London from My Windows

by Mary Carter

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Ava Wilder’s home in small-town Iowa is her sanctuary. A talented sketch artist with severe agoraphobia, Ava spends her days drawing a far more adventurous life than her invisible disability allows. Until she receives a package from London, explaining that she has inherited her Aunt Beverly’s entire estate—on condition that she lives in Bev’s West End flat for a year. Once overseas, Ava wonders if she’s simply swapped one prison for another. The streets and shops are intimidating, and Bev’s home appears to be a drop-in center for local eccentrics. Worst of all, Bev left a list of impossible provisos to be overseen by her quirky, attractive solicitor. Ava is expected to go out—to experience clubs, pubs, and culture; to visit Big Ben, Hyde Park, and the London Eye. After years of viewing the world through a pane of glass, she’s at the messy, complicated center of it. As exhilarated as she is terrified, will she be able to step up, step out, and claim the life she was meant for? In an insightful, poignant novel, Mary Carter delves deep into self-discovery and the meaning of courage, exploring the fears that serve to protect us—until life calls us to connect at last.

Release date: July 28, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

“May I have this dance, luv?” Ava’s father asked her mother.

Oh yes. Please say yes. In the corner of her living room, Ava Wilder stood on tiptoe, clasped her hands, and held her breath, fearing if she exhaled, her mother would not dance. Ava’s father held the record player’s needle aloft, waiting for the yes to set it down and let his favorite song play. He had on his dancing shoes, the shiny black ones with the pointed toes, black pants, and the green sweater-vest Ava’s mother had bought him for Christmas.

Such a good dancer, oh, he was so good. His glass of Scotch sat untouched on the shelf above the record player, two cubes of ice bobbed at the top, and the day’s last beam of sun cut through it, striking it gold. While they waited, he turned his head, winked at Ava, and unleashed his drumroll of a smile. Ava’s enthusiasm spilled out into silent applause. This way she could show her full support yet not shatter the moment with useless noise. Her mother loathed useless noise. Whenever she was tortured by useless noise, her face hardened. Then, the magic would be lost. Oh, please soften; please soften. Whenever she softened and they danced, the world glowed. Their living room pulsed with life, and Ava danced with joy. Joy, right here in their little town in Iowa.

Gretchen Wilder folded her arms across her chest and shook her head before glancing at Ava. The needle scratched down anyway and bossa nova music enveloped the room. “Tall and tan and young and lovely . . .” Her father lifted his arms up and moved his feet to the music. Yes. Oh, he was such a good dancer. Ava’s right foot tapped along too. Someday she was going to be just like him. She would dance with her husband. She would never need to soften because she would never harden. His hips swayed as he sang along with Frank Sinatra. “Tall and tan and young and lovely.” He was slightly off-key and it sounded funny with his British accent. Ava giggled. She wished she had a British accent, but hers was boring like her mother’s.

“Come now. Dance with me.”

Ava’s mother shook her head again and stared at the tightly drawn curtains. “What will the neighbors think?” Could the neighbors see through the curtains? Ava would have to check next time she was in the yard. Ava’s lips moved along with the song, although she didn’t dare sing out loud.

“They’ll think that we like to dance.” Her father’s voice was as upbeat as the music. He strode to the window and swooshed open the curtains. Faint stars were already starting to pop their heads into the sky. He turned to Ava. “Dance with me!” Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes. Ava glanced at the windows, then at her mother’s pursed lips. Should she? Could she? Her father stood in front of her and planted his feet wide and firm. The tops of his black shoes were so shiny that Ava’s nose, lips, and even the ceiling fan were reflected in them.

“Bertrand.” Her mother’s voice relaxed slightly. It was there, beneath her tongue, a slight hesitation. She was softening. He always made her soften.

