“I’m scared.”
“Drink your smoothie, Mom,” I say with a resigned sigh, and haul myself out of the chair. Back inside, I flop down on the couch, facing the glass doors so that I can keep track of Nadine. A nap. Maybe if I just take a nap I’ll feel better able to get up and deal with Zelda’s puzzle and my mother. And Nico. Oh, God. My stomach swoops violently, and I realize what’s happening almost a moment too late. I barely make it to the bathroom before releasing a hot jet of coconut water and the dregs of last night’s red wine into the toilet bowl. My body is racked with the violence of reverse peristalsis, every corner of my consciousness focused on bringing up the contents of my stomach. Crouched over the bowl, my knees grinding into the cool tile, my arms clinging to the seat, I am the definition of abjection. I feel so thoroughly debased and full of shame that I am actually cleansed. When I finish, I am shaking violently, and tears are running soothingly down my cheeks. My heart is pounding and my hands are trembling, but I feel much, much better. I collapse back and sit against the bathroom wall, letting the worst of the quaking subside.
This old, familiar sensation. How many times have I sat in this bathroom, experiencing this exact feeling? It is one of the most bizarre paths to empowerment, and yet I never feel more in control. I chose this when I chose those last two bottles of wine, just as I have chosen it countless times when I felt that dinner had been too indulgent, or I had eaten too much ice cream, or had fought with my mother. A worried part of me insists that I was not in control of what just happened, no more than I was in control of my choices last night; I am subject to the whims of my chemistry, which says “Drink this” and, a few hours later, “Bring it back up.” I have never been less powerful than I am right now. And I wonder if maybe what I really love is being out of control, relinquishing agency and giving free rein to my damaged brain and my warped limbic system. Not being prim, competent, polished Ava. The contents of the toilet bowl are grotesque, and so am I, the person who produced them. Right now, I’m not the kind of girl who wears pearls to meet the future in-laws, or gets perfect grades at Cornell, or seamlessly takes over the family business. Right now, I’m a shattered mess who is leaking bodily fluids and staring at her own shockingly yellow bile. I close my eyes and lay my cheek on the bathroom floor.
The shower mat is a few inches from my face, and I am forcibly reminded of having the flu as a little girl, of dragging myself downstairs to this bathroom so no one would hear me vomiting. I slept on this cold tile floor because I didn’t want to creep back up the stairs only to have to throw up again. Spaghetti. We had eaten spaghetti. Zelda snuck downstairs late that night; presumably she noticed that I was gone and sought me out through intuition. She tossed a towel over both of us, and we fell asleep here, the scents of youthful puke and lemon-scented cleaning liquid strong in our noses, our legs twined together. Her small hands holding my shoulder and her cold nose against my clammy neck.
Shivering and remembering that night, I try to stand on wobbly legs, gripping the porcelain seat as I make my way back upright. I flush the toilet and stare at the swirl of my stomach’s contents spiraling away. I do feel better, and I know from experience that now I should try to drink something, before the nausea returns. If I hadn’t promised that I would try to clean myself up, this would be the moment for a neat swallow of gin, which would effectively halt the next few hours of trying desperately to keep something down.
I peek through the glass doors to the deck to make sure Nadine is where I left her, and sure enough, she’s still huddled in her Adirondack chair, sipping her breakfast. Historically, it is the chair of the convalescent and the very ill. I wish my mother had consumption, rather than this other wasting disease. Better to drown in your own blood than sit in a chair while your mind disintegrates. I hear stirrings upstairs, and I close my eyes.
Wyatt makes his way down a few minutes later, holding on to the railing for balance. He looks gray and haggard, deep pouches beneath his eyes and an unhealthy tint to his skin. In just a few short hours, he has transformed from wholesome country boy to debauched lout. Behold my workings.
“Morning,” I say as casually as possible, glad that I haven’t rootled through the liquor cabinet for the gin. It wouldn’t look good.
“Uh, morning.” Wyatt remains at the bottom of the staircase, clearly unsure what to do.
“Don’t know what your excuse is. You only had about a bottle of wine,” I point out cheerily.
“I’m not really used to drinking.”
“And you’ve been spending all this time with Zelda? Unimaginable.” He flinches. “Well, you’re in luck. Marlon is out, so we’ll all be spared that lovely interaction.”
“I’m going to run home and, uh, change.” He gestures at his rumpled clothes, his stubbly cheeks. I have to admit, he looks very masculine at the moment. I notice that he is in his socks and realize that he must have left his shoes at the door last night, like the good houseguest he always was, indulging my mother’s injunction that everyone take off their shoes before treading her hallowed floors. I nod. I have no idea what to say to him. I just want him gone. “Listen, Ava, about last night,” he starts, predictably.
“No big deal. We don’t have to talk it to death.” I wave him off. I’m in no condition to have that discussion right now. Or ever. I know that Zelda is laughing hysterically somewhere.
“Okay, I just—”
“Really,” I cut him off. “Seriously.”
He looks cowed and shamefaced. I suspect he doesn’t do a lot of slinking off the morning after. I suddenly wonder if he’s ever slept with anyone who isn’t an Antipova. There’s a chilling thought. I wonder if Zelda and I are different in bed, if we smell the same. I’m pretty sure that I’m better groomed than my gypsy sister; I religiously go to a very precise Thai woman in Paris who prunes my nether regions, a practice Zelda abhors for the infantilizing gesture that it is, as well as for its concession to order, tidiness, control. I wonder which Wyatt prefers. Maybe I will ask him later, tomorrow, once I’ve had a drink. Wyatt bobs his head politely and clumsily tries to administer his shoes; when he nearly topples over, I instinctively reach out my arm, and he grabs it with a muffled “Thanks.” As he straightens up, his face is red.
“I’ll, uh, call you later?”
We both wince at the cliché.
“Suuuure you will,” I say with a smile. Just go. Please.
“Okay. Well. You gonna be okay, Ava?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” I snap unthinkingly. “I daresay I’ve had more experience with both hangovers and mornings after than you, darling.”