Dead Letters(43)

“We’re making all kinds of headway in gender equity,” I agree, with only the barest note of sarcasm. She doesn’t really hear me; I’ve always spoken too quickly, and I suspect Opal catches only half of the words I say.

“But I wonder about this little…undertaking. What is it you’re doing? French literature?”

“I’m actually looking at a French literary movement, OuLiPo, and the American author Edgar Allan Poe. Particularly in how they think about constraint. Both Poe and the OuLiPo authors place formal restrictions on how they write, believing that these imposed rules actually produce more creative insight. Being limited forces you to become more creative. I’m interested in possible intersections—”

“I mean, I’m sure it’s very interesting, but what practical use is it?” Opal interrupts. “I know we all tolerated Zelda’s adventures, her experiments in the humanities, but Zelda was…artistic and, frankly…not all that practical. Without her, it’s especially important that you be realistic. I mean, what sort of job are you going to be able to get?”

“Probably none at all. I was hoping to marry some French count.”

She frowns. “Well, I’m just not sure that’s reasonable. You’ve been in France for, what, twenty-one months?” She says this casually enough, but I realize that she’s been counting quite closely. I wonder if the coffers aren’t quite as deep as we’ve always assumed. But Opal has always been parsimonious with her cash.

“About that long.”

“I just think maybe with Zelda…gone, it’s time to think about the future. Really consider your options.” Her fingers are stroking my knuckles. I want to scream.

“I have been, a bit. I’m just…not in a good place to make decisions right now. The shock,” I say.

Marlon finally speaks: “Ma, let her be for a minute.” He sounds tired. “None of us can really make much of a plan right now. I’m sure Ava will be here for a few weeks, taking care of business, and you’ll have plenty of time to consider…”

I wince. I don’t want to be here for a few weeks. I want out.

“Yes, I’m sure after you’ve gone back to Napa,” Opal says, “we’ll have lots of girl time to really talk about what’s important. And I’m sure Ava has some stories about French men to share when her father’s not around.” Opal winks at me, giving my hand another squeeze.

“When are you going back to California?” I say, trying to keep the note of panic out of my voice.

Marlon avoids eye contact. “I, uh, well, have to go back for some business stuff. The police are still wrapping up loose ends, and I thought I could fly back for a funeral, once they’ve, uh…”

“I see. Okay.” I toss back the rest of my glass. I’m suddenly shattered, utterly spent. These people. Family fatigue, the pervasive companion of my weary, exhausted heart, that organ that I cannot exorcize of its boundless, quaking dejection. I have to get away from here. “Well, I’ve got plans.” I stand up clumsily.

“You’re not driving anywhere, are you?” Opal says in concern, peering into my eyes. I’m sure she’s practiced in assessing Antipovan inebriation.

“Nope,” I answer. I saunter toward the door, realizing vaguely that I haven’t eaten all day. But I know I can’t. Food would only fill me with despair and a strong sense of failure, and I would just be tempted to go puke it up. And I promised Zelda that I would stop that. Not that the promise always prevents me, but right now, it feels more important. Just as I’m walking out the door, Opal calls after me.

“Your phone, Ava! You’ve left your phone!”

I frown in confusion; I can feel my phone in the bag slung over my shoulder. I’ve left Zelda’s phone out on the counter, for everyone to see. Idiot.

“Thanks, Grandma,” I say, going back to claim it in relief. Jesus, what if someone realized it was Zelda’s other, secret phone? I must be losing my mind. I wave good night, and though I’m tempted to snag a bottle of wine from the fridge, I’m reluctant to do it in front of Opal. I feel like I’m sixteen, trying so hard to play by everyone’s rules.

Outside, the sun is setting, and the fireflies are blinking along the path to Zelda’s trailer. I head there automatically, unsure of what to do. I refresh her email, hoping for another missive that will point me toward this Jason guy, but there’s nothing there. I open the Facebook app and flip through all the photos she’s posted in the last six months; there’s no one who could be a Jason in any of the photos. I stare at the shots of Holly Whitaker, hoping her face or body will jar some memory loose, but I genuinely can’t recognize her.

I’m walking along the driveway, barefoot, and I can feel dirt and crud accumulating in the cut on my foot. Normally, I’m the sort of person who goes straight for the disinfectant, followed by antibiotic cream, followed by Band-Aids changed regularly. But not tonight. I realize I haven’t showered in a while either. Tonight, I glory in my grime. Or, rather, I wish I did. Which is close enough.

After striking out with the Facebook pictures, I pause. Could there be an actual, physical photo out there? Should I have stayed up at the house to look through the photo albums? That seems all wrong, though; Nadine kept those albums. She had gone through a period of photographic frenzy, obsessively documenting our growth, our activities. She took snapshots of us swimming, eating, playing dress-up. The photos would all be printed, and neatly arranged in clean, black-and-white albums, which she would crack out whenever anyone accused her of being a bad parent; it was her proof, her evidence that she must love us. Otherwise, why would she have bothered taking so many pictures? I reflect that she would have loved Facebook; she could have posted picture after picture of her pretty twin daughters, wearing her most recent costumes, immersed in the most recent, glamorous adventure. People would have liked her photos, and she would have received the affirmation of her superior mothering that she craved, that she felt was her reward for submitting to the indecency of motherhood. I realize that I’m thinking of her in the past tense. Or maybe it’s conditional; I don’t know. The mother that could have been.