Dead Letters

by Caite Dolan-Leach

  Surprisingly, my sister was unruffled. Usually, Zelda was prone to transfigure from quietly scheming force into berserker, whirling like an exuberant dervish in a haze of deranged, violent joy. But after the furry burial, she bided her time. She waited so long that I thought she had forgotten, or forgiven. One day, the skies over the lake darkened and there was a torrential downpour for hours. When the rain stopped, Zelda calmly informed our mother of my misdeed. Nadine told us that now Josefina belonged to Zelda, as she had no other toys. I dug up the stuffed animals, which had been marinating in mud, and even put them in the washing machine in an attempt to get Josefina back, but Zelda wouldn’t budge. She didn’t want Josefina for herself, but she had learned that I did, and she sacrificed her own menagerie to win the game.

  I cry helplessly, remembering this, feeling like the bratty child I was at eight, vindictively punishing Zelda, though punishing only myself in the end. Even now, I can’t tell whether I feel remorse because I’d made Zelda suffer alone out here or because now I am suffering, and I don’t know how to put it back how it was before. I’d been living on my own in a foreign country for nearly two years, and after just one full day of being back on Seneca Lake I had regressed to feeling like a child.

  I clutch Wyatt’s sweatshirt, and even though it’s a hot day, I pull it on. It smells like him and like Zelda, like the two of them together, which makes me cry even harder, but it feels good, and I breathe in deeply, moaning softly into my knees. My wailing is almost self-indulgent, but it helps.

  “What happened, Zelda?” I sob into my legs. “I can’t do this without you.” I’ve been rocking on the porch step for a few minutes when the phone in my pocket vibrates. I sniff and fumble to get the phone out of my pants. Faced with the password-protected screen, I try her usual password again, the last four digits of the house phone. No luck. I try our birthday, 0531, which doesn’t work either. Then I smile, remembering Zelda’s disdain for passwords, and go for 0000. Z is for zero. The screen disappears, and I’m left with her background image. It’s a picture of both of us, age fourteen. I’m rolling my eyes and standing primly next to Zelda, who is jumping in the air, a halo of her insane curls encircling both our heads. She’s wearing a strange knee-length caftan and has a forearm full of bangles; I’ve got on a snug floral sundress and ballerina flats. I smile, remembering that day.

  I notice that the mail icon has several new messages, and I tap it open. There are six or seven new emails, and I scroll through them. All but the most recent are ads. The last one, from one minute ago, is from Zelda herself. I freeze and look around nervously, as though I’ll see her lurking somewhere nearby. I open the message.

  To: zazazelda@gmail.com

  From: zazazelda@gmail.com

  Subject: A Brief Correspondence from Beyond the Grave

  June 23, 2016 @ 11:42 AM

  Ahoy, Ava!

  Welcome home, my sweet jet-setting twin!

  So glad you were able to wrest yourself away from your dazzling life in the City of Light; I hope my “death” hasn’t interrupted anything too crucial. I’m sure you’ve run into Wyatt already, and I doubt that you two just fell into each other’s arms, filled with remorse at the squandered years. Bet you made him squirm, Ava. But (and this is a recent development) I bet he made you squirm a bit, too; he’s not the gormless, innocent boy you left behind. I hope you don’t mind my improvements.

  Well, what’s the gossip? Am I dead, or am I “just being Zelda”? What does Dad think? I’m sure Mom has been too pickled and loopy to assert an opinion either way. She probably doesn’t even think I’m gone, with you there to fill the holes. Just think of how you could permanently damage my relationship with Mother, with her presuming you to be me! Such an opportunity. And you could remain the talented, ambitious sister living a full life away from her clutches, while I (you) torment her with your frustration and indifference back at home. Such fun!

  I’m sure you never really thought I was dead. I mean, you maybe considered it, but I doubt you really believed it. That would fuck all your plans up, that would make you the mean twin who let her sister die alone in a fatal blaze, never having forgiven her now-dead twin for a childish mistake, a few evenings of thoughtlessness. That would make you the sister who ditched her responsibilities, her training, and flew the coop, leaving her (woefully underprepared) sister to take care of all the tasks they were supposed to share. Of course you couldn’t entertain that reality; it would portray you in a bad light. So all along you’ve figured I’m still running around out there, up to my old tricks.

