London from My Windows

by Mary Carter

  “She just shut off the picture. The call was still connected.”

  “And you kept listening? All this time?”

  “I wasn’t going to, I swear. I went to shut it off, and then I listened a bit more, and a bit more, and then the voices got too far away, and I got wrapped up in something else, here on my computer, and quite frankly I forgot we were still connected until I heard you come back into the room.”

  “I see.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.” Jasper turned red.

  Gretchen sank into the chair. “You knew about her already, didn’t you?”

  Once again, Jasper nodded. “Beverly said she had some challenges.”

  “She won’t be able to do this,” Gretchen said. “This is very cruel of that woman. Very, very cruel.”

  Jasper reached out as if he could touch her. “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. Beverly’s dying wish was to do something for Ava. Something to help her.” He sounded sincere. Obviously Beverly had suckered him too.

  How was it that such a dreadful woman could wrap so many people around her fingers? She had to control everyone and everything in her orbit. She was diabolical. “This isn’t going to help. She can’t even walk out to her mailbox.”

  “At least she’s going to give it a go,” Jasper said. “At least she’s going to give it a go.” He looked guilty of something. For a barrister he didn’t have much of a poker face.

  “What aren’t you saying?”

  “I didn’t quite get to explain all the conditions,” he said. “There’s quite a bit more.”

  “That woman. Tell me everything.”

  “With all due respect. My instructions are to tell Ava.”

  “You’ll tell me, and I’ll tell her.”

  “I’m sorry—one moment—I’m getting a funny ripple on my screen—I’m afraid I’m losing you.”

  He was lying. There was nothing wrong with their connection. Gretchen gripped the screen with both hands as if she could shake it out of him. “What conditions?”

  The screen went black. He was gone. “Bloody British,” Gretchen said. She didn’t know what Aunt Beverly was trying to pull now, but nobody was going to stop her from finding out. She wasn’t allowed to come. The nerve of Beverly. Gretchen would see about that. All the guards at Buckingham Palace couldn’t keep her away. Her little girl needed her whether she admitted it or not.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ava paid for two first-class tickets to London. It wiped out a substantial amount of her savings, but it was well worth it. Diana agreed to accompany her. Between her support and enough Xanax to choke a bull, Ava made it onto the plane. Ava was preparing her eye mask, headphones, and aromatherapy scents when Diana grabbed her purse from underneath the seat, unbuckled herself, and stood up. Then, she started to walk away.

  Ava tried to get out of her seat, but the seat belt yanked her back down. “Where are you going?”

  “The loo.” Diana had been “speaking British” all the way through the airport. But Ava knew Diana wasn’t going to the loo. She felt it.

  “You just went before we got on the plane.”

  “What can I say? I may not feel my age, but my bladder does.”

  “You’re lying. I always know when you’re lying.” It was true. Whenever Diana lied, all the Brooklyn drained out of her. Lying turned her weak, and polite, more like an awkward midwesterner.

  Diana tugged on her turtleneck and shifted her eyes to the left. “When a therapist doesn’t tell the truth, it’s a helpful prompt, not a lie.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You used to be a lot easier to deal with.”

  “You’ve taught me how to stand up for myself.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that.”

  “Sit down; we’re about to take off.”

  “I’m not going with you.”

  “You checked a suitcase.”

  “You keep it. But don’t get your hopes up. Apparently it’s illegal to fill it with Xanax.”

  “Please. Don’t do this to me.” Ava couldn’t do this on her own. But she couldn’t get off the plane either. There was no way she could face the airport again. Diana knew this. She was tricking her.

  “Did I ever tell you how my father taught me to swim?”

  “You can’t do this to me.”

  “He pushed me in and walked away.”

  “That’s horrible. That’s child abuse.”

  Diana shrugged. “Perhaps. But I still swim every morning at the Y. Bon voyage.”

  “Don’t.” Ava unbuckled her seat belt and stood up.

  In a flash Diana was back, gently pushing her back down. “Now you have both seats to yourself. The sleeping pills will kick in soon. If you make a scene they’ll throw you off the plane. And your mother will win. She’ll win.”

