“Not really,” I snap. I drum my fingers against the panel of the door. I got off the phone with my father a couple of minutes ago; apparently they managed to track him down somewhere in town, and he’s going to meet me at the station. He took Opal home to look after Nadine. She said she didn’t want to come. I don’t blame her.
We pull up outside and I hop out, not waiting for Wyatt to park the truck properly. I run through the glass doors, which seem strangely illuminated on the otherwise darkened street. Marlon is sitting in the waiting room, surrounded by “If You See Something, Say Something” posters and pamphlets on domestic abuse. He looks rough around the edges, his stubble thickening and his eyes raw. I’m glad he didn’t get on a plane back to California. I’m more than glad. I’m deeply relieved.
Wyatt walks through the door a moment later, and I expect there to be some sort of bristling, on both of their parts, but instead Marlon looks up at Wyatt with a haggard plea, naked pain etched upon his face, and Wyatt just walks over and sits down next to him. When he gives Marlon a very masculine pat on the shoulder, my heart breaks a tiny bit. The lighting is surreal, and I suddenly feel insanely, absurdly irritable.
“Jesus,” I spit out. “Do they need so much fucking fluorescence for the waiting room?”
I pace the floor a bit twitchily. Wyatt eyes me with concern. I feel unhinged and am tempted to get up on a chair and take out the offending bulbs. I’m considering this obviously inadvisable course of action when two cops walk into the room. It’s Healy and someone I don’t recognize. The new guy has a traditional buzz cut and a slightly puffy look. From the way they’re standing, I can tell that Healy is the top and this new fellow is the bottom. I’m relieved that Roberts isn’t here. Maybe he had the good sense to get himself excused from this lovely moment of sharing. I have no patience right now for one of Zelda’s useful fuck-buddy friends, not when my nerves are so frayed.
“Hi, there. I’m Officer Healy—we spoke earlier—and this is my colleague Officer Giles. We’d like to talk to you about your daughter—and sister—” He acknowledges me with a bob of his head and glances at Wyatt.
“This is Zelda’s boyfriend. And mine,” I interject. Wyatt turns very pink, and Marlon jerks his head upright. Even from the corner of my eye I can see his jaw tightening and his neck straining in purplish anger. The cops look very uncomfortable. Officer Giles clears his throat.
“Normally when we’re notifying next of kin—” he begins, and Officer Healy looks at him in alarm.
“So we’re next of kin? Meaning she’s definitely dead?” I say with an inappropriate chortle. Wyatt gives me a look very similar to the one Healy is giving Giles. “A comedy of errors! LOL!” I don’t seem to be able to stop; I reflect that I’ve lost any ability to censor myself, if I ever had that skill. But didn’t I used to be composed? Isn’t there a self, a me, that is articulate and poised? I smooth my striped dress over my hips and rub my lips together, evening my lipstick in an attempt to reassert myself as a reasonable person. Where is my Parisian self, my good self? Evidently, I abandoned her the minute I got off that airplane.
“What my colleague is trying to say,” Healy starts to explain, addressing himself to the men, since I’ve so thoroughly discredited myself, proven myself to be a hysterical female, “is that we’ve had some bad news from the coroner. I hope this isn’t completely unexpected, but we were able to match Zelda’s dental records to the remains of the body we recovered in the fire. As of just one hour ago, the coroner issued a death certificate for Zelda Antipova after completing a full autopsy on the remains. I know this must still be difficult and shocking for you, but we wanted to let you know as soon as possible.”
He’s actually doing a very good job, I think. He sounds professional, practiced. I wouldn’t expect that these guys have many opportunities to use their next-of-kin speech. Maybe he did some Wikipedia research to polish his delivery.
“Do we—do you need me to sign anything?” Marlon asks flatly. It is one of the most definitive assumptions of parental responsibility I have seen him take. A signature. I’m impressed by this as well. Damn, everyone is just terrifically impressive in here.
“We have some papers for you. Unfortunately, we are unable to release the remains into your care at the moment. Dr. Whitcross is ruling the death a potential homicide, and we will need to continue the investigation.”
“Whitcross?” I say, suddenly alert.
“Dr. Whitcross, the coroner,” Giles adds formally, trying to redeem himself.
“The younger or the elder?” I press. Marlon and Wyatt frown at me.
“The son. The younger,” Healy answers. Gales of giggles peal out of me. Of course! Very cute, Zelda. Everything falls into place with a soothing click, puzzle pieces fitting together. “Shock is very common when hearing this news. What you’re experiencing is completely normal,” Healy continues, reassuring me. “We have a grief counselor and a nondenominational chaplain who would love to meet with you and help you work through this.”
“Do you have a pamphlet?” I ask, cackling. He has already started to reach for one when he realizes that I am joking.
“Ava, maybe I should take you home.”
“Are you driving, ma’am? It seems you’re under the influence.”
“I never understood that phrase,” I muse. “Is anyone not under the influence? I mean, of gravity, of their mood, of their basic driving ability?”
“C’mon, Ava. I think it’s time for bed.” Wyatt reaches a hand out to me, and I take it a bit loopily. Home to bed. Yes. That sounds like a good idea.
We drive back to the house silently; I can tell he doesn’t want to ask me what’s going on, is concerned for my state of mind. So am I. As he prepares to pull into the driveway, I balk.
“Nononono. I don’t want to go in. Opal. And Nadine…” My mind recoils at having to face either of them. And I don’t want to be in her room.
“Do you want me to take you to the trailer?”
I consider this. It’s a better option, for sure. But I don’t want to be surrounded by her things, her smells. I want distance. I shake my head.