Dead Letters(21)

Zelda is alive.

I knew it.

Where has she been skulking for the past two and a half days? She must have a friend, someone she can hide out with. I’d bet good money that it’s not Wyatt. He’s never been a good liar; he’s got some extremely blatant tells. I frown at that, thinking of the conversation we just had. Evidently, Wyatt has changed. Only I don’t think he’s changed enough to be able to lie to my face about my ostensibly deceased twin, given everything.

Who has she spent time with in the last few years? Of course I have no idea, having subjected her to a transcontinental silent treatment. Wyatt might be able to help me there. Maybe some of the vineyard people will know, too, having maybe seen friends lolling around with Zelda. She’s not a terribly social person, though, and I’m betting it will be a short list. But she’s also not the sort to go on an indefinite camping trip in the wilderness, so I think she’s probably got some sort of friendly shelter to duck into while she plays her little games. I know I should be annoyed with her, but right now I just feel relieved. And vindicated.

The feeling completely dissipates when a phone starts ringing. For half a second I think it’s Zelda’s phone again, and my heart beats faster before I realize that it’s my own, vibrating from the bag at my feet. I grab it and see that the number on the screen is the house phone at Nadine’s. I answer, knowing that whatever this is, it’s probably not good.

“Hello?”

“Ava? It’s Marlon. Your dad.”

“I suspected. Mom’s weird about the phone. I’m pretty sure she’s barely touched it the last two years. Thinks she’s being ‘monitored.’?”

“I think you should come home, kiddo, your mother’s…on the loose.”

“I won’t even begin to guess what that means,” I say dispiritedly.

“I, uh, fell asleep for a while and woke up to realize she was…”

“What, Dad?”

“Well, gone. She seems to have taken off—thought I should let you know.” He sounds a little ashamed. Quite rightly.

“Because you don’t really feel like going after her?”

“I would, it just seems…unwise.” I realize suddenly that he’s speaking very slowly, not quite slurring his words but sounding less than entirely sober.

“Are you drunk?” I snap at the phone.

“No. Well, not really. I just took one of your mother’s sedatives. Two of them. And I had a glass of wine with lunch.”

“Just a glass, huh?” He’s mincing his words, chewing on them, gnashing them into easily pronounced pieces so they come out comprehensible, digestible. I recognize the tic—I do it myself. I sigh. “And I assume you unlocked her door?”

“I went in to check on her. I guess…I forgot.”

“I’ll drive back now. I’m at Zelda’s trailer. She can’t have gotten too far.” I smash the disconnect button before he can say anything else, charm me into not being pissed that he only had to babysit Nadine for a few hours and couldn’t even manage to keep it together that long. Shaking my head, I swing back into the truck. Part of me is strangely pleased, though—only at home, with my family, am I not the drunken, irresponsible mess. With these people, I’m the one you call in a pinch, the one who shows up to fix a problem. I’m enjoying it.

Mom has not, as it turns out, gotten very far at all. I find her at the top of the drive that leads down to the fields and to Zelda’s trailer. She’s wearing an expensive-looking silk robe, a bra, and a pair of high-waisted underpants that would look matronly on any other woman her age but that my mother is rocking, even as she sways in the dust of the tractor path, appearing disoriented and scared.

“Zelda, where have you been?” she whimpers to me when I lurch out of the cab of the truck, wobbly with relief. I can tell she wants to sound imperious, but she comes off as upset. She teeters, looking profoundly unstable. I glance at her feet, which strike me as older than any other part of her body. She’s barefoot, and one of her toes is bleeding. It seems like she scraped the skin off tripping on the pavement. She’s twitching subtly, a bobble to her head. That will be the dementia.

“Momma, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be home.” I open the door and grab her by the elbow, preparing to hoist her up. She shrieks and pulls her elbow away.

“You’re fucking hurting me.” She scowls.

“Sorry, Mom. Hop in the truck, though?” I’m wheedling, but I just want to get her inside. God knows how many people have seen her wandering around in her knickers. I imagine this isn’t the first time, though. She looks at me suspiciously.

“Only because I’m tired now,” she grants haughtily. I roll my eyes and help her into the cab. “Honestly, where were you, Zelda? I missed lunch, and my midday treat.” The word sounds childish and tentative.

“Oh?” I glance over at her curiously.

“You didn’t come in to do my nails at lunchtime. So I came looking for you.”

“Zelda—I—do your nails every day?” I ask, shocked.

“God, Zaza, and they say I’m the one losing my faculties. Yes, dear, don’t you see I’m wearing yesterday’s color?” She waggles her fingers at me, and I look briefly away from the road to see that they are painted a pale pink. I didn’t notice yesterday. “Today is azure,” she spells out. It is unfathomable to me that my sister would paint my mother’s nails. This is a universe I don’t recognize.