Yes! The first shot of joy coursed through Ava. Who cares, nosy neighbors. We’re dancing. Ava kicked off her shoes, grabbed on to her father’s outstretched hands, and stepped onto his feet. They danced as the girl from Ipanema walked to the sea. Ava leaned back, stretched her arms as far as they would go, and forced her father to hold her weight. He sped up and the crown molding carouseled by. This was the best day ever. Her father was happy; her mother was softening. Dizzy, getting a little dizzy, but Ava didn’t want to stop. Her shrieks filled the air. She straightened her head. The brown recliner, flowered sofa, and RCA television blurred into a mini-tornado of color.

Her mother headed for the kitchen. “She’s going to barf on the living room rug.”

“I won’t barf!” Ava shouted. “Aaaaaaahhhhh.” The scent of garlic and tomatoes filled the air. Wednesday. It was spaghetti night with the stretchy white cheese. Her mother baked it in the oven. Ava loved, loved, loved the stretchy white cheese. “Aaaaaaaahhh.”

Ava’s father gently brought her up, and he began to dance her to the front door. He held on to Ava with one hand and opened the door with the other.

“What are you doing?” Gretchen called from the kitchen.

“It’s a beautiful night. Let’s dance outside, Ava,” her father said.

“What will the neighbors think?” Ava said. Where did that come from?

Her father just laughed and opened the screen door. “That we like to dance,” they said in unison. And soon they were twirling on the front porch. Ava laughed and relished the cool breeze on her hot face. The aroma of marinara sauce mingled with the rosebushes below.

“Now, down the path.” Her father danced her down the steps, one-two, one-two, one-two, and even though the music was distant now, deep inside Ava the beat continued to pulse. The sky was trying to hold on to the remaining streaks of blue, but orange streaks cut across it, deeper than any shade in her box of 64 Crayola crayons. “What do you say, little lady?” her father’s voice rang out in the yard. “Shall we dance in the street?”

“We shall,” Ava said, putting on her best British accent. They stepped just outside their brown picket fence. Fireflies blinked around them as they danced toward the curb. If only Ava had a jar. When they reached the strip of grass just beyond the sidewalk, Ava’s father lost his footing, and stumbled. He dropped her hands and Ava’s feet flew out, knocking her backwards. She smacked the ground, barely missing the concrete. Pain roared through the back of her head. “Dad?” Why wasn’t he worried about her? Why didn’t he cry out to her? Ava sat up. Her father was lying on the sidewalk a few feet away. Inside Ava’s head, the music stopped and the needle scratched. And scratched, and scratched, and scratched.

She scrambled to her feet. “Dad?” Her voice came out as a whisper. Was he playing a game? He would never hurt her on purpose. He had never dropped her like that before. “Dad?” She said it louder this time, and her voice cracked. Once more, he did not answer. A strange thudding, like a heartbeat, pulsed through her ears as Ava inched over to her father. His eyes were open, unblinking. Was he having a laugh? Sometimes he liked to have a laugh. “Dad?” This was a scary game. She didn’t like it. Did not like it at all. Dead. He looked dead. “Dad? Dad?” He would never do this to her, not when she sounded so terrified. Something was really wrong, terribly wrong. Ava screamed. The kind all the neighbors would hear. She tore up the walk and clamored up to the porch. She threw open the screen door. “MOM. MOM. MOM.”

A clank sounded from the kitchen, followed by the sound of something crashing to the floor. “God damn it!” her mother yelled. “Ava! God damn it!” Ava knew the spaghetti with the stretchy white cheese smashing on the kitchen floor was the sound she heard, and saw it all in her mind’s eye—noodles, red sauce, and the stretchy white cheese smeared all over the floor.

Her mother’s heels clacked closer, and closer, and soon she appeared, fists clenched and eyes flashing. “Guess what you made me do?” she said. Who would make her soften now? No one. She would never soften again.

“Dad,” Ava said. “Help.” She whirled around and raced back to the curb, not even caring if her mother was following.

“What in the name of heaven?” her mother called after her, the first sign of worry creeping into her voice. Ava was standing over her father’s body when her mother came down the walk, her face as pale as the stretchy white cheese that Ava would never eat again. “What did you do, Ava?” her mother wailed. “What did you do?”

