I walk by my mother’s bedroom door, and I suspect she’s probably still sleeping. God knows how late she stayed up last night, sobbing into her pillow. I wonder if she does this all the time, or if it’s because she has some fleeting awareness of what’s going on in the house, with Silenus, with…the barn.
Marlon isn’t in the guest room downstairs, which is a surprise. No one in our family is an early riser, and I expected him to be snoring away at this hour, regardless of what time he went to bed. We must be absolutely the worst farmers imaginable, with our inability to crack our eyes open before nine in the morning. I open the fridge door and find some orange juice, which I chug in sincere gratitude.
“Ava Antipova, what on earth do you think you’re doing?” A familiar voice stops me in my tracks, and I slam the cap back on the orange juice instinctively, hiding my face behind the fridge door. Shit.
“Grandma Opal,” I say as I shut the fridge door, leaving me exposed in my thin robe, looking like the mess I am.
“Drinking out of the container, honestly. Your mother…Well, never mind. You look appalling. Come, give me a kiss,” she says. It is not a suggestion.
I cross the kitchen to lean down and hug her tentatively. She’s even smaller than the last time I saw her, and I’m afraid to hug any harder; her bones feel like they’re cracking even with my reluctant squeeze. She smells like her favorite Chanel perfume, and she’s wearing some elaborate turban on her head, with a fringed sweater draped over her expensive-looking maxi dress.
My father’s mother is terrifying, and this provides some insight into why Marlon selected my own mother; they’re not dissimilar. But where my mother is aloof and haughty, Opal is invasive and aggressively nurturing. She likes to touch, to be connected through skin and blood. She’s a micromanager. Whenever she came to stay at Silenus, she would stand behind us while we did the dishes, checking to make sure the glasses didn’t spot. While Marlon was still living with us, we were required to make weekly phone calls to her, during which she would ask us if we’d gotten our periods, how often we brushed our teeth, whether we’d kissed any boys yet. She demanded the recited details of physical intimacy. I tried to hide my shame by mumbling into the phone, avoiding any eavesdroppers. Zelda, on the other hand, never minded our grandmother. When Opal asked Zelda if she had any crushes at school, Zelda told her that she wanted to bone our music teacher, then asked Opal if menopause was affecting her shuffleboard activities. I gawked in disbelief, but Opal laughed uproariously and answered with equal honesty. They had always been kindred spirits, with a fondness for animal-print fabrics and bawdy shock value.
As my grandmother clutches me now, her melted and distorted skin folding off her bejeweled fingers, I imagine that she must be extraordinarily sad. Zelda was her favorite grandchild, unless my father’s most recent brood of offspring has magically supplanted my sister. And just from looking at pictures of Blaze and Bianca, I find that possibility unlikely. Their blond hair always falls in curtains in front of their downturned faces, their eyes glued to iPhones bedecked in sparkling Hello Kitty cases. They always look deeply affronted that they would be required to do anything so undignified as pose for a photo they are not taking themselves. (I have Facebook-stalked their mother and have perused the prolific catalogue of duck-pouted preening they have all too happily offered up to the Inter-gods.) I can easily imagine Opal terrorizing them, and clucking her tongue in dismay over their abstraction, their distance. I picture her pinching the skin of their young bronzed arms, demanding their attention with her clever, wrinkled hands.
“How are you, Grandma?”
“How do you think, Ava? I’m exhausted and upset.”
“I didn’t know you were coming. Marlon didn’t mention it.” I gesture vaguely toward the couch, where Marlon ought to be napping, instead of out ushering his daunting mother to my corner of the world.
“I got in late from Orlando last night and spent the night in the Radisson in Corning. Had to take a cab there. Your father said I shouldn’t fly in until we had made funeral arrangements, but I figured there was a fat chance of that happening without me here to oversee things. I think he didn’t want me to come.” She waves his preference off like the insignificant detail it is. Then, still holding on to me, she pushes me away until I’m at arm’s length, giving me the once-over. “You really don’t look good, Ava. Probably the jet lag, though,” she explains graciously.
“Or the death of my twin.” She flinches, and I feel the day’s first flicker of happiness.
“Of course you have your reasons. I was very sorry to hear about Zelda. It really is…unbelievable.” I narrow my eyes, wondering if she has her own suspicions, but there’s no glimmer of double meaning in her face. “She emailed me the day she died, you know. We’d spoken a lot this last year, she was so lonely.” Grandma Opal looks at me meaningfully, and I know that she considers this my fault. “She wrote saying that she loved me and had always appreciated me. It was the sweetest thing.”
“How unlike Zelda,” I say flatly.
Grandma Opal hardens her jaw. “She was tough on the outside, dear, but a real softie when it came down to it. You’re the one who’s like your mother.” This is an easy shot, but it still hurts.
“Have you seen Nadine yet?” I ask. “I might need some help looking after her, while you’re here. There’s a lot I have to do still, and I wouldn’t want you to have to deal with it, in your condition.” She can needle me all she wants to, but Opal hasn’t been able to drive herself anywhere since failed cataract surgery a couple of years ago. And in this part of the world, that means she’s pretty well stuck. I know being trapped in the house with Nadine will make her reconsider being nasty to me.
“Old age isn’t a condition, Ava. It’s something only the lucky few get to experience.”
“Grandma, could you just let me be for a second?”
“You’re fine when you just unclench and relax, Ava,” she says, unable to resist having the final jab.
“A popular opinion.” I rifle through the cupboards, looking for coffee. There’s only a little left, and I sigh in exasperation. I will have to go grocery shopping for the four of us today, plan a menu beyond Betsy’s unappreciated casserole. I’ve gained another dependent. “Where’s Marlon?” I ask. “Probably not out working the fields.”
“He’s gone to the police station, to talk to someone official over there. He said you were sorting it out yesterday, but I told him that was no job for you. He needs to go and take charge, make sure it’s done right.” The implication being that I can do neither, presumably. But he’s welcome to the job. “He’s her father, after all. He’s the head of your family.” Ha.
“They told me yesterday there was no official ruling yet,” I inform her. “Maybe they’ll have one this morning.”