London from My Windows

by Mary Carter

  Now he knew what was best for her? “How so?”

  “London is expensive. There are building fees that I don’t think you can afford unless you find a job.” He let the rest linger. He didn’t add the obvious. It would be nearly impossible to get a job if she never left the flat.

  “How much are the building fees?”

  “I don’t have the exact figure. But I believe all considered it’s close to a thousand pounds per month.”

  “That’s insane!”

  “That’s London.”

  “I can’t face the airport. I can’t.” Ava reached out. She didn’t mean to, but the thought of the airport ignited a panic in her, and she reached out her hand to Jasper. He took it and held it. He looked her in the eye. She was back to liking the nice guys. He looked at her with compassion. Not pity, but genuine concern. How could this man she just met care about her so much?

  “Ava, listen to me. You’re not going anywhere.”

  “But the list—”

  “Forget about the list. I’m sorry. I’m a wanker. I should have let you settle in.”

  “You should have told me before I left America.”

  “Maybe. But God, I’m glad I didn’t.” They held eye contact. He let go of her hand. Ava stepped back. “I mean, here you are, right? This isn’t so bad.”

  “Sure. Maybe they’ll be the best ninety days of my life.”

  “Forget about the ninety days. One thing at a time.” He glanced behind him as if he was worried someone might overhear. “It’s to your advantage to get along with Queenie. Maybe he’ll let you have the flat even if you don’t complete everything on the list.”

  “Or anything?”

  Jasper looked away, then back at Ava. “Let’s just take one step at a time,” he said again.

  “Why? Why is she doing this to me?”

  “Please believe me. Her heart was in the right place.”

  “How? By luring me here under false pretenses? Then humiliating me with this impossible list?”

  “Not to mention forcing you to live with an actor?” Jasper smiled. Ava did not. “Right,” he said. “It is all in the timing.”

  “I think Beverly had you fooled,” Ava said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I can tell you’re convinced that she meant well. But maybe you just don’t understand women.” Maybe that’s why you got dumped.

  “You’re right about that. I don’t understand women. But I think I understand you.”

  “Good for you.” Ava slammed the door shut. She rested her forehead against it. She had the urge to bang her forehead against the door but not while Jasper was still there. And he was still there. She waited to hear his footsteps.

  “Any questions before I leave?” Jasper said. Ava couldn’t believe it. He just wouldn’t go away. Why did that thrill her so?

  “How will you know if I’ve really done any of the things on the list?”

  “I’m to accompany you.”

  Ava opened the door again. He looked at her with something akin to hope in his eyes. What did he want from her? “You’re a nice guy, Jasper.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s not a compliment. Women like bad boys, and comedians who are too nice just aren’t funny.”

  He took a step back. Ava hated herself. He was only trying to help. But he shouldn’t be here, looking at her like that, making her light up inside. “I see. Thank you for the character assessment.” She was seeing him angry for the first time. He was sexy when he was angry. Ava left the door open, and walked away just to see what he would do.

  Along the wall separating the living room from the kitchen was a little bar. It was stocked with liquor but not wine. Ava went over and picked up a bottle. “I wouldn’t drink his Scotch if I were you,” Jasper called out.

  “Aren’t you lucky that you’re not?” She put the bottle up to her mouth and drank. By the time she had swallowed, and wiped her lips, Jasper Keyes was gone. That flat was surprisingly empty without him. Ava retrieved the hammer and nails from her suitcase, picked the first sheet up off the floor, and went to work.

  Three stiff Scotches later, Ava staggered over to the windows and stared at her silk sheets. Maybe she should take them off. She’d come this far. If she only had ninety days in London, she should at least look at it, shouldn’t she? Could she do it? In Iowa she definitely needed sheets. She was on the ground level. Anyone could sneak up and look in. The outside was right there, pushing to get in. But here, she was up high. Removed. Maybe if she took the curtains off, she could get used to the idea of London. If she was only going to be here for ninety days she couldn’t just hide. Slowly, she advanced, grabbed a corner of the first sheet, and tugged. Before she could change her mind, she whipped off the last two sheets. And then, she looked.

