Dead Letters(53)

I’m wobbly crossing the room, but I’m not that drunk; I’ve been going slow tonight, and all the drinks have been spaced out. I’ll be okay for a couple more. Should definitely stop after this bottle. Probably. We’ll reassess afterward.

I fumble open the door to my mother’s room and step inside. It’s stuffy in here, and I realize she has closed the window, knocking the fan onto the floor. I reopen it and turn the fan on. I use her bathroom and look at my face briefly in the halogen light. My kohl eyeliner is nearly gone, except for a messy smudge beneath my eyes, and I clean it off with a damp corner of the white washcloth hanging on the towel rack. Zelda always did that, and Nadine and I would fume at the half-moons of mascara that stained nearly all of our towels; it never totally came out in the wash. I reflect that there must be some sort of clever pun there, about our family and all the things that haven’t come out in the wash, but my mind is sluggish, and I give it up as a wasted exercise. One of my favorite things about alcohol is that it helps to silence the constant narration, the chatter of my brain. I dampen my neck and try to scrunch my messy curls into a more appealing look.

My mind is swirling with everything that’s happened. Zelda has set everything up so neatly. She must have known that I would show up, that I would eventually cotton on—hell, she’s been leaving me clues the whole while, waiting for me to catch up. Does she want me to go to the cops, to spring Jason and tell them that she’s still alive? I’m reluctant to do that, because we haven’t gotten to the end of this game, clearly. I can only guess at what she has scheduled next. I should be angry, furious at her for jerking me, everyone around like this. And I am angry. I am seething with quiet fury at my sister, as I have seethed most of my life. But I realize with a twist of dismay that I’ve been missing this, missing her. Even though this has been emotionally draining and torturous, I’m happy to be playing a game with her. Because it means we haven’t lost each other.

I almost trip on the doorjamb coming out of the bathroom, and I squint at it in the dark. Should fix that. Nadine will fall and break a hip. I’m about to walk out of the room when I turn and look at my sleeping mother. She’s perfectly still, breathing heavily, and I assume she has taken her pills. I’m overcome with an impulse I haven’t felt in years.

With a glance at the door, I walk over to the bed and climb into it. Nadine doesn’t stir. I curl around her, realizing dully that my feet are filthy and might be staining her cream duvet; I scoot in closer anyway. She smells as she has always smelled, of her obscenely expensive La Mer moisturizing cream. I snort at the French homonym; the mother smells of the mother. Underneath the fragrance is a sharp, unfamiliar smell, though, and I wonder if it’s the scent of liver failure. We’ll clean up a little tomorrow, I swear to myself. Nadine’s nightgown is fresh and laundry-scented, and I reflect that Zelda must have done a load just before the barn burning, making sure there were clean nightgowns laid out for our mother. Planning everything carefully. I snuggle in for just another moment, relishing the deliciously foreign feeling of physical proximity with my mom. On an impulse, I kiss her neck before leaving the bed, then tidy the covers where I have rumpled them. I see a stain near the bottom of the comforter, and I realize my foot must be bleeding again. Shit. I have left a trace of my need.

I close the door behind me, then hesitate before locking it. But lock it I do, and return to the deck, where Wyatt has already opened the next bottle of wine. I look at him, wondering if he saw me curled in bed with my mother on his way up the stairs, but he shows no sign of it.

“Any new notes?” I ask. Wyatt shakes his head and hands me a glass. Pinot Noir. I read the label and realize it’s one of Marlon’s wines, from California. I didn’t know we had any of his recent vintages. Once, I had jokingly, obscurely implied that his new Zinfandel was not up to scratch, an insinuation that was met with quick and excessive anger. I take a sip, and it’s not bad; he’s clearly learned a thing or two. It’s certainly better than anything Silenus produces. But of course it is: Marlon upgraded. He snagged a better vineyard, a better location, a better wife. And presumably better daughters. We were the first attempt. Repeat as needed. I look at the wreckage of the barn.

“So what do you think is next?” Wyatt wonders aloud, trying to look away from the burn site.

“Well, N usually comes after M, right?” I giggle.

He smiles. “What do you think it stands for?”

“Nadine? Necrophilia?” I shrug. “Zelda wouldn’t like it if we tried to get ahead of her. It might ruin her momentum.” I don’t mention the email I sent my sister.

“You’re right. She doesn’t want anyone to be smarter than her, ever.”

“She’s always got to be the clever one,” I agree. “She would probably sabotage any attempts to shortcut her little game. And we know where it’s going to end up, in any case.”

“Z is for Zelda?” Wyatt guesses.

“Starts with me, ends with her. I’m sure she’ll lead us on a merry chase. I say we relax and enjoy it.”

“Cheers, Zelda.” Wyatt raises his glass in the barn’s direction, openly acknowledging the blackened structure for the first time. I snort, nearly inhaling my wine. “You having fun yet, Ava?”

“Yeah, a regular vacation from my tedious life in Paris.” I wave him off.