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 sigh. “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.