  All of London stood at attention before her, slightly muted behind a pearl gray sky. The river Thames to the far left. The Houses of Parliament stretched out, regal and proud. A cathedral stretched into the air. The London Eye rotated in the distance. And just below, a busy street lined with shops, and trees, and pedestrians. Ava didn’t need to go out to experience London; London had come to her.

  She’d been reading up on London ever since she was a little girl. First, when her father was alive, so she could tell him all the places she wanted them to go, and then, especially after he died. It made her feel closer to him, knowing where he was from. So she read everything, imagined herself everywhere—and here all those magnificent places were at her fingertips, just outside her window. She was so close. Separated only by panes of glass.

  Every single place she’d read about, searching between the pages for her father. Had he wandered the halls of St. Paul’s Cathedral? Had he sat underneath a tree in Hyde Park? Had he watched the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace? Chased fat pigeons at Trafalgar Square? Had he stood by the Thames and wondered about his future wife, his daughter? Why couldn’t he be here? She missed him just as much today as she did when she was ten. Her father. What would he think of her now? Surely he’d be so disappointed. Not his Ava. He would never have imagined his little girl was a freak. Dance with me!

  Now here she was. Nineteen years later. So many wasted years. The Ava her father knew was a vibrant little girl who had friends, and went to school, and took piano lessons every Tuesday. She raced her yellow bike up and down the street every evening before dinner, got scrapes on her knees from playing in the dirt, and the rain, and the snow. Even Ava couldn’t believe it had all come to a crashing halt. At first everyone was so kind, so patient. Her two best friends, Andrea and Susan, visited her like clockwork. They didn’t even make fun of her for staying in her room. “Take your time,” her teacher said, sending homework each week, checking in. And Ava did take her time. Boy, did she. She took the rest of the school year. After that came the heated meetings between the school and her mother, the yelling (her mother at Ava), the threats, the tears, the paperwork from the psychiatrists advocating homeschooling. For the time being, everyone said. For the time being.

  But Ava got used to Greta, the in-home tutor, and so did her mother. Ava did her homework, got good grades. She fought with her mother less. Eventually everyone got used to it, and nobody pushed Ava anymore. After the first year Andrea and Susan visited less and less. Instead they talked on the phone. And then gradually the calls stopped too. Ava couldn’t blame them, but it hurt. Greta was Ava’s only friend, unless you counted the psychiatrists, which Ava certainly didn’t, or the young girl across the street, a pretty woman named Heather who popped her head into Ava’s room on holidays to say hello, or the series of goldfish that swam in and out of her life. Other than that there was the odd visitor now and then, a few family members on her mom’s side, but no one substantial. Ava wanted to be saved, yet when anyone tried to do just that, to get her to go out, she fought tooth and nail. Secretly there were times she wanted to be outside so bad she physically ached. But the minute she touched the doorknob, her entire being revolted.
She’d been at war with herself. She wanted to want to feel the sun on her face, the wind through her hair, taste the rain on her lips, or scoop snow into her hands. She kept waiting for a miracle. Her father to show up at her door and forgive her. Eventually she covered the windows with construction paper so she would forget. The few times a year she was forced outside she was so medicated it was like a queasy dream. So much waste. So much time to make up for. Could it even be done?

  Ava inched closer to the window until she was looking down. She felt like a tightrope walker, on the night of her very first show. She was doing it. It was terrifying, but she was doing it. There were so many people on the streets. Living their lives. Walking, without a care, down the block. They were not afraid. Their palms were not sweaty, their hearts were not tripping, and little colored dots were not dancing in front of their eyes. They were just out and about, and had never known life any other way. Ava placed her hands on the window. She was leaving her prints. Was it enough? Compared to everyone out there, she really wasn’t here. “I’m dead,” she said. She might as well have been.

  The view, miraculous to anyone else’s eyes, was a gun to the head. St. Paul’s Cathedral, right outside her window. Built in the shape of a cross with a dome crown intersecting the arms. Filled with the Golden Gallery, the Stone Gallery, and the Whispering Gallery. All places Ava would never see, but she could close her eyes and imagine them. One of the largest domes in the world. Weighing in at sixty-five thousand tons. And it was right outside Ava’s windows. The highest point in the city. A fourteen-hundred-year history.

