“I imagine there will be, yeah. But I guess we’re waiting on the murder investigation.”
He starts. “Yes, I’d heard—I mean, there was some discussion that the police might be—well, I’m just really shocked, is all.”
“Aren’t we all. But Nadine seems to be holding up pretty well,” I say cheerily, patting my mother’s knee. It is sharp and bony, and it feels unhealthy. “Of course, she has the benefit of thinking that I’m Zelda half the time, so no wonder she’s not reeling quite like the rest of us. Have you finished your checkup, Doctor?”
“Yes, and I’ll have a nurse print you out the medication schedule. Your mom seems like she’s doing fine, considering…” He pauses. “You will let me know if there’s to be a service?”
“Of course, of course. I’m sure I can find your phone number.” I’m pretty sure he’ll be in Zelda’s phone.
“Well, here’s my card, just in case. I’m, uh, really sorry for your loss.”
“I’m sorry too, buddy.” I stand up and, absurdly, shake his hand. “C’mon, Mom,” I say, waving at Nadine. She doesn’t stand up or acknowledge me, so I pull on her thin arm. It feels like it could snap between my fingers. Her dismount from the table is ungainly, and I steady her before she falls off the small stool beneath her feet. Dr. Whitcross—Stu—holds the door open for us and ushers us out. He seems like he’ll be glad to get us out of the building.
“Just stop at the front desk for the med sheet.” He points and turns around. I wave in amusement at his white-coated back. Really, Zelda? Him? I pull Nadine along and collect the paperwork. There’s a new prescription for me to pick up. Thankfully, I don’t bump into Carrie Brown again, and there don’t seem to be any other Watkins Glen graduates hard at work. We finally escape back to the truck. Inside the cab, I look through Zelda’s contacts. There he is. Stuey. Very cute, Zelda. I scroll back through her messages, but she has deleted almost the entire history. There’s only one exchange between them.
—Are we all set? All clear on the scenario, dear Dr. Whitcross?
—Yes, my sweet zany Zelda.
I gag. Christ, she must really have been stringing him along. And what could she have meant? I desperately hope this is not some creepy sex game, but with Zelda, one never knows. I look at the time and date of the messages: 8:07 P.M. on the night of the fire. Did they see each other that night? A slight niggling of unease stirs as I remember the locked chains on the barn doors. Was Whitcross there? An image of his shaking hands and his skittering eyes crosses my mind. Suddenly, I want to get away from the whole building.
I feel like an idiot, though, for not having looked for any messages from that night sooner. If I had any sense, it would have been the first thing I checked. But I was too busy worrying about Wyatt and Zelda and getting worked up into some jealous froth.
I pull out and head up the highway, toward Watkins Glen. I wonder if I’ll be making it through today without a drink. Glancing over at Nadine, I frown. I’m grateful for her uncharacteristic quiet submission, but it is rather disconcerting.
“You okay, Mom?”
Nadine says nothing, and I reach over for her hand. She jerks her fingers away from mine when I try to give her a squeeze, and she hunches toward the truck door, sliding away from me. I look back and forth between her and the road, concerned. “Momma, what is it? Does something hurt?” I reach for her shoulder, and when I brush it, she yelps.
“Don’t touch me,” she snarls. “Get back.” She swats at my outstretched hand, and I instinctively recoil. Another tantrum. Always the same. What they don’t tell you about dementia is how repetitive it is, how that shock of incomprehension and fear returns again and again. And how it hurts all the same, each time.
“Mom, what is it?” I repeat.
“Get away. You don’t belong here. You’re dead.”
“It’s me, Ava,” I plead, suddenly desperate. “I’m not dead. Zelda—”
“You’re dead. You’re a dead thing, you’re not alive. Don’t touch me.” She has curled into a tight ball and is looking straight through the windshield, refusing to make eye contact. Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I drive north along the lake, wondering if she’s right.
—
Inside the big house, I call out for Marlon, but there is no answer. Opal’s door is shut tight. Nadine immediately flees to her room without my help.
I wander outside through the open deck door. It’s a hot, sunny day, and I shut my eyes, feeling the warmth on my skin, the heated wood from the deck reaching up to my toes in splintered fragments. Giving in to a sudden impulse, I dash upstairs and change into a bathing suit and a sarong snatched from Zelda’s lair. I grab Nadine’s big sun hat and sunglasses, a bottle of water, and head down to the lake in my bare feet.
It’s a bit of a walk to the water, all the way along the long tractor trail from the vineyard to our waterfront. We have a dock and a rudimentary pavilion down by the lake, and we used to keep a rowboat and a kayak down there as well. I wonder if they’ll still be there. The grass is alive with insects, and my nose fills with the scent of home. Churned dirt, cold water, and, somewhere nearby, a field of alfalfa.
As I approach the dock, I see Marlon, stretched out seal-like. The dock looks rickety and not wholly safe. Marlon has opted for the secure sturdiness of the rocks along the water. This is probably sensible. He appears thin and fit, a California tan bronzing his skin. There’s a glass next to him, and a partly empty bottle is bobbing cheerfully in the lapping waves at his feet, glinting in the sun. He sits up when he hears the stones shifting underneath my feet. Used to wearing shoes, my soles hurt as I walk on the tiny rocks, and I pick my way carefully to where he is lying.
“Wine?” he offers pleasantly. I hesitate. I said I would take a day off, that I’d give my liver a chance to regenerate. But I’ve had a fucking brutal day so far. Just one glass, I decide. Marlon hands me a plastic cup and points to the open bottle cooling in the chilly water of the lake. I help myself to the rest and sit down next to him on the rocks. We stare silently out at the flat blue water. It is perfectly quiet, without even the buglike whine of motorboats or Jet Skis. Far on the other side of the lake, a big sailboat is coasting north, toward Geneva. “I’ve really missed this,” Marlon says softly. “This…place.” I nod. That will be as close as he’ll ever come to saying that he’s missed us.
“It’s beautiful,” I agree. It is, but there is something dark underneath those waters. There is something wrong here; I’ve always felt it.