Marlon avoids eye contact. “I, uh, well, have to go back for some business stuff. The police are still wrapping up loose ends, and I thought I could fly back for a funeral, once they’ve, uh…”
“I see. Okay.” I toss back the rest of my glass. I’m suddenly shattered, utterly spent. These people. Family fatigue, the pervasive companion of my weary, exhausted heart, that organ that I cannot exorcize of its boundless, quaking dejection. I have to get away from here. “Well, I’ve got plans.” I stand up clumsily.
“You’re not driving anywhere, are you?” Opal says in concern, peering into my eyes. I’m sure she’s practiced in assessing Antipovan inebriation.
“Nope,” I answer. I saunter toward the door, realizing vaguely that I haven’t eaten all day. But I know I can’t. Food would only fill me with despair and a strong sense of failure, and I would just be tempted to go puke it up. And I promised Zelda that I would stop that. Not that the promise always prevents me, but right now, it feels more important. Just as I’m walking out the door, Opal calls after me.
“Your phone, Ava! You’ve left your phone!”
I frown in confusion; I can feel my phone in the bag slung over my shoulder. I’ve left Zelda’s phone out on the counter, for everyone to see. Idiot.
“Thanks, Grandma,” I say, going back to claim it in relief. Jesus, what if someone realized it was Zelda’s other, secret phone? I must be losing my mind. I wave good night, and though I’m tempted to snag a bottle of wine from the fridge, I’m reluctant to do it in front of Opal. I feel like I’m sixteen, trying so hard to play by everyone’s rules.
Outside, the sun is setting, and the fireflies are blinking along the path to Zelda’s trailer. I head there automatically, unsure of what to do. I refresh her email, hoping for another missive that will point me toward this Jason guy, but there’s nothing there. I open the Facebook app and flip through all the photos she’s posted in the last six months; there’s no one who could be a Jason in any of the photos. I stare at the shots of Holly Whitaker, hoping her face or body will jar some memory loose, but I genuinely can’t recognize her.
I’m walking along the driveway, barefoot, and I can feel dirt and crud accumulating in the cut on my foot. Normally, I’m the sort of person who goes straight for the disinfectant, followed by antibiotic cream, followed by Band-Aids changed regularly. But not tonight. I realize I haven’t showered in a while either. Tonight, I glory in my grime. Or, rather, I wish I did. Which is close enough.
After striking out with the Facebook pictures, I pause. Could there be an actual, physical photo out there? Should I have stayed up at the house to look through the photo albums? That seems all wrong, though; Nadine kept those albums. She had gone through a period of photographic frenzy, obsessively documenting our growth, our activities. She took snapshots of us swimming, eating, playing dress-up. The photos would all be printed, and neatly arranged in clean, black-and-white albums, which she would crack out whenever anyone accused her of being a bad parent; it was her proof, her evidence that she must love us. Otherwise, why would she have bothered taking so many pictures? I reflect that she would have loved Facebook; she could have posted picture after picture of her pretty twin daughters, wearing her most recent costumes, immersed in the most recent, glamorous adventure. People would have liked her photos, and she would have received the affirmation of her superior mothering that she craved, that she felt was her reward for submitting to the indecency of motherhood. I realize that I’m thinking of her in the past tense. Or maybe it’s conditional; I don’t know. The mother that could have been.
She’d stopped taking pictures when we hit puberty, though, and went through a chubby patch. Or, rather, when I did. My childish, sharp angles softened, my once-spindly arms looked swollen, my breasts grew fleshy and my belly rounded. The camera disappeared into a closet, and suddenly we found ourselves eating kale salads for dinner most nights. Zelda remained angular and fairy-like, but I looked puffy and plump. The phase didn’t last very long. I was a quick study, and I soon realized that home life was markedly less tempestuous if I ate my mother’s tiny green portions without complaint. Without noting that Zelda was given a small heap of pasta alongside her kale. Zelda, pitying me and my Spartan portions, sometimes secreted away starchy treats, which she would sneak into my room at night. Though this was probably motivated by kindness, my competitive self couldn’t help seeing it as sabotage.
For our fourteenth birthday, Zelda was given a beautiful green vintage Chanel dress (size 2) and I was given a two-year subscription to Health magazine and a very expensive juicer. By our fifteenth birthday, I was borrowing Zelda’s Chanel dress, which she usually left in a heap of dirty clothes, and she barely even noticed when I tugged it on over my newly slimmed hips. My mother didn’t comment when I descended the steps in Zelda’s party gown. She did, however, pour me a glass of Champagne and congratulate me on a “very good, disciplined year.”
The memory of that birthday makes me feel relieved and pleased that I haven’t eaten dinner; the dull ache in my belly fills me with warmth, and I smile quietly in the dark. I continue to fiddle with Zelda’s phone, flipping through the screens. I look at all the open tabs on Safari and search through the photos on her photo app. Nothing. Finally, I notice that she had installed the Instagram app.
I tap it open and am greeted with a series of pictures glimmering with filtered light. She has photos taken from Silenus’s deck at sunset, a few pictures of our mother in unflattering poses, one shot of Wyatt. In the most recent photo, I recognize Holly Whitaker, and I squint at it. It looks like she’s in a bar. The next photo is also of her, with her arm draped around a shortish, beefy guy with a crew cut. They’re standing in front of a bar that I immediately recognize. Kuma’s. Or Kuma Charmers, as it is officially named. It’s a strip club located about halfway between Seneca and Cayuga Lakes. I’ve never been inside, but I’ve driven by it on many a Saturday night, when rusty pickups cram into the parking lot just off the county highway, on display for everyone to see. I wonder if this is Jason, if this is what Zelda wants me to find. Walking down the hill, I flick through the rest of the photos but find nothing else that raises eyebrows. I flip back to the picture, studying it for any other details. On closer inspection, Holly has glazed eyes, and “Jason” looks like he might be holding her upright. The way she’s dressed makes me wonder if she could be an employee of Kuma’s.
I stop short in front of Zelda’s trailer when I realize there’s another truck parked outside. Wyatt. He’s sitting on the steps of the trailer, leaning back and looking up at the sky. His jeans are snug, and he’s wearing a tight V-neck T-shirt. Zelda’s work, I suspect.