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Authors: Erika Robuck

Tags: #Fiction, #Historical

Call Me Zelda (28 page)

BOOK: Call Me Zelda
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In the magic of the moment, I stood from the piano and walked out onto the balcony overlooking the water, mesmerized by the waves reflecting the moonlight. While it was beautiful, the dark water filled me with dread. I thought that Zelda would
agree that darkness always lurked just beneath the surface of beauty. I hoped she and Scott were finding comfort in each other’s arms, if just for a short time, and experiencing no darkness or dread tonight.

I returned to my room feeling the empty, exhausted relief of one who has had a good cry, though I had not cried. I slipped easily into sleep, and imagined waking tomorrow to the novelty of sun. I saw the golden rays warming the rocks and sand, the aquamarine translucence of the water in the light. I dreamed of swimming bold, vigorous strokes in the water, waking up my body after years of too much quiet. In my dream I floated on the surface with the heat of the sun on my skin and the cool of the water under my back, until suddenly I was dragged under.

I woke up with Zelda over me, shaking my arms, a look of frantic agony in her eyes. I sat up quickly in bed with my heart racing.

“What is it? How did you get in here?”

“We have to go home,” she said.

I looked at the clock on my nightstand.

“Zelda, it’s three in the morning,” I said. “Has something happened?”

She scratched at her neck and sat, rocking, on the side of my bed.

“His coughing is giving me asthma,” she said. “I can’t breathe. He’s taking up all the space.”

“He can’t help it,” I said.

“He won’t,” she said. “We have to get him home and get me away from him. I don’t want to be one with him anymore. I just want to be alone. I don’t ever want to go anywhere with him again.”

I pulled her arms away from her neck and held her hands. The skin of her hands felt like it was on fire, but her forehead was cool and clammy.

“Zelda,” I said, “aside from his illness, you’ve enjoyed yourself here.”

She shook her head.

“Yes, you have,” I said. “Remember the shipyard workers? The children in the surf? Scott holding your hand on the table?”

She pulled her hands out of mine and began twisting them over each other. She continued to shake her head. I worried that I might need to sedate her if she didn’t calm down. She was dangerously close to an outburst, but I wanted to try everything possible before resorting to sedation.

Moving. I had to get her up and moving.

“Zelda, let’s go for a walk in the moonlight,” I said. “The clouds are almost gone. The whole island will be lit tomorrow.”

She stood and walked to the door, and I was able to wrap a robe around her. I quickly threw on my own robe and grabbed my key, then hurried to catch her in the hallway. As I passed their room, Scott’s cough seeped out and followed me down the stairs.

Z
elda strode toward the water through the moonlight, shedding her robe when her feet touched the sand and her nightgown as she waded into the waves. She dived forward and started swimming, naked, straight out to sea.

I didn’t want to scream and alarm anyone, but I was horrified that she wouldn’t stop swimming, like the dissatisfied wife and mother Edna Pontellier, from
The Awakening
. I knew I could never catch Zelda, so I watched in agony, thankful that at least I had the moonlight to show me her form in the sea.

The dark water filled me with dread, as it had when I watched it from the bar. I began imagining sharks and barracuda looking for prey. I imagined currents from the stormy waters dragging her under, or fatigue overcoming her. A lone cloud passed the moon and I lost sight of her. I thought of
having to explain to Scott, “Yes, I watched your wife commit suicide and did nothing to intervene.”

I was going to have to go in there after her.

I tore off my robe and nightgown and started forward. The water was shockingly cold and I shivered from the temperature and my fear. I took a deep breath and began to swim. This was in no way the blissful swim from my dream, but rather a test. Zelda wanted to see whether I would go after her. It was like her night on the dance floor with her aviator. Scott watched as she destroyed them. I could not do the same.

I came up for air and couldn’t see her anywhere. I spun in circles, in water too deep for my feet to touch the ground. Something brushed my leg and I couldn’t help but scream.

The cloud passed and I could again see all around me, giving me a moment of peace. I noticed a splash farther out and thought I saw Zelda’s arm. I had to follow, so I took a deep breath and began swimming farther away from the beach. When I surfaced, another cloud covered the moon, and all trace of Zelda was gone. My breathing was labored, my heart felt as if it would pound out of my chest, and the strength in my arms and legs was beginning to fail me. I knew I’d have to swim back.

Oh, my Lord, I lost her.

I felt tears form in my eyes and a sob in my throat. How could I tell this to Scott? How could I live with this? If only I’d started after her sooner! If only I’d sedated her.

I began the slow, miserable swim back to the beach, my tears mingling with the salt water. When I came up for air and to see how much farther I had to go, I was horrified to see that I’d made almost no progress. I must have been caught in a riptide, and now I thought we’d both die out here and Scott would be alone.

But I didn’t want to die. I was just learning how to live again. With renewed panic and a burst of energy, I pushed myself
harder through the water, determined that I would get back, but when I resurfaced, it seemed that I was even farther out. I realized then that it was futile. I had no more strength. This made me unbearably sad.

Suddenly Zelda was beside me, her face ghostly but peaceful in the moonlight.

“You came for me,” she said.

She was barely winded.

I cried out in relief, and she looped her arm around my waist and began to pull me back to the beach. I was astounded by her strength. She took me to a place where we could stand and set me down.

