Dead Letters(74)

R appears later that night when Nadine’s screams wake me. Her shrill cries make me leap from bed in a terrified fugue state, before I process what is happening. I dash to her room in a panic; in my half-asleep fog, I think that whoever murdered the person in the barn is here to finish off Nadine. In my speed, I fumble with the keys and find my hands shaking violently, in unhappy mimicry of Nadine’s tremors. My fingers twitch and dance like spastic insects, and I watch in disembodied dismay as I drop the key to her room again. Marlon has dashed up the stairs by this point, and I can hear Opal hoisting herself up out of bed too. Marlon grabs the keys from me and barges into Nadine’s room—his old room.

Nadine is in her bathroom, slamming her head against the mirror. She is screaming her sister’s name in a terrified keen, reaching out for her reflection in between head butts to the glass, which has cracked and cut her on her forehead. Blood mats the edge of her once-blond coif. Marlon stands helplessly observing this spectacle, and I stand next to him, looking at Nadine in pure terror.

“Niiiinnnaaaa!” she shrieks.

Opal is the one who musters the presence of mind to stride into the bathroom, fill a glass of water, and splash it in Nadine’s face. Nadine immediately stops screaming. She looks around, dazed, unclear about what is going on.

“Marlon? Honey?” she croaks, and Marlon flinches.

“Let’s go back to bed, Deeny.”

I’ve never heard this nickname. Nadine cooperates for him, and I happily let him fold her back beneath the blankets and fetch a washcloth to wipe the blood from her forehead. There are spots of red on her pristine nightgown. I think about getting her a fresh one, but it all seems so pointless.

“Do either of you know what this is about?” Marlon asks brusquely, as though Opal or I am somehow to blame for this episode. We both look back at him with guilty expressions, because we have no idea.

“I’ll go call the doctor,” I say. “Can you…?”

Marlon nods in response. He’s sitting next to Nadine on the edge of their big bed, and she’s clinging to him. He holds her hand. I leave the room, and lead Opal into the library.

Still shaking, I retrieve my phone from my room. I hunt through the contacts and call Dr. Whitcross. It takes a few minutes, but soon I’m listening to his groggy voice on the other line.

“Zelda?”

“What?” After a long, slow moment, I realize that I must have used Zelda’s cellphone. Ah, fuck.

“No, I’m sorry, Dr. Whitcross. This is Ava—there’s a medical emergency here?” I can hear Stuey sitting up straight, suddenly professional. A woman’s voice asks a question in the background.

“No, sweetie, it’s work.” He seems relieved to not be lying. “What is it?” he asks gruffly. “Normally there’s a different line for this.”

“I’m sorry to wake you up, but it’s my mother. She just woke up in the middle of the night screaming and slamming her head into the mirror. I was just wondering—”

“Has she been taking the right dose of clonazepam?” he interrupts.

“I—I don’t know. How can I verify that?”

“Have you been giving her a pink pill that says clonazepam on it every day?” Dr. Whitcross answers testily.

“I’ll have to check,” I respond. “Is there anything else I can do?”

“Give her one and put her back to bed.”

I hear a click, and Dr. Whitcross is gone. Annoyed, I go back to Nadine’s bedroom and flip open her drug dispenser. I rifle through tomorrow’s drugs, but there are no pink pills, or anything with a C on it. I open the top drawer of her nightstand, and there’s a prescription pill bottle right there, clearly labeled “clonazepam.” I unscrew the top and tap out a pill. A piece of paper comes out with it.

I wasn’t sure whether to make this the letter C, but timing-wise, R seemed more appropriate: R, for Rapid Eye Movement behavior disorder, a rather unpleasant condition. REM disorder typically presents in people with Lewy body dementia and can be pretty alarming. You may remember these details from the early diagnostic sessions! A real treat. She’s been doing quite a bit better, but she needs her clonazepam like a junkie craving the next fix, and she will turn into a horrific fiend if she doesn’t get it promptly. She hasn’t taken any since the night before the fire, and based on earlier test runs, it should take her about three days to start in on the really unpleasant dreams. Hopefully this letter is snuggled in right where it’s supposed to be, darling A. By the way, how have you been sleeping? You may consider thinking about your own health. May I recommend some light medical reading to keep you up at night? I’ve got a dossier that you may find alarmingly familiar.



I glance from Zelda’s handwritten note to Marlon, to see if he has noticed. He is too preoccupied with Nadine, who is shaking and staring straight ahead. I hand him the clonazepam, and he barely looks at it.

“Deeny, will you take this, please?” he asks very pleasantly, and she immediately opens her mouth. He pops the pink pill between her pink gums and reaches around for a glass of water. My parents are weirdly intimate, touching each other, and I find it more than a little unsettling. I stand up to leave the room.

Opal is still sitting in the library, staring out across the deck. The sun is just starting to lighten the sky, and I sit down next to her on the couch. For once, she doesn’t lean over to be closer or reach out for my skin.