London from My Windows

by Mary Carter

  “Oh, so he’s really dead then, is that what you’re trying to say?” She thought he would get all embarrassed and feel bad, and apologize. She was wrong.

  “Yes, Ava,” he said. “Your father is really dead.” She glanced at the shelf near the door where the fake plant used to sit. There was another one in its place. Piece of shit. He didn’t even miss it. He just replaced it. He was trying to get her to do the same thing. Replace her father. Piece of shit, piece of shit, piece of shit. Why couldn’t he be dead instead? She could bring fake flowers to his grave. Why did dorks get to live and wonderful people who could brighten rooms just by stepping into them have to die? Why? Why? Why? She wanted to smash something. Maybe that’s why everything in this dork’s office was soft and plastic. Maybe everybody who saw him wanted to smash things. “Did you hear me, Ava?”

  “Yes, I heard you. My father is dead. Why don’t you open the windows and scream it for everyone to hear?”

  “Are you worried about what other people think, Ava?”

  She hated how he said her name all the time, as if she would forget what it was if he didn’t constantly remind her. “I hate you,” Ava said.

  “I’m okay with that,” the dork said. “I bet you also hate that your father is dead, don’t you?”

  Ava didn’t think a man whose breath smelled like stale maple syrup should be allowed to say things like that to a child and get paid for it.

  “Why do you look away every time I say that your father is dead?”

  “Because he’s not.” He’s coming back. If I’m bad enough, he’ll come back. She wasn’t going to say that to the dork. He wouldn’t believe her. He would think she was crazy.

  “He’s not what, Ava?”

  Miracles exist. They do. I believe.

  “Ava, look at me.” She looked at the dork. Long and hard. He swallowed, then adjusted his glasses. “Your father isn’t coming back, Ava. You’re grieving. It will get better. I promise. And it’s not your fault.”

  “My mother said it was.”

  “We’ve talked about that. She was in shock. She didn’t mean it.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “Maybe not. But I do know that it’s not your fault.”

  “It is.”

  “What did you do?”

  “You don’t listen. It’s what I didn’t do. I didn’t do CPR.”

  “Even if you knew CPR, a child can’t do CPR on an adult man, Ava.”

  “Stop saying my name!”

  “Very well.” He sighed, leaned back in his chair. “You still wouldn’t have saved him.”

  “I will next time.”

  “Next time?”

  “I’ll learn CPR and maybe somehow he’ll come back, and it will happen again, and this time I’ll be ready. This time he’ll live.” She hadn’t meant to tell him, but he had to know that he couldn’t keep telling her her father was dead and never coming back when miracles existed.

  He leaned forward in his chair and looked at her. She scooted back. “Denial can be very dangerous. You need to accept that your father is dead.”

  Ava stood up. “Stop saying that! Stop saying that!”

  “Denial over a long period of time can lead to psychosis. Do you understand what that means?”

  “I hate you, I hate you, and your stupid maple-syrup breath, and your stupid fake plants.” Ava swiped the plant off the shelf and hurled it at the far wall. Oh no. Why did she do that? Was she going to get in trouble? Was her father watching from heaven? She just wanted him to come back. The plant bounced off the window and landed on the floor. No dirt. Was that why the dork had fake plants?

  A sad smile came across the dork’s face. Ava did that. She made him sad. She was a horrible person. And she didn’t know how to stop being one. She didn’t know how to get rid of this pain that made her feel as if she were going to drown. She went to pick up the plant, then didn’t touch it. She began to pace the room. She’d never felt like this before.

  “I’m being punished for dancing outside.”

  “Ava.”

  “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out, don’t wear it out, don’t wear it out.”

  “Why don’t we take some deep breaths? Will you stop for a minute and breathe in with me?”

  “Why didn’t we stay in the living room? Or on the porch. But not the path, not past the fence. Not outside. Why did we go outside?” She looked at the man behind the desk. Why wasn’t he helping her? Why didn’t he just tell her how to make it better? How to turn back time. She needed to find a way back to the living room. That’s all she had to do, go back. Once, just once. If she and her father had stayed inside, this would have never happened. Inside, inside, inside, inside, inside.