  Damn therapist. She knew just what buttons to push. Before Ava knew what was happening, Diana was gone, and she was alone. She had enough adrenaline coursing through her to keep her awake, but enough sleeping pills in her to make it all seem like a groggy dream.

  Shortly after takeoff, Ava slept. She woke throughout the flight, but didn’t want to see what was going on around her, didn’t do much but make it to the loo, and that was only because the thought of pissing in her seat was way worse.

  First class was wasted on her, that was for sure. She couldn’t pay attention to television or movies, and when she tried to eat or drink she realized she had no sense of taste. All her senses were numb. Everything was just one loud hum. She kept her eye mask on, and her earplugs in. This, too, shall pass. And it did. Slowly, and torturously, but it did. Her legs were stiff. She couldn’t wait to be off the plane. She also dreaded being off the plane. A rock and a hard place. That pretty much summed up her life. The plane began to descend; the pilot announced their arrival and welcomed them to London. Ava remained in her seat until every single other passenger had left the plane and the flight attendants were staring at her en masse. She wanted to ask for assistance, for a wheelchair.

  She popped a Xanax and put herself on autopilot before she had to be dragged off the plane. She followed the throngs of people to the immigration line. She showed her British passport, for the first time. She made it. But now, she was in the middle of London Heathrow Airport, completely on her own, and wide awake.

  Terminal 4. She felt terminal all right. Huge. People. Fuck. Purple signs hanging up high were telling her where to go. She wanted to tell them where to go. The infinite terminal was a minefield. She was just going to have to take step after step after step until she was blown to smithereens.

  Who did she think she was? Loser, loser, loser. Handicapped. It was big; it was so big. She tried to remain calm, keep her heart rate down, but the space was absolutely massive. She had to get out of here; this was too wide, too open. This was not in her head. This was her brain perceiving a threat, then commanding her body to freak out. Lights, people, action. Was this Heathrow or Hollywood? She closed her eyes, but it didn’t work. Sick, she was going to be sick. The line to the loo was stretched out the door and into the hall. Oh, God. Ava couldn’t hide in the bathroom with that line.

  There it was, next to the loo, a janitor’s closet. It was open; a cleaning person must have just popped in to get a broom, or glass cleaner, or rat poison. Ava rushed over and squeezed into the small, dark space where she felt safe. Just imagine if she fell in love with someone who was claustrophobic. It would be a Greek tragedy. She wanted to sit, but she was jammed in next to mops, and brooms, and buckets. She would just stand. And breathe. She heard footsteps approaching. The cleaning lady was going to find her in here, she would startle her, the woman would have a heart attack, and Ava would finally get to use CPR.

  Or she would startle her and the woman would jam a feather duster down Ava’s throat, and she would die in a little closet in London Heathrow. Just as Ava was concocting a third scenario, the actual cleaning lady pulled the cart right up to the open door. She was texting. Texting! Or she coul
d have been Tweeting. Facebooking. What was she saying? Something about the unspeakable filth of the flying public no doubt.

  Ava looked at the cart. On top there was a pile of black garbage bags. Maybe Ava could put one over her head and just keep walking until she bumped into Baggage Claim. She waited until the lady stopped texting. “Can I use your phone?” Ava said in a calm, normal voice. The lady’s head snapped up and she looked at Ava and she screamed as if Ava were standing there with a bloody cleaver and a severed head. “Stop,” Ava said. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Great. Now she did sound like a psychopath. Couldn’t the woman see that she was suffering? “I need help,” Ava said. Maybe she should have just let herself pass out instead. At least then she would have been picked up to a stretcher and maybe carried to her town car. For somewhere, at the other end of this terminal, if it ever did end, there was a driver picking up her bags and waiting for her with a sign. She hoped it didn’t read: Total Nut Job.

  “What are you doing? What on earth are you doing?”

  “I just needed a quiet space.”

  “It’s the cleaning cabinet.”

