Dead Letters(98)

But what you have in front of you is your penance. Just because the choice you made was utterly understandable doesn’t mean that you’re off the hook for it. You have some making up to do, missy. And, honestly, I kind of feel like I got the long end of the stick on this one. SO. Without further ado, Ava my dear, here is what your future holds (though I think you have a pretty good inkling):

a) You have in front of you a veritable pharmakon. These puppies offer you salvation, dearest sister, and all you have to do is…

b) Administer them. Nadine will hold out her shaky gnarled hands, those gigantic, expensive rings rattling around on her skeletal digits, and she’ll toss back her head and swallow it down. (Do you remember that Alanis Morissette CD? God, I just thought of that.)

c) You’ll hand out these little ingestibles in the proper order—that is, alphabetically. (Of course!) A fistful of Vicodin, followed by a fistful of Xanax. (You’re getting two letters at once! Twins!) Wait a bit, lather, rinse, repeat, until blessed unconsciousness ensues. My feeling, based on some very flimsy research, is that this combo is more likely to prove lethal than, say, an overdose of heroin. I think. At least Wikipedia says so. And Mom’s squeamish about needles. And I’m low on smack. So.

d) Even if it is no more effective than some other pharmaceuticals, it’s at least much easier to explain to the authorities, who will come sniffing around eventually.

e) When they do (come sniffing), they’ll learn that I’ve been collecting Vicodin and Xanax for months, stockpiling it and storing it (perhaps foolishly) in Our Demented Mother’s bedroom. It would seem that I kept many of them in a pill dispenser by the bed, which certainly calls my judgment into (further) question. A halfway decent psychiatrist will suggest that this is a classic unconscious Electra complex, and that I was subconsciously laying the groundwork for my mother’s death (Damn that Clytemnestra!).

f) You will cry and look grief-stricken and shocked. You will blame yourself for not being more attentive, not monitoring her closely enough at night, not making sure everything in her bedroom was safe, for getting too drunk. But you’re still so shaken up by the death (murder!) of your twin sister, and—and—

g) And they’ll write it up as an accidental death, eventually. The insurance people will fork out. Then you’ll be free, darling sister! Free of Mom, free of debt, free to do as you please! For a moment or two, at least.

I wish I’d had the guts to do it myself, and I’m still wondering why I couldn’t go through with it. The night of the fire, I sat there on the edge of the bed, the pills in my lap, planning to finish everything up after all. Thinking back to that evening, one of the last few with the three of us, all semilucid, talking about this. But I always knew that it couldn’t be me. You’re the right one for the job, Little A! You can do it!

I suggest you burn this note. Obvs.

Love,

Who else,

Zelda



I fold up the handwritten letter that lined the bottom of the bag and lean back against the bed. I pop another Vicodin into my mouth and close my eyes. I should have known that Zelda wouldn’t be able to walk away without punishing me. I snap the compartments of the pill dispenser firmly shut and tuck the whole thing into the nightstand, nestled behind a book. One of the twinned Afghan rugs that flank both sides of the bed scratches me through the thin fabric of my dress. I sit there, waiting to feel the first cozy swoop of the Vicodin before standing up.

Of course I have a clear memory of that night, not long after Nadine was diagnosed, when we sat around the kitchen table, glasses in hand. Trying to be as pragmatic as possible. I have tried not to think about it.

—

“What would you want, Zaza?”

“I’d want you to off me the minute my hands were too shaky for me to drink out of a fucking martini glass,” she had snorted. “But that’s me. I tread this world lightly!”

“What about Mom? What would she want?”

“I don’t know, Ava. I just don’t.”

—

Now I go over to Nadine’s closet, which is crammed full of clothes while Marlon’s stands empty, in anticipation. From the top shelf above the dress rack I pull down a hatbox and remove a beautiful, wide-brimmed straw hat in pale cream, with a black silk band. I have always loved this hat. I remember visiting Opal in Florida, for one of our last family vacations together, and watching my mother walk barefoot on the beach in this hat. There was a violent pink sunset dying behind her, and she wore a buttoned cover-up that would have looked too formal for the beach on anyone else but suited her perfectly. She didn’t have a glass in her hand, for once. She didn’t need one; she was alone, without Marlon or Opal or Zelda or me. She looked serene, and I crouched near a sand dune to watch her burrow her toes into the low tide and dislodge a sand dollar. She squatted on the beach to pick it up and stayed poised on her haunches in a surprisingly athletic pose, holding her prize and looking out over the water. Maybe nostalgia and my desperate need for a perfect memory add this last detail in, but I remember a school of dolphins bursting out of the waves nearby, skating through the rosy water.

I sniff my mother’s hat, smelling for a trace of her hair before she was taking so many medications, before she stank of age. But I smell only the box it has been stored in. I project the fragrance of sand and salt water onto it, such vivid scents that they are easy to imagine, and I think briefly that I should take my mother to the ocean, to Cape Cod, where she grew up. I could put her in a chair by the water and let her dig her toes into the sand there, bring her a glass of wine and a plate of baked clams, remind her of where we are when she looks puzzled and angry. Maybe we could talk about her sister, Nina, help her heal after a lifetime of refusing to acknowledge her death. Maybe we could sit there, cathecting together.