  “Would you please pick up Larry?” The dork pointed to the plant on the floor. He had named his fake plant Larry. If they were in court, she’d be resting her case. The judge would slam his gavel down; he’d be guilty and convicted of being a dork. He was alive and her father was dead. There was no justice in the world. “You don’t want to carry this kind of pain longer than necessary. You don’t want to make things worse than they already are. Do you?”

  “You disgust me.” Ava didn’t know where that came from except it felt good to say. The guttural “uh” and the “gust.” Maybe she’d grow up to be on the daytime soaps. An actress, like her aunt Beverly. Ava’s mother said Aunt Beverly wasn’t coming to the funeral. They’d waited so that she could. But she wasn’t coming. Ava didn’t talk to her. She wanted to call her and ask why. Her mother said not to bother. “That woman doesn’t care about anyone but herself,” she said.

  The dork glanced at his wrist even though he didn’t wear a watch. Ava wondered if the long dark hairs on his arm could tell time. You never knew with this variety of dork. “Our time is up. I’d like you to go home and think about everything I’ve said.”

  She did think about it. She thought about it a lot. Outside. Bad things happened to people outside. They should have stayed in the living room. It was her fault. She wasn’t going to go outside anymore. She didn’t even want to leave her bedroom. And every time she even thought about stepping outside of her bedroom, little colored dots danced in front of her eyes like psychedelic snowflakes. “Psychedelic” was a word they made up in the sixties. It meant someone was doing drugs and wearing brightly colored shirts, and tripping. Tripping was when you took a lot of drugs and it made you feel like you were either falling or taking a vacation. It also had something to do with bearded men, and guitars, and peace symbols, and women with long hair. They all had sex with each other too. It was called free love. Ava didn’t quite understand it. Since when did love cost anything? There was a lot about the world she didn’t understand, like why her father couldn’t have had a heart attack on Sunday after Ava had learned CPR. Or even after they had eaten the spaghetti with stretchy cheese, because it used to be Ava’s favorite and now she knew she could never eat it again. She would ask her father, but HER FATHER. WAS. DEAD.

  She tried to leave the room a couple of times. She stood a foot from her door. She imagined a line in the carpet. She knew for sure that she was okay as long as she didn’t cross it. If she even thought about crossing the line, her heart pounded so hard she felt as if she had a bongo drum in her chest and the back of her neck broke out in sweat. This was her punishment. This was what she deserved. Ava should have at least tried to do CPR. She knew she was supposed to blow into his mouth and push down on his chest and she didn’t even try. She was a murderer. She’d murdered her own father. And she was so evil, she couldn’t even bring herself to tell anyone what she’d done. But her father knew. Her father was in heaven and he could see and hear everything she did, and he knew Ava did nothing to save his life.

  You would’ve saved me if I was a poodle, is that right? she imagined him saying.

  She was stuck. Like a record.

  Dance with me!

  Blow breath into my mouth.

  Pound on my chest.

  Save me.<
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  And she heard her mother’s voice too. Over and over. What did you do? What did you do? What did you do? You’re too late. You’re too late. You’re too late. What did you do?

  Since she couldn’t leave the room, or dance with her father, Ava was making a Victorian manor out of Popsicle sticks. When the stupid thing was finished it was going to have ten rooms and five bathrooms. An attic, a basement, ten fireplaces, an indoor pool, a gym, a chef’s kitchen, a solarium, a gift-wrapping room, and a wraparound porch.

  But she could already tell that it was nothing. A heap of sticks and glue. Not even a Popsicle shack. She should just stop. But she couldn’t. Only when it was finished, only when the last piece had been glued on, and it was perfect, would she be free.

  There was a knock on her bedroom door. Ava was dressed because she never changed into her pajamas the night before. She thought if she woke up and was already dressed it would be easy to open the bedroom door and step into the hall. She was wrong. She walked to the bedroom door and stared at it. The line in the carpet was still there. She could not cross it. There came a second knock, louder this time.

  “Ava?” Her mother sounded concerned but also annoyed.