  “I am aware.”

  “Passengers are not allowed in the cleaning cabinet,” the woman said. The tone of voice was as if she’d just caught Ava peeing in the supply closet. Ava was simply standing and breathing. People were so judgmental. The cleaning lady no longer sounded afraid, and she had stopped screaming, but she was hiding behind the cart. One false move and she would shove the cart at Ava as hard as she could. Ava could see it in her eyes.

  “I just need your phone, your mobile, or I need a man with a cart—what is that in London Lingo? A trolley—you know. To drive me to Baggage Claim.”

  The woman thrust her arm out. “Baggage Claim is that way. You will not find Baggage Claim in here. Off with you then. Out, out, out.”

  She was being shooed away like she was a child or a rodent. Shouldn’t they be a little nicer? Offer her a cold compress and a cup of tea? “Please. Just call for a trolley.” Ava stepped forward and put a hand on her heart. “I’ve always counted on the kindness of strangers.”

  Apparently the cleaning lady wasn’t a Tennessee Williams fan. Instead of helping her, the woman came from behind the cleaning cart, reached out as if to manhandle Ava. Ava grabbed a broom and held it across her chest. “Don’t touch me,” Ava said. “Just get a courtesy officer, or a trolley person, or a nice airline person who understands people with disabilities—and get them here right now.”

  “You have a disability?” The woman squinted at Ava. “Are you blind?”

  “I’m not blind.”

  “And we’ve established you’re not deaf, haven’t we then?”

  “So why are you still shouting?”

  The woman’s eyes flicked over Ava’s perfectly good legs. “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, I can walk.”

  “Then what on earth is wrong with you?”

  “Not every disability is visible,” Ava said. “Some are hidden.” A strange, cold thought took root in Ava and began to grow. Am I disabled? She wanted to walk across the terminal by herself and she couldn’t. She wasn’t faking it, she wasn’t seeking attention, and she certainly would have given anything to be like all of those normal people out there. Maybe she did have a disability. An invisible disability. Like Superman without any powers.

  “You cannot stand in the cleaning cabinet. I’ve got work to do, I have.” The woman reached for the broom and held it up like a sword.

  Where did they recruit these workers? Prison? “I’m having a panic attack. Please stop talking to me.” Ava snatched a black garbage bag from the cart.

  “Oy,” the cleaning lady said. “Rubbish bags are not for the public.”

  “So sue me.” Ava fumbled opening it—those stupid plastic bags never wanted to open—but finally got it open and put it over her head. Darkness. That was better. She could still feel the woman staring at her.

  “You’re a right nutter!”

  “Even if that’s true,” Ava said, “you shouldn’t speak to customers like that.”

  “I’m getting airport security,” the woman threatened.

  “Finally,” Ava said. “Do it.”

  The security officers treated her with the same respect she got from the cleaning lady. It wasn’t until Ava dissolved into helpless tears that some sympathy crept into their eyes. She told it like it was. If she had to walk through this busy, humungous airport she would pass out. So they let her ride in the back of a trolley. And although she didn’t keep the garbage bag over her head—oh, how she wanted to—she did keep it clutched in her left hand, head down, and her eyes covered with her right hand. “This, too, shall pass,” she whispered to herself, over and over. “This, too, shall pass.” So many echoes in the airport. Every sense bombarded. The smells of fast food and chemicals. Dings, and clicks, and footsteps, and beeps. The bounce of the trolley as they swerved to miss pedestrians. Ava wasn’t crazy; everyone else was.

  How did people do this day in and day out? Ava’s senses weren’t used to it. They’d atrophied. She wasn’t equipped to deal with this. She was never, ever going to speak to Diana again no matter what she had packed in that suitcase for her. It was torture. It was that simple. It was torture for her and it was easy for everybody else. It made her feel enraged but impotent. As if she had a machine gun but no bullets.

  The cart jerked to a stop. Ava flew forward; her chest hit the seat in front of her. Ow. That really hurt. For a moment she forgot about everything but the sharp pain in the top of her breasts. She wanted the driver to do it again and again. “Are we here?”

