Dead Letters(85)

As Wyatt opens the door for me, I wonder if they have shaken off the ghost of that possible future, as I have. None of that will happen now; they dodged the bullet. I have no doubt they smiled in shocked pleasure when Wyatt mumbled to them that I was moving to Paris. We hadn’t been speaking then, but I’m sure he eventually answered their questions about where I had gone. And I’m equally sure that they lit up a celebratory spliff at the news, toasting their son’s newly recovered future.

There is music playing in the living room, and a sense of festivity hangs in their warmly lit wooden house. The rustic beams reflect the golden light of candles and domestic content. Whereas Nadine’s house is all clean modern angles, hard surfaces, and glittering glass, the Darlings’ house is cluttered corners, stacks of paperbacks, mismatched rugs, the mysterious scents of herbs (weed and sage, mostly) wafting through the rafters. I have always treated them coolly, concealing how desperately envious I was of their silly, cheerful home life. I wanted what they had; I had no desire to replicate my parents’ life or my mother’s fantasy of connubial and familial bliss. I always wanted to say, I’m not a threat to you! I want to learn how to do this, to leave the pillows scattered on the floor for three days, to drink out of smudged, mismatched glasses. To unclench. But all they saw was my hostile face, carefully sketched in neat eyeliner, swatches of blush, tidy dresses with reasonable necklines, thin ankles displayed in delicate, impractical flats. Or maybe that’s what I wanted them to see.

Dora and Steve are sprawled on the couch, their legs laced together and Janis Joplin crowing on their record player. They glance up in stoned surprise when we enter.

“Wyatt!” Dora says, standing. She looks the same as ever: dark hair flat and volumeless, her face without makeup, a formless dress made out of that ubiquitous yoga material highlighting rather than concealing her squarish, lumpy figure. This is a woman who doesn’t, hasn’t, will not diet, who does not and never will apply expensive cream to her jawline. She smells of patchouli and tomato sauce. I am bowled over when she gives me a hug, a real genuine snuggle hug. “Ava. Christ. I’m so very sorry about your sister.” She pulls back and looks at my face, searching for me in the familiar bone structure of my sister. She has grown accustomed to Zelda, and I am an interloper wearing her body. She squeezes my wrists affectionately, and I try to smile.

“Thanks,” I manage. Steve has joined his wife, and he, too, gives me a hug, as well as a peck on the cheek. I smell his sour breath and the scent of primo marijuana that lingers in his bearish beard. His hairline has receded since the last time I was here, and his potbelly is more pronounced beneath his loud Hawaiian shirt. “Hi, Steve.”

“Ava. You poor thing. Cosmic injustice.” He pats me on the shoulder, with Dora still holding one of my wrists, and I am claustrophobically aware of how close they are. The Darlings are touchers. I take a step backward, unable to help myself.

“Can I just—can I get myself a glass of water?” I say, already moving toward the sink. As I face the cabinets and reach for the cleanest glass in sight, I scan the counters for any open bottles of anything. Wyatt’s parents drink, but not the way mine do. They are happy drinkers, the sort of people who can leave a bottle of wine unfinished, out in the open for a day or two. They tend to be high most of the time, so they’re not into purely sober living, but they don’t spend their days in the dereliction of the addicted, with the relentless anxiety that there will never, in all the world, be enough. I fill a glass from the tap. They don’t have a filter installed on the faucet like Nadine does, which means their tap water tastes a little iffy.

“Want something to drink, bunny?” Steve asks me, and I catch both Dora and Wyatt glancing from me to each other. I wonder if Zelda has been especially slushy while she’s here, or if I was messier than I remember during that last year at home. I wonder how long it took before Steve was calling Zelda “bunny.” He’s never called me that before.

“Whatever’s easiest,” I answer, relieved. “Thanks.”

“How about a beer?” Steve asks, heading to the fridge with a bouncy gait. He walks like the steps he takes are too big, as though he’s almost hopping from one foot to the other, on the outsides of his feet. He fishes out an unlabeled bottle of beer from the fridge, cracks it open, and presses it into my hand, with another squeeze to my shoulder. I look at it before taking an exploratory sip. “I’ve been brewing a bit, recently,” he tells me. “This batch is pretty good.” He nods. “Extra tasty.” I smile a thank-you, feeling relief at the cold bottle in my hand.

“Any news?” Steve asks. I look over at Wyatt, unsure what to say.

“They’ve verified that it was Zelda in the fire,” he answers stiffly. Dora and Steve both flinch, and their faces crumple simultaneously in the identical expressions of the long married.

“Oh, God,” Steve says. “That is just awful. Shit. I’m so sorry. I mean, I know we were sort of expecting that, but we were definitely holding out hope.”

“How is your family doing?” Dora asks.

“Not at all well. But then, that’s been the status quo for a while now,” I answer.

She snorts, then realizes that the statement may have been intended as a provocation and squints at me with a hint of the old suspicion.

“Well, I think any family that goes through this sort of thing gracefully lacks a soul. You all are enacting your karma, and that’s all,” she says.