  You’re going to come look for me, right? Hide-and-seek, Ava, your favorite game. But, for once, you won’t be able to just cram yourself into some impossibly tiny space and wait for me to lose my patience and call “Olly olly oxen free!” This time you’re looking for me.

  So: What am I up to? Hint: Your first piece of the puzzle is nearby.

  Your ever-playful sister,

  Z is for Zelda

  Speechless, I stare at the phone for a long time. Tears have dried on my face, leaving it tight and salty. I’m sweating into Wyatt’s sweatshirt, my scent mixing with his and Zelda’s, but I still don’t take it off, even though the temperature is climbing toward ninety. The phone rests in my lap, and I spin through endless possibilities. But only one blinks clearly at me through my hazy thoughts.

  Zelda is alive.

  I knew it.

  Where has she been skulking for the past two and a half days? She must have a friend, someone she can hide out with. I’d bet good money that it’s not Wyatt. He’s never been a good liar; he’s got some extremely blatant tells. I frown at that, thinking of the conversation we just had. Evidently, Wyatt has changed. Only I don’t think he’s changed enough to be able to lie to my face about my ostensibly deceased twin, given everything.

  Who has she spent time with in the last few years? Of course I have no idea, having subjected her to a transcontinental silent treatment. Wyatt might be able to help me there. Maybe some of the vineyard people will know, too, having maybe seen friends lolling around with Zelda. She’s not a terribly social person, though, and I’m betting it will be a short list. But she’s also not the sort to go on an indefinite camping trip in the wilderness, so I think she’s probably got some sort of friendly shelter to duck into while she plays her little games. I know I should be annoyed with her, but right now I just feel relieved. And vindicated.

  The feeling completely dissipates when a phone starts ringing. For half a second I think it’s Zelda’s phone again, and my heart beats faster before I realize that it’s my own, vibrating from the bag at my feet. I grab it and see that the number on the screen is the house phone at Nadine’s. I answer, knowing that whatever this is, it’s probably not good.

  “Hello?”

  “Ava? It’s Marlon. Your dad.”

  “I suspected. Mom’s weird about the phone. I’m pretty sure she’s barely touched it the last two years. Thinks she’s being ‘monitored.’ ”

  “I think you should come home, kiddo, your mother’s…on the loose.”

  “I won’t even begin to guess what that means,” I say dispiritedly.

  “I, uh, fell asleep for a while and woke up to realize she was…”

  “What, Dad?”

  “Well, gone. She seems to have taken off—thought I should let you know.” He sounds a little ashamed. Quite rightly.

  “Because you don’t really feel like going after her?”

  “I would, it just seems…unwise.” I realize suddenly that he’s speaking very slowly, not quite slurring his words but sounding less than entirely sober.

  “Are you drunk?” I snap at the phone.

  “No. Well, not really. I just took one of your mother’s sedatives. Two of them. And I had a glass of wine with lunch.”

  “Just a glass, huh?” He’s mincing his words, chewing on them, gnashing them into easily pronounced pieces so they come out comprehensible, digestible. I recognize the tic—I do it myself. I si
gh. “And I assume you unlocked her door?”

  “I went in to check on her. I guess…I forgot.”

  “I’ll drive back now. I’m at Zelda’s trailer. She can’t have gotten too far.” I smash the disconnect button before he can say anything else, charm me into not being pissed that he only had to babysit Nadine for a few hours and couldn’t even manage to keep it together that long. Shaking my head, I swing back into the truck. Part of me is strangely pleased, though—only at home, with my family, am I not the drunken, irresponsible mess. With these people, I’m the one you call in a pinch, the one who shows up to fix a problem. I’m enjoying it.

