Dead Letters(40)

I rummage in the drawer for a corkscrew but can’t seem to find one.

I climb the stairs slowly, wineglasses dangling downward from one hand, clinking together like wind chimes, the cold bottle sweating moisture into my other hand. I’m dwelling on my conversation with Nico, wondering why it hadn’t once crossed my mind to call him to see how he’s doing. The conversation has left me with a ripe, too-creamy taste festering away at the back of my tongue, like a wine that’s gone through too much malolactic fermentation. Like bad dairy. Hearing Nico’s voice was comforting, but it has left me feeling hollow. I wonder if I didn’t call him because I liked the idea of him going about his business in Paris, missing me, more than I wanted the reality of hearing him say it. Nico is incredible, and aside from Zelda and Wyatt, I’ve never been so close with anyone. But. But. Removed from all the magic and distraction and performance of Paris, I feel as though Nico is flattened out somehow, rendered just a cookie cutout of someone I’m supposed to love. I shake my head in frustration. This place is bad for me.

My mother’s door is closed, of course, and I pause in front of it, childlike in my sudden timidity. But I’m not eight years old anymore, and Nadine can just try to terrorize me out of the room. I have what she wants in my hand. I tuck the bottle of wine under my armpit and turn the handle of her door.

Mom is sitting in her chair, looking out the window that faces onto the lake. It’s a hot, hazy summer evening, a few hours before sunset. Everything is glowing with the filtered light, and the temperature is starting to drop. She doesn’t turn around when I come in.

“Hi, Mom.” She still doesn’t turn. There’s an extra chair in the corner of her room, and I set down the glasses to grab it with one arm and carry it awkwardly, pressed painfully against my hip. I set it down next to hers, looking out at the vineyard and the lake. I’m strangely reluctant to let go of the wine bottle; it’s a talisman against her viciousness. I want her to see me holding it before she opens her mouth. “Happy hour?” I say cheerfully.

“Among my favorite words in the English language,” she answers, and I can’t help smiling. I go back to where the glasses are perched on the table and realize that I never managed to find the corkscrew.

“Fuck,” I say in irritation.

“There’s one in the drawer next to my bed,” Mom says uncannily. “You never did come prepared. Always a little…spacey. That’s what your first-grade teacher said, at least.” I clench my teeth, already on edge. Which of us does she think she’s talking to? I find the opener and deftly uncork the wine, slopping it into the expensive, thin wineglasses. It’s a soothing noise. “I’m afraid I don’t have an ice bucket,” Mom adds. “I’m sure you forgot to bring that up as well.”

“Knowing you,” I snap, “I assumed the wine would be long gone before we had to worry about it getting warm.”

Nadine says nothing, but she looks at me balefully when I hand her the glass.

“My, my, real glass today. I must have been a good girl.” Her hands shake as she accepts the delicate stemware, but I don’t know if it’s a symptom of her illness or if it’s the DTs.

“Has Dad brought up dinner yet?” I realize, with a frisson of accomplishment, how long it’s been since I’ve eaten.

“I haven’t seen your father in years,” she says airily, with a wave of her hand. “Good riddance. I can go a few more without seeing him too.”

“You had wine with him last night and lunch earlier today,” I say sharply, unfairly.

“Oh.” She looks perplexed, scared. “Other than that, of course,” she continues, attempting a casual tone. “I meant, of course, that it’s been years since we’ve had a proper dinner together.”

“Right.” I drink a healthy swallow of the crisp wine. I’m thirsty after my sweaty nap in Zelda’s trailer. I wonder just what Zelda wants to accomplish by suggesting this tête-à-tête, what further information I’m supposed to glean by trying to spend time alone with Nadine. What could Zelda be plotting? And what information could my mother possibly have?

“And how is Paris, Ava? I should hope that you’re at least enjoying your childish escapade.”

“Delightful, Mom.” I pause. “How has it been here?” I say tentatively.

“How do you think? I’m fucking losing my mind in little bits and pieces every day, and your sister has managed to single-handedly destroy the vineyard.”

“I hardly think it was single-handed,” I say.

“Well, she’s done an appalling job of managing even day-to-day operations. You were the one with any knowledge of how this works. It was supposed to be you taking care of things.”

“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t drop everything to pursue your half-cocked dream,” I snipe in annoyance. “And sorry that Zelda was singularly unprepared for it. We can’t all have your resources, Mom. Oh, yeah, what did you eat for breakfast?” I can see her flinch slightly. “What, can’t remember?” I know this is unfair. But I sit in silence for a long moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be nasty with you.”

“You were never much good at it, anyway. Too thin-skinned,” Nadine says.

“Listen, this is all sort of rough on me. I’m jet-lagged, hungover, and…grieving,” I say.