  “I’m sick,” Ava said. “Don’t come in.” I’m a cold-blooded killer. Don’t come anywhere near me. The door opened. Her mother entered. A short man in a tan suit stood behind her. He looked wrinkled and forgiving. Big, round glasses gave him the appearance of an owl. Ava fully expected him to hoot. Instead, he stared at Ava, then smiled. She wondered if people made fun of him. He had a nice smile, but Ava did not smile back. He had the look of a man tiptoeing up to a tiger while holding a giant syringe.

  “This is Doctor Gills,” her mother said. A new doctor. Ava told her mother she’d rather drop dead than go back to the other one. The colored lights were back. Ava felt the ground beneath her feet sway. She suddenly didn’t want them to see her Popsicle sticks. They were standing so close. They had tainted it. Her house. It would never be perfect. They’d ruined everything. And they were going to cross the line! She wanted them to move back behind the door.

  “Stop moving,” Ava said. It came out like a shriek. The doctor was going to think she was a terrible, terrible person. And he was right.

  “Stop it,” her mother said. She turned to the doctor. “See?”

  See what? What do you see, Mom? Because I don’t know who I am anymore. What do you see? Ava wished she knew how to get past her mother’s unforgiving glare. How to soften her.

  “It’s all right,” the doctor said. He put his arms up. “See? I’m not moving.”

  “This is ridiculous,” her mother said. “I have had quite enough of this. Do you hear me? Enough?”

  “Do you mind?” the doctor said. He turned to Ava’s mother and smiled, moving his hand up and down as if to calm her mother down.

  Good luck, Ava thought. Had her mother told the doctor it was all Ava’s fault? She bet she did. “My father is dead,” Ava said. They weren’t going to leave. Ava marched over to the Popsicle-stick house and grabbed it with both hands. She brought it down on the table hard. Little bits smashed, and others caved in, and a few sticks flew into the air. Ava smashed it on the table again. And again, and again. What have I done? She didn’t want to cry in front of her new doctor. She wanted her father. She was engulfed by a wave of grief. He was gone. She was never going to see him again. How was that even possible? Why her? She didn’t want to cry. The tears came anyway. She didn’t even feel like smashing her house anymore. She was going to have to start all over. She ruined everything she touched.

  “I’m very sorry,” the doctor said. “We can talk about that. We can talk about anything you like.”

  Ava stared at his ugly tan suit and green bow tie. She could see it now, her entire life laid out before her in a series of lousy fashion, wide eyes, fake plants, and stale, maple-syrup breath. Ava, meet Dork Number Two. Her life. Her life, her life, her life. Her life was going to be a never-ending revolving door of dorks.

  “I want Aunt Beverly.”

  “She’s not coming.” Ava’s mother kept looking at the doctor for reinforcement.

  “Then I’ll go see her,” Ava said.

  “She doesn’t want to see us.” Ava’s mother turned to the doctor. “That woman has never liked me.”

  “Do you mind if I talk to Ava alone?” the doctor said.

  “I do mind,” her mother said. “This isn’t a session.” She turned to her daughter. “You’re grounded.”

  Ava laughed. “Good.” She went over to her dresser, pulled out a pile of cards, and thrust them at the doctor. “Look at the stamps. She sent me things.” They were all from Aunt Beverly. Funny cards, and letters, and postcards, and colored paper crowns for Christmas. Once her father told her that Aunt Beverly was sending “a few bob” so Ava could buy herself a gift. Ava actually thought that two guys named Bob were coming over to help her pick it out. When she finally admitted that to her father, he laughed so hard he had tears spilling out of his eyes. That was one of the best days of Ava’s life. “Bevie’s going to die when she hears that, luv.” Then he actually started to cry. He was still crying when Ava’s mother quietly pulled her out of the room. Otherwise, he didn’t talk about his only sister much. But Ava knew her father loved Aunt Beverly. And that meant she loved Aunt Beverly too.

  “Perhaps it would help if she could at least call her aunt Beverly,” the doctor said.

  “Yes, can I?” Ava said.

  “No,” her mother said. “And that’s final.” Ava looked at the doctor. He shrugged in defeat and lifted his arms in a Sorry-I-Can’t-Help type of way. In the end, just another dork. He was dead to her. The little colored dots were back.

  “Get out,” Ava said.