  Mom has not, as it turns out, gotten very far at all. I find her at the top of the drive that leads down to the fields and to Zelda’s trailer. She’s wearing an expensive-looking silk robe, a bra, and a pair of high-waisted underpants that would look matronly on any other woman her age but that my mother is rocking, even as she sways in the dust of the tractor path, appearing disoriented and scared.

  “Zelda, where have you been?” she whimpers to me when I lurch out of the cab of the truck, wobbly with relief. I can tell she wants to sound imperious, but she comes off as upset. She teeters, looking profoundly unstable. I glance at her feet, which strike me as older than any other part of her body. She’s barefoot, and one of her toes is bleeding. It seems like she scraped the skin off tripping on the pavement. She’s twitching subtly, a bobble to her head. That will be the dementia.

  “Momma, what are you doing? You’re supposed to be home.” I open the door and grab her by the elbow, preparing to hoist her up. She shrieks and pulls her elbow away.

  “You’re fucking hurting me.” She scowls.

  “Sorry, Mom. Hop in the truck, though?” I’m wheedling, but I just want to get her inside. God knows how many people have seen her wandering around in her knickers. I imagine this isn’t the first time, though. She looks at me suspiciously.

  “Only because I’m tired now,” she grants haughtily. I roll my eyes and help her into the cab. “Honestly, where were you, Zelda? I missed lunch, and my midday treat.” The word sounds childish and tentative.

  “Oh?” I glance over at her curiously.

  “You didn’t come in to do my nails at lunchtime. So I came looking for you.”

  “Zelda—I—do your nails every day?” I ask, shocked.

  “God, Zaza, and they say I’m the one losing my faculties. Yes, dear, don’t you see I’m wearing yesterday’s color?” She waggles her fingers at me, and I look briefly away from the road to see that they are painted a pale pink. I didn’t notice yesterday. “Today is azure,” she spells out. It is unfathomable to me that my sister would paint my mother’s nails. This is a universe I don’t recognize.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll take you home, we’ll have some lunch, and I’ll do your nails after.” I stare blankly at the yellow lines on the road.

  5

  Eating a haphazard lunch of vegetables and sandwiches made from ingredients unearthed in the fridge, we sit around the table. I don’t eat much, and Nadine seems mainly to push food around on her plate with her shaky hands. I find myself unable to watch her as she trembles her way through the meal.

  Marlon is quiet and avoids eye contact with me, and my mother chatters cheerfully about something she’s been watching on Netflix. Apparently, Zelda allows Nadine a generous ration of drugs and props her in front of an old laptop that belonged to one of us years ago, and Mom binges on whatever television piques her interest for most of the day, just like your average equally stoned college kid. She spruces up for her evening allotment of wine, which Zelda doles out according to how well she’s behaved that day. Peace for Zelda, and unconsciousness for Nadine. I’m fascinated and horrified. It’s almost exactly like periods of our childhood, when Nadine administered snacks and TV privileges to whichever girl had been the prettiest, or nicest, or most cooperative, depending on what trait Nadine was feeling preferential toward that day. Predictably, Zelda and I each thought the other received more snacks. I wonder if Mom will start to tally which of her daughters lavishes more alcohol on her.

  Marlon looks glazed and sleepy, and I speculate about whether he really took only two of Mom’s pills. He doesn’t contribute much to the conversation, and I let him nod along without demanding much. When I get up to clear our plates, I cluck at my mother’s nearly full one.

  “Mom, you have to eat. You’ve barely touched any of the grilled cheese.”

  “I’m not hungry, Zelda. Those damn pills.”

  I frown. “You didn’t get your pills today, Mom.”

  “Oh. Well, I have to stay trim. I just sit in bed all day—I can’t be gorging myself on fried cheese.” She waves her hand flippantly.

  “Mom, you didn’t eat any breakfast, and I’ll be busy the rest of the afternoon. I won’t be able to drop everything and make you a snack whenever you realize you’ve made a mistake.” Marlon jerks his head up to look at me, and I realize in horror that I’ve repeated verbatim something Nadine used to say to me and Zelda. Marlon’s disoriented expression mirrors the way I feel. “Never mind,” I add. “It’s okay. You should only eat when you’re really hungry.” This is a toned-down paraphrase of another of her sayings, which she started to crack out more frequently during our high school years, when eating became inextricably linked with dress size and thinness. I clear the table, flustered.

