Dead Letters(93)

“Zelda, get me another drink,” Nadine snaps. I thought she was napping.

“In a second, Mom,” I say, trying to skitter away.

“Don’t you think we should call your sister today? Really, it’s been a long time since we spoke to her.” Nadine sounds fretful, even concerned. I wonder if she’s been asking Zelda to call me all this time. I imagine what Zelda would say to end the conversation.

“We already called her, Mom, remember? She was fine, said she was having a great time. She’s coming home for a visit soon.”

Opal shoots me a judgmental look.

“Oh, of course,” Nadine says. “I remember now. She was having a coffee in a Left Bank café, reading up for class. Her French has gotten sublime.” Nadine nods, smiling.

I’m taken aback. Is this how she fills in the chinks of her leaky memory? With “remembered” conversations about my charmed life in Paris? Does she spend the day imagining me romping beneath the Eiffel Tower, a baguette under each arm? Or does Zelda spin these yarns for her, imagining me?

“And she’s planning to go to the museum at Quai Branly this afternoon,” I add softly. “She’s writing a paper on it. She met a man named Nico who’s a French banker—remember what she said about him?”

“That he has a thick accent and always smells of cigarettes,” Nadine responds promptly.

I’m harrowed. “Yeah. And she thinks she loves him, but she’s not sure they belong together.”

“Nonsense. Ava is a catch, and she knows it.” Nadine giggles, more lighthearted than I’ve seen her for some time. “I’m actually proud of her, you know.”

I realize Marlon has stopped talking on the phone and is following this conversation.

“Me too,” he says, patting Nadine’s hand. “I’m proud of our daughter.” He looks over at me, and it’s too much. Way too much. I can feel myself shutting down, trying not to experience this poignant family moment. Nadine interrupts, thank God.

“I don’t know why you never do anything, Zaza. Rotting away here. If you had any gumption, you’d strike off on your own, do something with your life. You always were content to be second best, though.”

I feel two things simultaneously as she says this: a sharp pain in my chest, as though she has slapped me, and a sense of relief at the return to normalcy. Opal flinches and glares furiously at Nadine, prepared to leap to my defense as though I actually were Zelda.

“Ava abandoned you, Mom,” I point out. “She’s not doing anything noble, or even valuable. She ran away from you and hasn’t felt guilty about it for one fucking second since she left,” I spit out. “She’s a selfish, narcissistic monster. Of course you like her more. She’s just like you.” I stand up from the table and drain the mimosa in Marlon’s glass in one fluid movement. Nadine stares at me stonily, unapologetic. I don’t look at either Opal or Marlon as I walk away from the table, leaving behind a fraught silence.

I walk into my room, shutting the door firmly behind myself. My hands are shaking from the scene I just made, and I cluck my tongue in annoyance. You’d think I would be thicker-skinned. I sit down on my bed and stare at my cellphone. Okay, Zelda. Time to talk. I dial the number and switch languages in my head, preparing to speak French.

“All?, H?tel Victoires?” a female voice answers. V is for Victoires. Victory.

“Bonjour,” I respond, and I continue on in French. “I’m looking for a guest who is staying with you. Do you think you could connect me to her room?”

“The name of the guest?”

“Ava Antipova,” I say with satisfaction. I know she picked the hotel nearest my apartment, in my territory but not quite in my space. It is her tentative way of asking me to let her in. She’s gone right to my doorstep, but she won’t cross it without an invitation. I giggle, thinking that V could just as easily be for vampire, considering the parasitic nourishment Zelda gets from my life, her need to be invited into my house. She knows she could have had my keys copied, moved into my cozy cupboard. She could probably even have seduced an unsuspecting Nico. But she’s not doing any of that, because we’re starting over. She’s asking me to make space for her in my life. The voice returns to the line.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have any guest registered by that name.”

I frown, perplexed. “Zelda Antipova, then?” I offer, though I wonder how she would manage that. As a foreigner, she would need a passport to check into the hotel. The woman on the line barely pauses.

“No, no one by the name of Antipova,” she answers, preparing to hang up.

“Wait,” I say desperately. “Perhaps she’s staying under another name. Dark curly hair, small, beautiful?” I prompt. “She would have checked in recently, a few days ago at most.”

“I’m very sorry, but I can’t give out information like that,” the woman says frostily, and like that she’s hung up the phone.

I sit on the edge of my bed, shocked. I was so certain. Just a second ago I knew where Zelda was; it seems unthinkable to suddenly not know, not be able to call my sister. I had already imagined her thrilled and entertained voice on the other end, delighted with the game of hide-and-seek we’d been playing. Bubbling with the pleasure of being discovered, of being found. She would have told me about the bars she’d been drinking in while she waited for me to call, the clever little thoughts that had crossed her mind while I was catching up. I experience a disorienting sense of loss at my false step. I want to talk to her, and I feel as though I might cry in frustration. I begin typing into my phone.