  “Don’t you ever talk to me like that again,” her mother said. Ava sucked in her lips and stared. The only way she could do that was if she never talked to her mother again.

  Nineteen Years Later

  CHAPTER 3

  Queenie stood at Redlands Airfield Base, just sixty minutes outside of London, and rued the day he’d ever introduced the young barrister to his dear friend Beverly Wilder. Just because Jasper Keys had been dating and was now dumped by Queenie’s niece—whom, it was quite obvious, Jasper was still pining over—didn’t give the lad a right to insert himself into a forty-year friendship. Beverly was Queenie’s best friend, Queenie should be the one helping her fulfill her last wishes. And skydiving certainly wouldn’t be one of them.

  The wind was chafing Queenie’s face, horrendous for the skin (his face was his livelihood, among other bits), and the cuffs of his trousers were kissing the filthy ground. He’d wanted to wear them to the after-party after-party this evening, but even if they left now he wouldn’t have time to dry-clean them. Bloody hell. He cast his eyes on the little plane waiting to whisk Beverly and Jasper into the sky. Bevie was planted in front of Queenie, waiting for him to read the skydiving agreement.

  “You’re stalling,” she said.

  “Of course I’m stalling. I’m hoping the rest of the little daredevils will get sick of waiting and take off without you.”

  Beverly huffed and her goggles slid down her nose. Between them and her skullcap, she looked like an elderly Amelia Earhart. “Hand it over.”

  “Poppycock.” Queenie held the legally binding agreement away from her eager hand and scanned the skies for any signs of rain, or hail, or wind. Blimey. The sun was fat and bright overhead: the skies were blue.

  Beverly thrust her hand up high and waved at Jasper, who was standing next to the little plane stretching his hamstrings. He waved back, then jogged over. Bloody heartbroken barrister. This was all his fault.

  “Queenie won’t give me the contract,” Beverly said. Jasper turned to Queenie with an inquisitive look. Queenie would give anything to look that young again. And Jasper wasn’t even young. Late thirties. Queenie never imagined there’d be a time when he longed to be in his late thirties. But here he was, old and fat, and get
ting the cuffs of his trousers filthy. All the pity went to aging actresses. What about aging drag queens? That was the bottom of the barrel. Gone, gone, gone with his youth. Spending his precious time left on earth trying to knock some sense into his stubborn best friend. And to what end? Beverly wasn’t paying any attention to him; he might as well have been a gnat buzzing around the grass. “I have to read it first.”

  “Go on with you then,” Beverly said.

  “Do you need me to read it, mate?” Jasper asked. Queenie glared at Jasper. In that second, looking at his handsome, inquisitive face, Queenie could clearly see why his niece Hillary dumped him. Jasper was a nice guy. And nice guys finished last. Hillary, like most women, Queenie supposed, wanted the bad boy. Someone edgy and unpredictable. Tatted up and driving a motorcycle maybe. Just out of prison, why not? A beast in the bedroom. But this? Skydiving? Jasper was trying to be who he thought Hillary wanted, and he was dragging Beverly into it with him. You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, lad. Hillary wasn’t ever taking Jasper back. She was a socialite; she craved attention and adventure. Jasper was steady-as-she-goes. He was trying to play the sexy adventurer and he was doing a piss-poor job of it. Queenie saw him standing by the plane, taking pictures, then furtively texting them to someone. Hillary. Pathetic. She’d dumped him and he was still pursuing her. Loser. Loser, loser, loser. Queenie took a deep breath and prayed for the strength to bite his tongue.

  Look at the pair of them, dressed like fools in their suits and their goggles, waiting for Queenie to hurry up and read the agreement so they could jump out of a perfectly good aeroplane. Queenie had suggested they spend the day at Barrow’s Market, buy up everything on the tables and have a grand do. Maybe even pop into the Tower, eavesdrop on the Yanks shouting, “Off with their heads!” every time someone snapped a photo. At least that would be good for a laugh. But no. Skydive. Beverly gets the devastating news that she’s dying and what does she want to do? Skydive. Shouldn’t she be grasping on to every last precious minute? This was utter madness. Jasper should be ashamed of himself. “What’s on your bucket list, Bev, that we could do right now?” Jasper had said to her right after she’d told them the grim news.