Dead Letters(101)

“Thank you,” I respond evenly. “It’s time to get dressed for the service. It’s at noon, and we have to bring a lot of stuff over to the tasting room.” Not that Nadine will be participating much, but at least she’ll be ready to go. I lead her to the bathroom, holding on to one of her thin, quivering wrists. I help her into the shower and sit her down on the chair there, realizing that this is the first time I have showered her since I’ve been home. Opal must have done it at some stage. At least, I hope it was Opal, rather than Marlon. Nadine would be mortified to have him see her naked this way.

She wants to wear a floral tea dress. The colors are relatively muted, and I realize I don’t give a shit which dress she ends up in. Let the woman wear whatever she wants to wear to her daughter’s memorial service. We’ll all be grateful if she has no idea what’s going on.

I lead Nadine downstairs, where Opal is still clanging around.

“Oh, good! I was worried I’d have to come up and snuggle you both out of bed!” she says cheerily. “Do you remember how I used to do that, A?” I do. I never cared for it. I can only assume that she wouldn’t think of trying it with Nadine.

“What can I do to help?”

“Well, you’re already in your nice dress, I don’t want you to muss it….” She clucks, looking me up and down. “You look very nice, Ava. Exactly…right.” She bobs her head in approval. She is clearly relieved not to have to contend with the Zelda specter of the last few days.

“Thanks.”

“You too, Nadine.” Nadine doesn’t answer, just shuffles toward the couch. “Have you taken your meds yet, Nadine?” Opal asks.

“Shit. I forgot to give them to her. Let me just…” I dash up the stairs before Opal can offer. The pill dispenser is sitting on her dresser. This is the last day of her real meds; after tonight, I will have to figure out what her medication regimen is. Or.

Downstairs, I hand Nadine her pills, and she looks at me expectantly, almost puppylike. I’m torn; I want to keep her quiet and encourage her to take her pills without a fuss, but it’s going to be a long day, and once she starts drinking, it will be tough to slow her down. I bring her a glass of tonic water with lime, hoping she won’t notice the absence of gin.

“Right. So, we have to get these casseroles and things over to the tasting room. I don’t know whether to heat them up and then bring them, because they’ll be cold….Or maybe we should heat them during the service and bring them over right after?” Opal is staring helplessly at the countertops covered in Pyrex dishes wrapped in tinfoil, literally wringing her hands. I have a grim suspicion that our neighbor Betsy is responsible for most of these. Casseroles. Jesus. What happened to the catering? I discuss the minutiae with my grandmother, letting her micromanage.

Twenty minutes later, I find myself feeling thoroughly ridiculous, driving the tractor in my mother’s pearls and Zelda’s farm boots. I’m panting and sweaty by the time I’ve unloaded several armfuls of our neighbor’s goodwill and dragged them up the steps to the tasting room’s kitchen. It’s going to be a hot day, and I can already smell my own sweat. My hair has probably turned frizzy and disheveled, and I imagine my makeup has collapsed as well. People will be arriving in an hour, and I still haven’t brought over the tablecloths, candles, photos of Zelda….The wine hasn’t been brought up from the cellar, the dishes need to be unracked from the dishwasher. I wonder if the tasting room is supposed to open today—indeed, whether the tasting room is ever open. Did Zelda pour sips for tipsy tourists?

Taking a deep breath, I head back down to the tractor, making a list of everything that needs to be done in order of importance. Where the fuck is Marlon? Just one other person would make all the difference, and I’m stuck with an eighty-year-old busybody and a senile sixty-year-old who is likely to wander into the lake and drown. I add this to the list of things for which to upbraid Zelda when she finally reappears. I wouldn’t put it past her to make an entrance during her funeral, the unforgivable maniac. It would rather undermine her devious scheme, though. Fuming at her silently, I realize how on edge I’ve felt all day—I’m nervous but also excited. We’re nearing the end of the alphabet. Maybe today I will get to see my sister. The commingling of joy and relief I will feel at the sight of her, the smell of her.

As I drive the tractor back toward the big house, a battered station wagon pulls into our driveway, and I feel a surge of panic. That can’t be guests, can it? But as the car crunches to a halt, Wyatt steps out of the backseat, and I almost leap off the tractor to run to him. His parents emerge from their ancient Volvo and wave to me.

“Hi, guys,” I call, dismounting from the tractor and sprinting up the hill toward them. My cheeks are flushed, and sweat is trickling down the small of my back.

“Ava! We came early to help,” Wyatt says.

“Put us to work!” Dora says.

I almost cry with relief. “Christ, thank you. I thought this whole fucking thing was going to fall apart.”

Steve laughs uproariously at my tone, and I realize they’ve probably never heard me swear before. With a wild upwelling of hope, I wonder if I can change, if they could learn to like me.

“How about the wine?” Wyatt prompts. “Have you already brought it up from the cellar?”