Nadine’s going to pieces now, mumbling quietly to herself.
“Zelda…is already outside,” I lie, starting the coffeepot. “Why don’t we just go back upstairs for a bit? I have some medicine for you.” I lead her back toward the stairway. Marlon stands there, almost paralyzed. Nadine’s hands are shaking, and she seems suddenly frail, flimsy. Her shoulders stick out like wings, and she feels somehow light, as though she’s evaporating in front of us. I give her a sedative and put her back in bed. I know this is not a long-term solution; I’ll have to work out a system later. This time, I lock the door.
Downstairs, I pause in front of the bathroom. I hear barely controlled sobs behind the door. My father. I hesitate, tempted to knock but unsure what to say. Instead I go to the kitchen and start breakfast.
When he joins me at the table, he is again smiling and light, determined to put me at ease. I don’t know what to say to him, so I say nothing. We eat some of Betsy’s bread and one of Zelda’s bizarre jams from the cupboard. This one seems to be peach curry. It is not a total failure as a condiment, but it is weird. Marlon doesn’t look good; either he stayed up drinking or he couldn’t fall asleep. Possibly both. We barely speak over breakfast. I can tell he is truly rattled by Nadine’s outburst, and I have no desire to discuss it with him. As I’m putting the dishes in the sink, I clear my throat.
“I think I’m going to drive to the police station in Watkins Glen. I’d like to learn more about the fire,” I say flatly. “See if there’s anything they need from us to investigate the, uh, accident.” I really don’t want him to invite himself along, which he seems to sense. “Do you think you could look after Nadine for a little while? I know that’s not ideal, but…” I trail off. Marlon nods cooperatively, though I imagine he can’t be excited about this. “We’ll have to do something about the funeral. I know you called some people already, and I’ll try to find some of Zelda’s friends. I don’t know if we need to worry about the announcement.”
Marlon is still nodding along as though he knows all this, but I’m sure he hasn’t thought of it. I’m pretty sure he thinks that birthdays and funerals and dishes and housework are all magically arranged by some sort of domestic deity who oversees life’s practical considerations. He always looked confused when there weren’t clean towels in the bathroom or when the kitchen counters grew sticky and fly-infested after someone had spilled honey on the wood. As though he thought something had suddenly begun malfunctioning, rather than just continuing along its natural entropic path, unimpeded by the feminine forces that typically stood in its way.
“Listen, I’ll text you a list of what all needs to be done. And Nadine should be quiet for a few hours. Just feed her some of Betsy’s casserole.” I can’t help wrinkling my nose in snobby reluctance at the suggestion. If she weren’t half out of her mind, my mother would never contemplate a tuna casserole, regardless of circumstances. “And give her the meds in her pill dispenser once she’s eaten. And don’t let her start drinking until at least four. Though I should be back by then.” Marlon nods mechanically. “Thanks, Dad. It’s good to see you, even…” I turn to leave the room, scooping the car keys up as I go.
“Ava?” he asks gently. I stop. “Do you think there’s something a little…off about this?” He looks reluctant to even be suggesting it.
“I don’t know. Zelda was in a weird place. I…don’t know what to think,” I concede. I’m not about to say that I think Zelda might be holed up somewhere with one of her crazy friends, laughing at all of us and cooing over her escape. I know that would sound crazy to him, like denial. Yet the combination of Zelda’s letters the last few months and the bizarre neatness of all this feels too much like one of my sister’s elaborate plots. But if she is up to something, she wouldn’t want Marlon to know. After he left us cold, she’d want him in the dark. Strange, that I should still be attentive to her wants, that I should give a flying fuck after everything that’s happened, but…what can I say. I’m loyal to my twin, even if I haven’t spoken to her for nearly two years.
I bob my head at Marlon and walk out the door, carrying one of Zelda’s bags. There are two vehicles in the drive, and I reflect that maybe I should have asked Marlon to borrow his fancy rental, rather than drive my mother’s (now my sister’s) unreliable pickup. Zelda’s bedraggled, antique jalopy, which sits decaying in torpid disrepair, slowly oxidizing in the upstate moisture, was a point of acquisitive pride for my jackdaw sibling. Having long coveted the truck, she had finally prized it from my mother following an eye-exam coup that left Nadine humiliated and without a license; she had no choice but to transfer the title to the gloating Zelda, who made a point of inappropriately revving the engine and briskly ramming the body into the deep culverts that ran alongside the fields, battering the suspension and brutalizing the alignment.
Watkins Glen is only seven or eight miles from here, though, and Zelda drove the goddamn thing all over the vineyard every day. Besides, I’m home now. I can’t be cruising around in a flashy convertible. That would just be asking to get pulled over. Zelda’s the driver. As an afterthought, I dig around in the glove compartment and pull out her driver’s license. Can’t hurt.
The drive is relaxing, and I feel better the farther I get from my own nest of crazies. I try very hard not to think about how I’m going to keep it together for the next few weeks. I’m good at repression (as Zelda loves to point out), and this task is surprisingly easy. I find a pack of Zelda’s cigarettes on the tattered seat of the truck and light an American Spirit, the smell of Zelda filling up the small cab. Frankly, there’s no way she can be dead. I would feel it, would know with the cells of my body, which are so entwined with hers.