  The London Eye. She’d never ride a Ferris wheel, never, let alone one that was four hundred and some feet tall. Even if she did everything else on Aunt Bev’s list, that one would be the one to take her down. There it was, her nemesis, rotating on the south bank of the Thames. Look away! Her eyes darted to Canary Wharf, one of London’s two financial districts. What a beautiful skyline the buildings made. Finally she gazed back upon the Houses of Parliament—the Palace of Westminster. Now that looked British. Royal and elegant, its ancient stone façade and spikey bits running along the top like points in a crown. Big Ben, you old clock tower, you. I feel as if we’re old friends. I know you from children’s books and movies, and photographs. I see you. Do you see me?

  So much could be glimpsed from these windows. Rows of redbrick flats just like hers. She had lost too much already; she couldn’t lose this. This was the closest she had come to living in the past nineteen years. She would find a way to fight for this flat.

  Panic began to bubble within her. The little colored dots appeared. If she let this go too far, soon she wouldn’t even be able to look out the windows. She had to ground herself, wipe her mind of emotions, replace them with facts. She snatched up her sketch pad and pencil and hurried back to the living room. From here, she had the best view of the streets.

  The people and cars below weren’t so tiny they looked like toys, but they weren’t quite real either. It made it easier to look. Men and women in suits, with briefcases and bulging handbags, strode purposefully down the footpath, heads down, mobiles in hand. Some elderly folks pushed carts, or brooms, or shuffled along. People came in and out of the grocery store directly across the street. So close, yet so far away. Ava’s eyes lit on the sign. Sainsbury’s. Mothers pushed prams and tried to balance the older kids who clung on to their legs. Bicycles weaved in and out of traffic that moved in fits and starts. Cars lurched; then the drivers slammed on their brakes, and laid on their horns. Double-decker buses lumbered by. She loved their shiny red color, eye-popping even through the gray. Ava wondered if they would let her hop on but never hop off. She began to sketch them all, her hand skating across the page as she tried to take it all in. The next thing she knew, her page was full, and she had to start a new one. She was astonished to discover she could draw the outside with no adverse reactions. There it was, in front of her on the page, and she was okay!

  God, this was like being outside without being outside. For a second she wondered if she was cured. Ava had seen a program once where a deaf child had been given a cochlear implant. She watched the moment when the child heard raindrops on the roof for the first time. Saw the astonishment on the child’s face. Ava felt like that child. Not hearing for the first time, but being for the first time. Seeing, hearing, almost touching. Existing out and among others. From a safe distance. The best of both worlds. Who needed the telly? She could watch people all day long, and sketch them. After twenty solid minutes staring down at them, it hit her. It might be a cliché, but it was true—people never looked up. She was a shepherd looking down on her flock.

  Maybe Beverly was right. Maybe coming here was all she needed. Imagine if in a few days, or a week, she was cured? A whole new person. Okay, breathe. Don’t get too far ahead too fast. Take a break from the windows. London would be there.

  She turned to the walls. So many cool theater posters. Had Beverly been in all these productions? Les Mis, Cats, Pippin, Mary Poppins, Monty Python—there were photographs too. Aunt Beverly onstage in all different costumes. She looked like a genuine star. Ava studied the woman in each picture. Beverly was beautiful. Not only in her younger years, where Ava was shocked to see she resembled her, but she’d aged beautifully too.

  There was one remarkable difference between Ava and Beverly. Her bright smile. The kind that could light up a room like Ava’s father. She looked alive.

  And the outfits, oh, the outfits. Each picture sported a new dress. White and tight with sparkles. Red silk. And a variety of little black dresses. Plenty of accessories too. A green felt beret, a chunky blue necklace, a cigarette holder. She didn’t just look glamorous; she was glamour. It was as if she had stamped I AM HERE in every single picture. Ava had yet to go through Beverly’s closets; did any of these outfits still exist? She’d save the discovery until later, relish the anticipation.