  “I got you as close as we’re going to get,” the driver said. “If you need help the rest of the way we’ll have to get a wheelchair and—”

  Ava opened one eye. People swarming, shoving, moving. She shut the eye as quickly as possible. “Yes, please,” she whispered. “Wheelchair.” She didn’t have to cry. She was shaking. And pale. Surely everyone would think she was British.

  CHAPTER 7

  Her driver looked like a member of ZZ Top. He had on a driver’s cap, dark glasses, and was sporting a long beard. Ava had an urge to tug on it, see if it was real. He held up a sign: Ms. Ava Wilder.

  Ava pointed to the sign and the driver from the trolley, who was now pushing her wheelchair, wheeled her up to him.

  “’Allo,” the driver said with a slight bow. He sounded like the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins. He took in the wheelchair and his eyes widened. “I didn’t realize,” he said.

  “I can walk,” Ava said. “I’m just a little weak right now.”

  “Of course,” the driver said. He turned to the attendant. “I can take her from here.”

  “British luck to you,” the attendant said to her driver with a parting glance at Ava. “Leave the chair at the curb.”

  “Jerk,” Ava said under her breath. She clutched her suitcase on her lap as the driver wheeled her and Diana’s suitcase out to the curb where a boxy white car was waiting. Ava felt every bump the wheelchair hit along the way, and every noise jangled her nerves. She squeezed her eyes shut.

  They stopped. Her luggage was lifted off her lap and Ava listened as he put it in the trunk. Boot, isn’t that what they call it here? Soon he was standing over her. “Do you need help? Shall I lift you?” Ava opened one eye. Just enough to see the car door open, black leather seats beckoning her inside. From what she could see, it was a cloudy day. It smelled like rain was coming.

  “No, thank you.” Ava stood, then crawled into the back seat, lay down, and since there weren’t any covers, draped the plastic garbage bag over her face. Let the driver think she was a crazy American.

  “Wait,” she called just as he was about to shut the passenger door.

  “Yes?” His voice sounded close. As if he’d popped his head into the backseat.

  “Do you think I could keep the wheelchair?”

  “Are you asking me to lift it?”

  “Oh. Is it heavy? I though
t you could fold it into the trunk.”

  “The boot?”

  “What?”

  “Are you asking me to lift it and toss it into the boot?”

  “Well, I don’t see how you would get it into the boot without lifting it.” There was a pause, then laughter. He had a very nice laugh. He sounded younger than he looked.

  “Do you expect me to steal a wheelchair from the airport like a common criminal?”

  “Oh.” “Lift,” as in “steal.” Lost in translation. She’d misinterpreted him on several levels. He was a goody-goody. The beard definitely didn’t suit him. “Not when you put it that way.” It was another few moments before she heard the passenger door shut and then he slammed down “the boot.” She supposed that wasn’t very cool of her, asking the taxi driver to steal airport property.

  She waited until he was back in the car and they had pulled away from the curb. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s perfectly all right. I took a shopping trolley home once when I was ten.”

  “Ah.”

  “After my father found out my arse was so sore I couldn’t sit for a week.”

  “Guess you’ll have to go ahead and spank me.” Oh, God. Did Ava just say that?

  “What?” He swerved into the other lane, then jerked the wheel the opposite direction before he could get sideswiped. Horns blared and he blared his back. Red brake lights loomed inches ahead. “Bollocks.” He slammed on the brakes. Ava was thrown off the seat and onto the floor. She’d bonked her head, but she didn’t want to move. She liked it down on the floor better.

  “So sorry, luv,” the driver said. “Do you need some help up?”

  “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up,” Ava said. Did they know that one in London?

  “Should I pull over?”

  “Without getting us killed? Unlikely.” She crawled back onto the seat and made the mistake of looking up. Their eyes met in the rearview mirror, and she felt a tiny jolt as if she had just been Tasered. He had really beautiful blue eyes. “Your beard looks fake,” she said.

  “Maybe it is.”