Dead Letters(103)

“No wheelchair?” I ask, miffed.

“She wouldn’t get in, and I saw the car pull up. So we made a deal,” Opal says stiffly.

I don’t inquire about the details; I can guess that it involved bribery and threats. That is, after all, the method Nadine is most familiar with, whether she’s doling out or receiving. Opal is surprisingly spry as they trek along the trail. Another car pulls into the tasting room parking lot, and I dash for my room.

I start tearing off my dress as I climb the stairs, struggling with the zipper and finally just yanking the garment over my head in frustration. Then I crouch in front of my suitcase in my underwear, rifling through it for something quick and easy. There’s a pretty green dress that isn’t quite right for a funeral, but at least it doesn’t reek of wine-soaked sweat. As I pull it free, something blue falls to the floor.

I reach over and pick up my passport.

I freeze, staring down at it. Slowly, I open it and look at my own name inside. My passport, not Zelda’s. I toss it onto my bed and tug the dress on. I feel spinny, and it’s not because of the pills. Only I can’t think about this new development right now. Later. If I think about it right now, I won’t make it through this charade. I run back over to the tasting room as more cars turn into the driveway. Country people are punctual.

Inside, Nadine has been installed in a chair near the corner of the room. Wyatt is handing her a glass of wine. She sips it, pacified, though she doesn’t acknowledge Wyatt. Opal has settled in by the door, where she can play the matriarch and personally greet everyone who enters. I cross the room and grab Wyatt firmly by the arm, wondering at the impropriety of this gesture; many of the people who come today will know about his relationship with Zelda, and there’s something indecorous, if not downright trashy, about me reclaiming him, here and now. But I’m not sure I give a shit.

“I found my passport,” I hiss.

He looks at me in guppy-faced surprise. “But then…?” he says.

I shake my head cluelessly. I don’t know. Something feels wrong, and I have started trembling. People are filtering into the room, and soon there’s a small crowd milling awkwardly around, everyone speaking in hushed tones. A few people step out onto the deck, then immediately retreat inside, and I realize that the barn is fully visible from outside. I refill my glass and top Nadine’s off before greeting a few people I knew in high school. One of our high school teachers arrives, and when I overhear what she’s saying, I realize she’s confused me with Zelda; that is, she thinks that Zelda was the good student who submitted insightful papers on time, and she’s under the impression that I am the frequently stoned wild card who once gave a presentation on the invention of the dental dam. She looks at me nervously, as though I’m about to attempt a similar feat today. I don’t have the heart to interrupt her rhapsodies and inform her that I am, in fact, the model student who wrote such a comprehensive report on the more or less local treasure The Last of the Mohicans and that she has been defaming the dead with her offhand comments about “my” unseemly behavior.

I see Mr. Bartoletti across the room and scuttle away from him, a knot of dread forming in my stomach. Whatever else happens, we still owe him a large check.

A handful of people try to talk to my mother, either out of respect or because they don’t realize how demented she really is these days. While she was never the most gracious of socializers, it’s apparent that Nadine has achieved new levels of disregard, and even those who were used to her former bitchiness are taken aback by her lack of any response whatsoever. I should probably intercede, but I don’t want to. It occurs to me again that if Zelda’s not in France, she could show up here at any moment, and my hands shake, sloshing my wine.

As twelve-fifteen approaches, my nervousness starts to escalate into panic. Marlon has flown the coop, and he was the only one who prepared anything to say at this shindig. He had a poem or two, a few nice words, a picture that he was supposed to display somewhere. He’s our emcee. I could chuck Opal under the bus and ask her to speak a few words. Maybe I should cue up our Zelda playlist now, to buy time.

Instead, I open my mouth and welcome everyone. I feel detached. It’s like I’m in one of those dreams where you’re giving a presentation, or reciting lines or speaking in public, and you realize you have no idea what you’ve been saying and even less idea what you’re going to say next: the sensation that words are nonsense but you are expected to keep producing them in front of your audience. I mumble my way through a thank-you and an invitation to drink wine—

“—as much as you like, really, who knows how long we’ll all be here, ha ha, today we’re serving our very special reserve Chardonnay from 2012, very oaky, and our Silenus red blend from 2008, cracking out the good stuff—” I take a gulp from my own glass and suck in a deep breath, trying to rein it in. I’m a terrible performer. As I’m speaking, the door swings open and in steps a skinny girl with tight, springy curls and a strong resemblance to Kyle Richardson. Kayla.

My silence stretches on, extending beyond a short pause and into dead quiet as our guests shift nervously from foot to foot. I blink a few times, gulp some more wine, and wrap it up: “So, we’re going to be really informal today, just like Zelda would have wanted. I have a, um, playlist of some tunes, and we’ll just…take it from there.” I bob my head and dart toward the bar, which Kayla has sidled up to. I reach for her arm, squeezing her just above the elbow more firmly than I should. She squeaks, and her eyes widen when she sees my face.