friends. I’ve been trying to make a list with this Facebook thing.” Opal frowns at the screen of the iPad, which is now in her lap. I see that she has written out by hand a long list of everyone on Zelda’s friends list.
“Don’t worry about it, Grandma,” I suggest flippantly. “Dad’s going to make an event.”
“Make an event? What does that mean?”
“That Zelda’s whole list of people will get invited,” I explain. “Dad will make a Facebook event for the service.”
“But we don’t know their phone numbers. How will we let them know about the event?”
I try not to laugh at the genuine confusion in Opal’s voice. “Just don’t worry about it, Grandma.” I pause. “I wonder how it works with Facebook. Do we contact admin to get Zelda’s status changed to dead?” I’ll try to remember to research that later. Zelda will get a kick out of it. Opal looks pained.
“Zelda, get me another drink,” Nadine snaps. I thought she was napping.
“In a second, Mom,” I say, trying to skitter away.
“Don’t you think we should call your sister today? Really, it’s been a long time since we spoke to her.” Nadine sounds fretful, even concerned. I wonder if she’s been asking Zelda to call me all this time. I imagine what Zelda would say to end the conversation.
“We already called her, Mom, remember? She was fine, said she was having a great time. She’s coming home for a visit soon.”
Opal shoots me a judgmental look.
“Oh, of course,” Nadine says. “I remember now. She was having a coffee in a Left Bank café, reading up for class. Her French has gotten sublime.” Nadine nods, smiling.
I’m taken aback. Is this how she fills in the chinks of her leaky memory? With “remembered” conversations about my charmed life in Paris? Does she spend the day imagining me romping beneath the Eiffel Tower, a baguette under each arm? Or does Zelda spin these yarns for her, imagining me?
“And she’s planning to go to the museum at Quai Branly this afternoon,” I add softly. “She’s writing a paper on it. She met a man named Nico who’s a French banker—remember what she said about him?”
“That he has a thick accent and always smells of cigarettes,” Nadine responds promptly.
I’m harrowed. “Yeah. And she thinks she loves him, but she’s not sure they belong together.”
“Nonsense. Ava is a catch, and she knows it.” Nadine giggles, more lighthearted than I’ve seen her for some time. “I’m actually proud of her, you know.”
I realize Marlon has stopped talking on the phone and is following this conversation.
“Me too,” he says, patting Nadine’s hand. “I’m proud of our daughter.” He looks over at me, and it’s too much. Way too much. I can feel myself shutting down, trying not to experience this poignant family moment. Nadine interrupts, thank God.
“I don’t know why you never do anything, Zaza. Rotting away here. If you had any gumption, you’d strike off on your own, do something with your life. You always were content to be second best, though.”
I feel two things simultaneously as she says this: a sharp pain in my chest, as though she has slapped me, and a sense of relief at the return to normalcy. Opal flinches and glares furiously at Nadine, prepared to leap to my defense as though I actually were Zelda.
“Ava abandoned you, Mom,” I point out. “She’s not doing anything noble, or even valuable. She ran away from you and hasn’t felt guilty about it for one fucking second since she left,” I spit out. “She’s a selfish, narcissistic monster. Of course you like her more. She’s just like you.” I stand up from the table and drain the mimosa in Marlon’s glass in one fluid movement. Nadine stares at me stonily, unapologetic. I don’t look at either Opal or Marlon as I walk away from the table, leaving behind a fraught silence.
I walk into my room, shutting the door firmly behind myself. My hands are shaking from the scene I just made, and I cluck my tongue in annoyance. You’d think I would be thicker-skinned. I sit down on my bed and stare at my cellphone. Okay, Zelda. Time to talk. I dial the number and switch languages in my head, preparing to speak French.
“Allô, Hôtel Victoires?” a female voice answers. V is for Victoires. Victory.
“Bonjour,” I respond, and I continue on in French. “I’m looking for a guest who is staying with you. Do you think you could connect me to her room?”
“The name of the guest?”
“Ava Antipova,” I say with satisfaction. I know she picked the hotel nearest my apartment, in my territory but not quite in my space. It is her tentative way of asking me to let her in. She’s gone right to my doorstep, but she won’t cross it without an invitation. I giggle, thinking that V could just as easily be for vampire, considering the parasitic nourishment Zelda gets from my life, her need to be invited into my house. She knows she could have had my keys copied, moved into my cozy cupboard. She could probably even have seduced an unsuspecting Nico. But she’s not doing any of that, because we’re starting over. She’s asking me to make space for her in my life. The voice returns to the line.
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any guest registered by that name.”
I frown, perplexed. “Zelda Antipova, then?” I offer, though I wonder how she would manage that. As a foreigner, she would need a passport to check into the hotel. The woman on the line barely pauses.
“No, no one by the name of Antipova,” she answers, preparing to hang up.
“Wait,” I say desperately. “Perhaps she’s staying under another name. Dark curly hair, small, beautiful?” I prompt. “She would have checked in recently, a few days ago at most.”
