London from My Windows (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

“You're ten years old. You know there's nothing you could have done to save him,” the dork with framed degrees on his wall said. He also had fake plants.
Fake plants!
Ava wondered if he also pretended to water them.

“I could have done CPR!”

“Well, technically, yes, but that's like saying you could have flown him to the hospital, but you didn't because you didn't have a helicopter.”

“Even if I had a helicopter, I don't know how to fly a helicopter.”

“Exactly,” he said. “You see?”

What a dork.
On her way out he took a phone call and turned his back to her. She swiped one of the fake plants off the shelf near the door and threw it in the garbage bin outside. “Fake piece of shit,” she said to the trash bin. Its plastic mouth just flapped back at her. She'd never said “shit” before, let alone stolen anything. Her father wouldn't like her saying that, wouldn't like it at all. Maybe if she said it God would send him back to straighten her out. Maybe he would see that she needed her father. She was going to turn into a cursing thief without him. Surely God wouldn't let that happen. Ava had never heard of anyone coming back to life, but miracles existed, didn't they?

If they didn't, she didn't care whether she was good or bad anymore. She knew she was supposed to feel bad, but she didn't. She'd spent ten years being a good girl and what did she get for it? The person she loved the most in the world was dead. She wasn't going to be good anymore. She wasn't even trying to be bad; she just didn't care.

Ava spent the first few days after her father's death doing every bad thing she could think of so that he would have to come back to life. She went through her mother's purse when she was in another room. She called five numbers in the phone book, said, “Help,” when someone answered, then hung up. She drank milk out of the carton and stuck her fingers in every single dish well-wishers dropped by. She thought everyone was playing a joke on her, or trying to teach her a really giant lesson. The lesson was—learn CPR; it's a lifesaving skill. At her next therapy session she made the mistake of blurting this out to the dork. That repetitive thought, that her father was still alive and trying to teach her a valuable lesson, was a form of denial according to the dork psychiatrist. That made her really, really angry.

“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?”

“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.

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.