Well, sister mine,
Part of you knew this is where we would end up, that this was the whole point. We talked about it once, do you remember, when Mom first got sick? We even tried to bring it up with her, though that conversation went appallingly wrong. Ultimately, I think, she might have agreed to it, but around that time she was re-entrenching every time we suggested a bloody thing and was violently dismissive of anything either of us could think up. Gentle hints that she might want to eat some solid food or put on pants were met with full-on hysterics. She said I probably couldn’t be relied on to follow anything through, and she barely trusted me to do her laundry, let alone see her off gently into that good night. But you’re the good sister! Angelic, Accountable Ava! Always available to do the Right Thing. Until you weren’t. Until a lifetime of enacting your dutiful dharma collapsed beneath your overwhelming desire to just get the fuck outta Dodge and live your life. Which I understood. I did, Little A. I was pissed and hurt and felt abandoned, but boy oh boy did I get it. Who wouldn’t want to flee this moribund place? I give it back to you now. Waltz, you dark and jaded nymph, through these quiet gardens of excessive, balmy peace! Snort.
But what you have in front of you is your penance. Just because the choice you made was utterly understandable doesn’t mean that you’re off the hook for it. You have some making up to do, missy. And, honestly, I kind of feel like I got the long end of the stick on this one. SO. Without further ado, Ava my dear, here is what your future holds (though I think you have a pretty good inkling):
a) You have in front of you a veritable pharmakon. These puppies offer you salvation, dearest sister, and all you have to do is…
b) Administer them. Nadine will hold out her shaky gnarled hands, those gigantic, expensive rings rattling around on her skeletal digits, and she’ll toss back her head and swallow it down. (Do you remember that Alanis Morissette CD? God, I just thought of that.)
c) You’ll hand out these little ingestibles in the proper order—that is, alphabetically. (Of course!) A fistful of Vicodin, followed by a fistful of Xanax. (You’re getting two letters at once! Twins!) Wait a bit, lather, rinse, repeat, until blessed unconsciousness ensues. My feeling, based on some very flimsy research, is that this combo is more likely to prove lethal than, say, an overdose of heroin. I think. At least Wikipedia says so. And Mom’s squeamish about needles. And I’m low on smack. So.
d) Even if it is no more effective than some other pharmaceuticals, it’s at least much easier to explain to the authorities, who will come sniffing around eventually.
e) When they do (come sniffing), they’ll learn that I’ve been collecting Vicodin and Xanax for months, stockpiling it and storing it (perhaps foolishly) in Our Demented Mother’s bedroom. It would seem that I kept many of them in a pill dispenser by the bed, which certainly calls my judgment into (further) question. A halfway decent psychiatrist will suggest that this is a classic unconscious Electra complex, and that I was subconsciously laying the groundwork for my mother’s death (Damn that Clytemnestra!).
f) You will cry and look grief-stricken and shocked. You will blame yourself for not being more attentive, not monitoring her closely enough at night, not making sure everything in her bedroom was safe, for getting too drunk. But you’re still so shaken up by the death (murder!) of your twin sister, and—and—
g) And they’ll write it up as an accidental death, eventually. The insurance people will fork out. Then you’ll be free, darling sister! Free of Mom, free of debt, free to do as you please! For a moment or two, at least.
I wish I’d had the guts to do it myself, and I’m still wondering why I couldn’t go through with it. The night of the fire, I sat there on the edge of the bed, the pills in my lap, planning to finish everything up after all. Thinking back to that evening, one of the last few with the three of us, all semilucid, talking about this. But I always knew that it couldn’t be me. You’re the right one for the job, Little A! You can do it!
I suggest you burn this note. Obvs.
Love,
Who else,
Zelda
I fold up the handwritten letter that lined the bottom of the bag and lean back against the bed. I pop another Vicodin into my mouth and close my eyes. I should have known that Zelda wouldn’t be able to walk away without punishing me. I snap the compartments of the pill dispenser firmly shut and tuck the whole thing into the nightstand, nestled behind a book. One of the twinned Afghan rugs that flank both sides of the bed scratches me through the thin fabric of my dress. I sit there, waiting to feel the first cozy swoop of the Vicodin before standing up.
Of course I have a clear memory of that night, not long after Nadine was diagnosed, when we sat around the kitchen table, glasses in hand. Trying to be as pragmatic as possible. I have tried not to think about it.
—
“What would you want, Zaza?”
“I’d want you to off me the minute my hands were too shaky for me to drink out of a fucking martini glass,” she had snorted. “But that’s me. I tread this world lightly!”
“What about Mom? What would she want?”
“I don’t know, Ava. I just don’t.”
—