  I dismiss Marlon, telling him to go sleep it off. As I help Mom up the stairs, her hands shake and her neck wobbles. I grab her thin arms and steady her as she trudges up the steps. The sound of her footsteps on the stairs used to be a deeply ingrained pattern, one I could recognize anywhere: the fourth step, which creaked more than the others, the solid sound her foot made striking the top landing. But now, with her tentative steps, her gnarled feet encased in terry-cloth ballet slippers, the kind of thing my mother once would never have consented to wear, the sound is distorted, uncanny. I look down at her pink-clad feet and feel a moment of spiteful enjoyment. I wonder what happened to her beautiful soft leather Moroccan slippers that used to whisper up this staircase.

  I tuck her into bed and give her an extra sedative, just to ensure peace. I’ll end up destroying her liver if I don’t get a better way of guaranteeing that she’ll stay quiet for a few hours, but that’s a long-term concern (I hope), and right now I can only deal with short-term problems. As she’s beginning to sink deeper into her pillows, I tug off her department-store slippers and find a drawer filled with nail polish. Azure, she said. Well, I’m not Zelda. I pick a bright magenta and set to work on her toenails. Even though I’m rushing and anxious, my paint job will be significantly better than the one done by Zelda, who never had the patience for this kind of thing. Zelda’s makeup always has the same dramatic unkempt swath of black eyeliner; she gets frustrated with neatness. I tidy up the pink streaks that have bled over Nadine’s cuticles from Zelda’s last attempt and paint two coats of obnoxious purply-pink on top. The result is a bit textured. Nadine’s asleep by the time I leave, and I wonder if doing her toes was a wasted gesture. She won’t remember it, and I won’t get any good-daughter credit. It occurs to me that maybe this was how she thought about parenting us: as an unbalanced checkbook where she never got the sum she had earned.

  When Zelda and I were young, maybe eight or nine, we uncovered a fetid nest of mewling baby mice beneath the hood of the old tractor. It was the beginning of summer, and we had been illicitly fooling around on the tractor, in contravention to one of Marlon’s very few rules. When the engine heated up, a few rodents scampered frantically from beneath the front end, making a harried beeline for the back field. We flipped open the hood to find the escaped parents’ helpless progeny ensconced near the radiator, about to be baked into tiny, unappetizing kebabs. They were hairless, pink, and unpleasant to look at, but we were nevertheless frantic, manically concerned for the little critters’ well-being. Certain that their forebears had abandoned them to their toasty end, we resolved to become their ersatz paren
ts, to raise them to healthy, independent mousehood. We scraped the wads of cotton shreds (possibly a masticated remnant of one of my T-shirts) and straw from the nook within the tractor and transferred the whole bundle, babies and all, to a shoe box. There were four of them, moist and shut-eyed. We hid them beneath Zelda’s bed (she insisted) and pilfered one of Marlon’s numerous bottles of eyedrops, stashed furtively in his flannel shirt pockets to combat the perpetual red-eye that betrayed his various vices. Nadine was always furiously pulling them out of the dryer, half-melted and frequently having left strange saline stains on shirts, railing against Marlon’s carelessness and antipathy.

  We emptied the dropper of its salty contents and refilled it with low-fat half-and-half, the richest liquid we could find in the fridge, reheating the makeshift baby bottle in the aging microwave, which Nadine was already beginning to look at suspiciously and accuse of malicious radioactive goings-on. We began a busy feeding schedule for the tiny rodents, and snuck onto the computer to do Internet searches of how to best care for our adopted creatures. Within a day, their wrinkly skin was starting to sag, and they squirmed listlessly, in apparent discomfort, eyelids still sealed shut, unable to see their looming caregivers. Convinced that we weren’t feeding them frequently enough, we upped their caloric intake, working our way through nearly all of the container of half-and-half, most of which ended up dribbling pointlessly into the increasingly squalid wad of material on which the babies lay.