Before she walked away, she said, “That”—pointing to me and then out to the water—“that is how I feel all the time.”

TWENTY-ONE

November 1933–February 1934

We were forced to return home from the trip early, and Scott was diagnosed with pleurisy—inflammation of the lungs. He was confined to bed, where he finished his revisions for
Tender Is the Night
.

Zelda was a wreck.

Her moment of lucidity in the moonlight on Bermuda was the last I had with her for a very long time. Our journey home to the city was a series of nervous incidents, alternating bouts of manic tears and laughter, angry eczema, fits of asthma, weeping and accusation. She was like a woman possessed. At one point she even mentioned the attacking demons, and I nearly called Peter for help. Instead, I sedated her—a practice I was engaging in more and more often.

My chief objective became keeping Zelda from harming herself or disturbing Scottie, which left me exhausted each day and often resulted in my having to spend the night at their house. I hadn’t seen my family in weeks, but I was afraid of what would happen if I left Zelda alone. I began to look for a good opportunity to recommend that she recommit herself to the clinic.

Zelda did experience a burst of creativity during her increasing horrors, which resulted in many disturbing and fascinating paintings reflecting her emotional turmoil. She insisted that I arrange and rearrange the paintings ten times a day around the study. She wanted them by subject, then by medium, then by range of emotional intensity reflected in the color scheme. Sometimes she wanted arbitrary assortments of large and small canvases. Other times we had to order them in increasing or decreasing size.

She blared her ballet music and punctuated her exclamations on organization with dance, and in the midst of the chaos, Scott would come through, drunk out of his mind, and encourage her bizarre behavior. I would send him back to his writing and try to get her to sit still and eat a full meal. She’d leave her plate and call to him to come see her new gallery design idea. It was a grotesque circus with mad performers, and I could feel the bottom falling out with each passing minute of every passing day.

Then the bottom did fall out.

On a terrible blustery February day, Scott’s friend Cary Ross blew in from his New York gallery to see the paintings. I pulled Scott into the kitchen while Zelda showed Cary her work.

“Who is he?” I asked.

“He owns a gallery,” said Scott. “I invited him down to see about showing Zelda’s paintings.”

“Do you honestly think she’s in any state to travel to New York for a gallery showing?” I asked.
Have you completely lost your mind?
I wanted to say.

“I think it will do her good,” he said. “Finally, she can express herself without having to compete with me.”

“I’m very pleased that you are encouraging her creative expression, but she needs to stabilize her emotional state before we attempt anything so large.”

Scott gave me a patronizing smile and downed his beer. “Nurse Anna, you are adorable when you’re agitated.”

He kissed me on the forehead and rushed out of the room. I heard him making all sorts of exclamations on Zelda’s talents for Cary, punctuated by Zelda’s laughter. Then I heard a sneeze from the top of the stairs. I looked up to see Scottie staring down at me from the dark. She walked down and I met her in the hall, where we watched Scott twirl Zelda around for Cary, motioning at her work with his cigarette, and all of them talking gaily about the exhibit.

“It’s nice they’re so happy,” said Scottie. She looked at me with large eyes and no smile. She could sense impending disaster in the shrill tone of her mother’s voice and her father’s intoxication.

“Yes.” I attempted a smile for her. Then I tried diversion, which seemed to be my only trick these days. “Did you finish your homework?”

“Yes,” said Scottie. “And I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

“Your mother’s paintings might go on display in New York,” I said. “Isn’t that swell?”

Scottie nodded and allowed me to lead her back up to her room, as Zelda started the record over and turned up the volume.

When we got to Scottie’s room, she crawled into bed. I pulled the sheets and comforter up to Scottie’s ears, and pressed the blankets around her, hoping the coverings would muffle some of the noise from downstairs.

“My mom used to tuck me in up to my ears,” I said. “Snug as a bug.”

Scottie smiled, her sweet face framed by the pink flowers on the bedding.

“You’re not too old for tuck-ins, are you?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “I love tuck-ins.”

The music downstairs came to an abrupt halt, and I heard
Zelda’s voice flare in anger, though I could not make out her words. Scottie’s smile vanished. Scott’s voice came in a yell up the stairs.

“Oh, dear,” said Scottie. “We knew this was coming.”

I looked at her for a moment, shocked by her maturity. I made a decision to stop trying to distract her from Zelda’s madness. It somehow seemed worse than facing it head-on. Perhaps it would help her deal with her mother as she got older if she understood the warning signs.

“We did,” I said. “I saw your mother’s rash on her neck. It’s a warning flag.”

“And her trouble breathing,” said Scottie.

“Yes, and her feverish activity,” I said.

Zelda was now crying and screaming, and I knew I’d have to go to her, but it was important that I finish this talk with Scottie.

“I hate when she gets like this,” said Scottie. “Especially around other people, outside of us.”

“It’s okay to feel embarrassed,” I said, “but I want you to remember something. Your mother is ill. Her mind has a sickness, just the way someone’s lungs or heart get a sickness. Illness makes symptoms, and sadly, when your mind is sick, the symptoms are more disturbing than with other parts of the body, because it makes people think the one who’s ill must have some control, but she doesn’t. We have to watch for her symptoms, and then treat them the best way we can.”

Scottie nodded, though I didn’t know whether she understood.

BOOK: Call Me Zelda
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