Dead Letters(61)

“And you never…?”

“No, not with him inside me,” I admit slowly.

“Oh.”

“And with Zelda? Did you like fucking her more?”

“No, Ava. No.”

“Right answer.”

“I know how competitive you are.”

“You really are a prisoner, caught between us,” I repeated, tracing his nipple with a fingernail. My nails, usually so neat, have grown ragged in the few days I have been home. I am coming apart, from the edges all the way to my insides.

Now I flip over on the couch, replaying the scene from last night, cringing at other confessions I might have made, tithes I may have exacted from Wyatt. Demands of fealty, declarations of love. I groan quietly to myself. I go still remembering what I said about Wyatt being a prisoner, reminded of the wine Zelda left us. Is P for prisoner? Seems logical. Wyatt could very easily be the prisoner. Unless the prisoner is Jason, maybe even now moldering in the Watkins Glen jailhouse, being questioned about Zelda’s murder? Are there more secrets to be learned from him? Does Zelda want me to go talk to him? Or to Wyatt? What if P isn’t for prisoner at all? What if it’s for Paris and Zelda wants me to trace her whereabouts during her crazy trip overseas? I’m exhausted and feel flimsy, miserable, depressed. I don’t want to chase after Zelda right now.

A car pulls up outside, and moments later, the front door opens. I struggle to look less dejected. Judging from Marlon’s and Opal’s expressions, I have not been successful.

“Ava, sweetie, are you okay?” my grandmother coos. “You look a little under the weather.” Swooping to my side and pawing at my hair, my forehead. I probably stink of wine, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she ministers to me, her wrinkled fingers fondling the contours of my face. “Oh, my goodness, you really should go back to bed. I’m not sure what you’re thinking, being up and around!”

“I’m okay, Grandma. Just stayed up kind of late. Might have a touch of the flu or something,” I mumble. I can see Marlon’s raised eyebrow. He doesn’t buy that.

“Well, drinking wine certainly can’t help,” Opal chides. “Honestly. Ava, I think we should talk some more about your decision making. I know young women today are encouraged to experiment, but you’re not getting any younger, and maybe it’s time to start acting like the adult you are—or should be.”

I sit up, looking for an escape route. Opal is perched on the edge of the couch, hemming me in, her body pressed too close.

“I brought you a Coke,” Marlon says, holding up a familiar red can and setting it down with a metallic clink on the counter. Oh, sweet Jesus. He gives me a knowing smile that encompasses an ironic nod to this blatant bribery and an awareness of my pitiful condition.

“Thanks,” I manage, scampering off the couch and seizing the chilled can.

“And…a straw!” He produces a straw from the bag he’s holding and hands it to me. I shoot him an expression of profound gratitude that in this one instant is not even a little jaded.

“Did you guys go for breakfast?” I ask.

“The diner up the road,” Opal responds. “A very…gritty place. No pun intended. Though the grits are a poor impression of the dish. But it’s very…inexpensive.”

I snort. I know the place, of course: $2.55 for eggs, toast, home fries, and coffee. I don’t even want to think about where they get their eggs. My stomach flip-flops portentously as I imagine dappled grease coating the surface of those lemon-colored yolks.

“How’s your mother today?” Marlon asks, peering out at the deck.

“Confused but mostly cooperative. I thought it might be nice for her to sit outside for a while.” Marlon and Opal both nod. “Actually, would you mind keeping an eye on her? I’d love a shower, and a minute to myself….” I suddenly realize that they must have seen Wyatt’s truck in the driveway this morning. Opal’s coy, knowing smile confirms that they did.

“I’m sure, dear. It’s always nice to have some alone time after…” She winks at me, adding in a stage whisper, “You can tell me all about it later.”

Inwardly, I despair, but I force a smile to my face. I don’t meet my father’s eyes. “Thanks. I’ll just be upstairs.” I scoop up both phones and conceal them with my kimono, hoping they haven’t noticed, and dash up the stairs as quickly as my pounding head will allow, clutching my Coke the whole while.

I undress in the upstairs bathroom, stripping off my snug top and turning the water to a scalding temperature. Looking at myself in the mirror, I realize it’s been days since I showered. I do my best to scrape off all the makeup that has caked above and below my eyes, then comb my fingers through my tangled hair. Turning sideways, I scrutinize the curve of my belly, patting the small spot beneath my belly button to see if it moves at all. No sign that my teenage chubbiness is returning, thank God. I step beneath the steaming jet and scrub everything. Some fashion magazine I read a long time ago admonished readers against bathing in scorching water—it was supposed to dry out skin and induce premature aging. Another rule broken.

I walk to my room in a towel, everything else bundled beneath my arms. My bed is made; Wyatt has fluffed up the pillows and even replaced the white throw at the base. Of course he did. I reach for a clean tank top and wind my hair in the towel before sliding beneath my sheets. I fondle Zelda’s phone, checking to see if she has any music on it. A few albums, some of which I recognize. A playlist or two. I pick out an Iron & Wine album that we used to listen to while driving around the national forest at dusk. I doze off while it plays, tears on my cheeks.