“I’m very sorry, but I can’t give out information like that,” the woman says frostily, and like that she’s hung up the phone.
I sit on the edge of my bed, shocked. I was so certain. Just a second ago I knew where Zelda was; it seems unthinkable to suddenly not know, not be able to call my sister. I had already imagined her thrilled and entertained voice on the other end, delighted with the game of hide-and-seek we’d been playing. Bubbling with the pleasure of being discovered, of being found. She would have told me about the bars she’d been drinking in while she waited for me to call, the clever little thoughts that had crossed her mind while I was catching up. I experience a disorienting sense of loss at my false step. I want to talk to her, and I feel as though I might cry in frustration. I begin typing into my phone.
Goddamn
it, Zaza. Where the fuck are you hiding?
I send the email in a fury, stabbing at the screen in frustration. Immediately, I receive an email in response:
I’m not where you think I am
“Fucking hell!” I swear to my empty room.
22
Very twitchy and anxious, I pace around my room. I’ve even Googled other hotels near my apartment, looking for any that start with a V. Or W, X, Y, or Z, in case I’ve gotten ahead of the game with my deduction that Zelda is in France. But I find nothing. I could search all the hotels of Paris, I suppose, call around and see if she’s in any of them. I could go to the cops, tell them about my missing passport and my suspicions, and they could check with immigration to see if Zelda flew anywhere. I could call the credit card companies to see if any charges have been made, any flights booked….But Zelda would have booked them on someone else’s card, I’m sure of it—stolen one from Jason or Holly or Kayla. Fuck, maybe even Wyatt. I should ask him. The cops knew about her last trip to France, but they hadn’t mentioned any others. With a sense of unease, I wonder if I’m being framed. My head is spinning, and I want nothing more than another mimosa.
I text Nico, cryptically asking him if he’ll lurk around Hôtel Victoires whenever he has a second and let me know if someone who looks just like me is wandering around in the Second Arrondissement. Moments after I send the text, my phone rings. Nico. I don’t answer. I know this is assholic, I know I should pick up and explain, but I don’t have it in me. I cover my eyes with my hands and wait for the phone to stop vibrating, too guilty to tap the decline icon. A text arrives shortly after.
I don’t know what is going with you, Ava. Is your sister living? Do I look for her? Please call me back. I will go to the hotel when I am finish work. Xoxo
I’m using him. I’m deeply, harrowingly aware of that, but I push it from my mind. I don’t respond. It would look strange if I texted back immediately after failing to pick up the phone. Let him think I’m driving. I have just sent him off to squander his evening on what will most likely turn out to be a waste of time.
Irritated, I review my options. Really, I want nothing more than to put Zelda and her shenanigans out of my mind. To do something relaxing, unrelated. But she’s the only reason I’m here, and her antics have me thoroughly occupied. It seems unthinkable that I might drive to Ithaca to have a massage, get in touch with old friends, and meet for a drink somewhere in town. I should work on my dissertation, but that seems inconceivable. I’m like a live wire, incapable of quieting the electrical thrum that pulses in me. I feel like screaming. Frantically, I strip off yesterday’s clothes and retrieve the bathing suit from the floor. I fling it on, knot a sarong around my midriff, and dash downstairs. Opal and Marlon look up at the noise, but I don’t pause to explain.
I snatch up a pristine pair of white Keds, Nadine’s. I’ve seen her wear them only once; they seemed outrageously sporty for her, though they somehow suited her elegant party dress. It was for someone’s birthday, though I can’t remember whose. Whose birthday? Why can’t I remember? After fumbling with the laces, I nearly fall out the glass doors onto the patio.
I run down the grassy slope of the lawn, toward the trail to the water, cinching the sarong tightly around my breasts. Small as they are, they still bounce uncomfortably, unsupported by the slender strings noosed about my neck, and I try to more or less strap them down with the sarong. Limited success. I am moving so fast down the hill that I’m in danger of face-planting, tripping over a stray root and causing serious injury, but I don’t care in the slightest. The momentum is the best part, and I feel blissfully out of control as I let my body take over, my feet slamming the dirt one ahead of the other. Heading down.
I make it to the water’s edge without tumbling over my own feet. I barely even slow my pace to shuck off the sneakers and fling my sarong aside. I’m still running when I hit the water, and the cold slaps against my thighs and sprays up my belly. My nipples immediately harden. I dive under the water as soon as I am waist-deep and let the chill of Seneca Lake close over my head in relief.
—
I swim for nearly an hour, doing laps up and down the beach, then swimming out and swimming back, going nowhere. Finally, exhausted and barely able to flail another stroke, I beach myself, crawling up onto the stones, not yet warmed by the sun. I lie on my back just feet from the water, shivering and blue-tinged. My arms are quaking, and I can feel ripples and spasms in my glutes. I’m reminded of how horses look when they’ve been run hard, the muscles of their hindquarters glistening with sweat and twitching. I drip into the stones.
