Dead Letters(90)

“Morning,” I say and receive two unenthusiastic greetings. I suspect they’re not impressed by my disappearance last night. But fuck them.

“We’ve started organizing the memorial service, dear,” Opal says, her lips thin.

“How dare you plan my funeral before I’m even dead. You want to kill me!” my mother accuses, trying to stand up from the table. She’s too wobbly, though, and aborts halfway through the motion, sinking back into her Adirondack chair and swiping for her mimosa.

“Decided it would be nice to have some closure, even though we might be waiting for the…body a little longer,” Opal explains, ignoring Nadine.

“And I have to get back to Napa,” Marlon says brusquely, not looking up from the email he’s typing. “Busy season, and I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Well, we’d hate to tear you away from the important things,” I snipe. “Glad you’re carving out some time.”

He raises his eyes to glare at me with dislike, and I balk. I’m used to his abandonment and his excuses, not his anger. He seems to have hardened overnight. He no longer looks haggard and old, as he has for the last few days, as though Silenus were sapping him of his youth every second he stayed on this soil. His eyes are wide open, his skin looks tighter, and he has shaved. I find it very strange that the official death of his daughter has somehow rejuvenated him. But then, I’ve never understood my father. I glance at his drink and am surprised to see that it is mostly full. Maybe he figures that Zelda’s death puts him one step closer to finishing with this chapter of his life. With Zelda gone, it’s just me, Nadine, and Silenus, and the last two won’t be around too much longer.

“When will it be? The service?” Wyatt asks.

“Tomorrow,” Opal says. “Without any remains, it seems pointless to wait. And she’s been dead for days.”

“It’s not like people will be traveling from all over the world for Zelda’s funeral,” I point out. “I’d be surprised if people even come from Ithaca.”

“Your sister was loved and treasured,” Opal snaps. “I won’t hear you jeering at her the day after we learn of her passing.” She stands up from the table and gives it a small shove. Her upper arms wobble, the bluish rumpled skin swaying comically with the effort. She strides inside in a huff, thoroughly peeved. I roll my eyes at Wyatt as though we’re fifteen, an unvocalized “Jeee-eeez” accompanying my adolescent expression.

“What happened to Ava, sweetheart?” Nadine asks, leaning toward Marlon and squeezing his knee affectionately. He looks trapped, and I almost laugh as he pats her hand in an attempt both to dislodge it and to soothe her.

“Ava’s fine, Nadine. Don’t worry.”

“Oh. Marl. Will you hold me?” She sounds small and timid, and I wonder if she was more like this when they met, with softer edges and some vulnerability. He looks taken aback, but he leans over to give her a squeeze. I retreat from this foreign scene of tenderness. I feel as if I can remember moments like this between them, but they’re obscured behind so many years of tension and aggression.

“Do you need help with the organizing?” I ask Marlon.

“I might. I’m trying to let everyone know right now. Is it gauche, do you think, to make a Facebook event?” he asks with a curious frown.

“I’ve seen it done,” Wyatt confirms. “It’s efficient.”

“Zelda wouldn’t mind,” I say. “Surely that’s what counts.”

Marlon grunts and resumes his typing.

“Let me know if you need anything, Mr. Antipova,” Wyatt says as we duck back inside. “My parents are happy to help too. With food or any, uh, coordination that needs to happen.”

Marlon looks up, surprised, and nods mutely.

Wyatt and I head for my room. I feel my nerves rumble at the prospect of reentering the bedroom, as part of me realizes that last night served to establish at least a partial reinstatement of our relationship. We’re not just old friends and former lovers anymore. There is a currency to our closeness, a now-ness that runs alongside what happened before. The frisson of anxiety that I feel at the sight of clean white sheets spread before us is not because of our past but because of what is happening between us now. I can tell he feels it, in the way he looks at me while trying not to look at me, the way his fingers curl when I stand close to him, as though he is both avoiding and seeking my skin.

I perch on the edge of my bed and open my suitcase, exposing the neat rows of clothes piled inside. Unzipping the liner pouch, I curl my arm inside it up to the elbow, fishing for my zippered folder of indispensable official documents. I tug it out and flip through the pages. There are bank statements proving solvency, a copy of my lease agreement for my apartment in Paris, extra copies of passport photos and photocopies of my passport, a letter documenting my enrollment in grad school. All the accessories of international travel. And there, in the left-hand slot of the folder, the place of privilege, I scoop my finger, expecting to come up empty. I’m meticulously organized, and this is the only place my passport could be.

And lo, no passport. I cock my head toward Wyatt, as though this proves something.

“Does Zelda have a passport? Do you think she would have brought that one too?” Wyatt asks.

“It’s in the drawer in her room.”