  Ava would never get to see Aunt Beverly onstage. But Ava knew stage presence when she saw it, and Beverly Wilder had been the real deal. Ava tore herself away from the photos, imagining herself in one of Beverly’s outfits, imagined how she would walk, talk, and think, if she were Beverly. She tried to smile. It wasn’t natural.

  She entered the kitchen and approached the window at the far end. Whereas the living room looked out toward Highgate, this one looked out to the Thames. In front of the window sat the little two-seater table. Sitting in the center were the maps Jasper mentioned. The top one leapt out at her. The London Underground. She hadn’t even touched it and she could feel a panic attack coming on. She didn’t even want to look at it. People. Underground. Moving about like a colony of ants. She liked a good, dark hiding space as well as the next person, but not when others were down there with her. Dark spaces were supposed to be small enough to hide in, not expansive and unending. Rushing, shoving, breathing the same stale air as everyone else. No thank you. It would ruin her love of small, dark places forever. Who would she be without a sanctuary? She would have nowhere left to run and hide. Never, ever, ever. She wouldn’t even open the map. She didn’t even want it in the house. Burn it. She would burn it. She picked it up by the edges like it was a dead rat she was being forced to touch.

  She found matches in a kitchen drawer. Did Beverly smoke? There were no signs of cigarettes but plenty of melted candles. For all Ava knew, Beverly had weekly séances. She went to the sink and held the tip of the flame to the map. As the fire licked the edges she had to rotate the map to keep from burning herself. London’s burning. When she was finished she stared at the ashes in the sink. Then she turned the water on high. They didn’t so much go down the drain as plaster themselves to the edges of the sink. She washed her hands twelve times and then wiped up the remnants of the map with a paper towel and discarded them in the bin next to the refrigerator.

  How many hours had it been since Jasper left? Two? How could she miss him? A man she’d only just met. How was it possible that his absence had already left a void? Ava wasn’t used to liking people,
let alone missing them. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling; it was more like a low-grade ache. How ridiculous to miss a stranger. She must be homesick and she was transferring that onto Jasper.

  Ava walked over to the little bar again. It was stocked with glasses and liquor bottles and a bin waiting to be filled with ice. It even had tongs. Beverly liked to entertain. I wouldn’t drink his Scotch. What did Jasper know? Besides, how was Ava to know if it was Queenie’s Scotch or Aunt Beverly’s? Finders, keepers. Ava poured herself another. She held it up to the windows. The liquid glowed in the setting sun. “Here’s to us,” Ava said. Aunt Beverly. Her father. Her mother. And her. “Here’s to us.” She drank it in one go. It hit her chest like a gunshot. She choked and sputtered. It was a good kind of pain. Warmth coursed through her. She set the glass down with a plunk. That was enough for one day.

  Ava entered Beverly’s bedroom and opened the double closet on the far wall. Outfits stretched for miles. Shelves were lined with boxes and accessories. The beautiful bits from the photos, they were all here. Shoes lined the bottom of the closet, in every color and heel. She even had actual nightgowns hanging. Silky ones. Ava touched a pink one, then brought it to her nose and inhaled. It smelled as if it had been dry-cleaned, then never worn again. Ava took her clothes off and left them on the floor of the bedroom. She slipped the nightgown over her head. She wasn’t Ava; she was a young actress, a beautiful woman in a negligee and—Ava reached and opened another box. And a green beret. She placed the beret on her head and laughed at her reflection in the mirror. One more. She opened the third box to find a long cigarette holder. She was a beautiful young actress in a rose negligee and green beret, holding an elegant cigarette holder between two fingers, smiling into the eyes of strangers, and declaring to the world: I am here.

  CHAPTER 11

  The next morning Ava was eager to sit by the windows again and sketch. The wonder of observing the city from above trumped the worries that she only had eighty-nine more days to enjoy it. Last night she had come to a decision. She wasn’t even going to try to tackle the list. Beverly couldn’t manipulate her if she refused to participate. Maybe she would fight it in court, but she didn’t even want to think about that. She just wanted to enjoy the eighty-nine days.