When the sun has dried me off, I sit up and reach for my sarong, which I tug around my shoulders. Staring out at the water, I have no idea what to do. I rock back and forth on my haunches, mumbling to Zelda. I get up eventually, and walk toward the rickety dock. I step out onto it, and it creaks menacingly below me. I can feel it sway. It used to be a pirate ship, sailing off into the sunset with Zelda at the helm, me the navigator in the back. Sometimes it was an island, and we would hang off it, scooping up rocks and seaweed and tiny fish in a bid for survival. Sometimes it was an Olympic diving board, and we were world-class athletes competing for a double gold. Now it is rotting, unsteady. Unsafe. I bounce, feeling the architecture again shift below me, and spring off it anxiously, back onto solid ground. One big storm and it will float off into the lake.
I prowl up and down the beach, thinking of the lazy days we spent down here. I kick at the rowboat, which lolls on its side. This, too, has seen better days; it now looks fragile and unseaworthy. I’m tempted to hop in it and row to Watkins Glen, but my arms cringe at the thought. It would sink before I got anywhere. I notice that the boards look chewed on. Termites, I imagine. I give the rowboat a parting kick and head uphill, back to the house, which looms oppressively above me. I can just barely see my parents and grandmother on the balcony from here.
The walk uphill is harder than my headlong rush down it, and I’m panting and sweaty by the time I make it to the lawn. The chill of the lake water is gone, and I feel flushed and damp. I flop down onto the lawn in exhaustion, burying my nose in the grass. The scent of smoke seems to have settled on the soft blades. Beneath it, I can smell the ground, the soil that has been my family’s livelihood. It doesn’t seem to have registered the recent conflagration anywhere in its aromatic makeup.
“Ava!” Marlon calls from the deck. “C’mon up here!” He sounds just like he did when we were little: confident authority tinged with the promise of more fun. Do as I tell you, and we’re going to have a ball!
I curl up on the grass and don’t look at him. I want to stay here, on the lawn, until it gets dark, until dew turns everything damp and cold. I have a sudden memory of throwing up on this lawn, in right about this spot, after Zelda and I graduated high school. I wonder if my Jäger-soaked vomit fueled an army of drunken worms, which burrowed beneath the opaque lawn and secreted this exact handful of pasteurized soil. I’m part of this lawn! I think giddily. The lining of my stomach is here in this leaf of grass. It is a nice thought. I am comforted. I sit up groggily, my wet hair clinging to my back.
Stumbling inside, I notice that I am famished. The long swim in the cold water has awakened a terrifying hunger; it is not the gently gnawing peckishness of lunchtime but something frantic. I lurch to the fridge and fall upon some potato salad. Opal mainly makes “salads.” She is a mayonnaise-based cook. Tuna salad, pasta salad, potato salad, egg salad. I know that in her fridge at home, there is a bulk-sized jar of Hellmann’s that will never have the opportunity to go bad. The mayonnaise in our fridge was always tinged with blue mold; Nadine refused to use it on anything, because it was “pure calories.” I never really questioned this assessment, though I should have wondered what separated it from other foods.
After having inhaled several cups of gloppy, pale potato salad, I head back upstairs. I feel like a teenager as I pretend not to hear any supplications for me to join the party on the balcony; I
stubbornly put my head down and let my hair swing in front of my face as I storm for my bedroom.
Instinctively, once I’m in my room, I check the phones. Nothing. Something is niggling at me, something I forgot to do. I grope for the memory, but it’s just out of reach. Like that feeling you get when you’re leaving on a long trip and you know that you’ve forgotten something important—of course, you don’t remember what it is until you’ve already traveled too far to turn around and go back for it. After we talked to Kyle…I wanted to go look for…But my mind is empty. I can’t remember. We’re up to W. Or, rather, V. V wasn’t Victoires. I text Wyatt, wondering if he’ll remember.
We were going to go check something, after we talked to Kyle. But we got the phone call and ended up at yours etc. and it didn’t happen. What were we going to do?
I strip off my bathing suit as I wait for a response, reaching over to hang it on the hooks I installed when I was thirteen. One set on the back of my door, for towels, and one near the closet, for my bathrobe. I was very precise about never swapping their function. I liked everything to go where it belonged. I pause momentarily, wondering which hook my bathing suit should go on: Is it more towel or more bathrobe? Then I remember my sarong, which complicates things further. It’s a garment, sure, but it’s shaped like a towel….I hang it on a towel hook, my bathing suit on the bathrobe hook. Then I realize what a preposterous amount of time I’ve spent on that gripping internal debate and toss them both onto the floor, as Zelda would. But I almost immediately pick them back up and rehang them, this time on the opposite hooks. I feel better.
Her medications? You wanted to see if she’d been prescribed anything.
Ah, yes. I wanted to see if Zelda was really sick or if she was just flipping out over nothing. I suppose the best place to start would be the trailer. I wish I’d looked more thoroughly when I was hunting for her stash. But I gave up after finding the Valium and heroin. I know there will be more.
Dead Letters Page 29