What did she do? “Nothing.” She didn’t know. “Nothing.” She really didn’t know. “We were dancing.”

“Dancing,” her mother said. The word sounded different coming from her. It sounded evil.

“Dad,” Ava said. “Daddy, wake up.” Ava knelt down on the sidewalk. Pebbles cut into her knees, but she didn’t move.

“I told you not to dance,” her mother said. “I told you not to dance.”

“Do something, Mom,” Ava said. “Do something.” She stared helplessly at her father. He was so still, so pale. “CPR,” Ava said. It was a lifesaving skill. Her mother dropped to her knees next to Ava. Did she know CPR? She didn’t pinch his nose or breathe into his mouth. She held his face between her palms.

“Bertie, Bertie, Bertie.” Ava had never heard her mother call him Bertie. “Wake up; come on, wake up now.” Ava wanted to tell her to blow into his mouth and press down on his chest. She wasn’t quite sure how that would help. Please, God, make him better. I will do anything you ask. Anything. “Ava, go inside. Call nine-one-one. Then turn off the stove.” Ava moved, somehow, up the path, the steps, and once again she burst through the screen door. She didn’t stop until she reached the kitchen, where she darted in and slipped in a pool of marinara sauce. She hit the floor face-first this time. Noodles clung to her, and sauce covered her chest. She grabbed on to the counter and hauled herself up, then turned off the stove and snatched up the phone. Her fingers trembled as she hit the buttons, and she was smearing red sauce on everything she touched.

CPR. It’s a lifesaving skill.

“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

“My father,” Ava said. “Help.”

“What’s your address, sweetie?” Ava recited it. There were so many questions, she wanted to get back outside. “Where is your father? Is he with you?”

“He’s on the sidewalk. We were dancing. Outside.” She leaked out each word like a confession, a plea for forgiveness. She wiped noodles from her, and as much sauce as she could. It looked like blood.

“How old are you? What is your name, sweetie?”

“Ten. Ava.” Why was she asking her that? What did that matter?

“Are you alone?”

“My mother is outside. She’s with him.”

“Is he breathing?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. We were dancing outside. He’s lying on the sidewalk. It’s my fault! It’s my fault!”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Help.”

“The ambulance is on its way.”

“Help.”

“Can you bring the phone to your mommy, sweetie?” Ava never called her mommy. She was too old for that. Ava ran outside. Her mother was crouched over, sobbing, rocking.

“Mom. Nine-one-one wants you.”

“You’re too late,” her mother said. “You’re too late.”

Too late. What did she mean? Too late. He was dead? Did she mean he was dead? That man on the sidewalk was not her father. Her father was alive. He could brighten a room just by walking into it. He was her dad. He was supposed to be there for her, watch her grow up. He was going to take her to London to see the Queen. He promised. He never broke his promises, so he couldn’t be dead. They were going to visit her aunt Beverly. She was an actress in London and they were going to stay with her, and drink tea in rose-petal china cups with their pinkies sticking out, and eat something her father called trumpets. Ava’s father laughed when she said it. “I wouldn’t want to chomp on a trumpet.” He winked. “Crumpet” was the word he said: It was more similar to an American pancake than a musical instrument. How could he be dead when she could still hear his laugh in her ear? Maybe she needed to beg.

No, please no, God. Please, God, please. Please. When that didn’t work, Ava thought of everything she could have, should have, done that day instead. Ava should have run faster. No, she ran too fast; that’s why she slipped. She should have been more careful around the sauce. She turned off the stove first. How could she be so stupid? She should have called 911 first. She was too late, too slow, too stupid. “I’m sorry. I slipped. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She was too. Sorrier than she had ever been. Hot stabs of guilt assaulted her on an endless loop. Make this stop. Please, make it stop. Miracles existed, didn’t they? Could she get a miracle, please? Just one. Take me, God. Take me. I’m not even a good dancer.

Her mother’s wails echoed in the night. Up and down the block, neighbors flung open their doors and stepped onto the sidewalk, watching. Her mother was right. The neighbors watched. They saw. But for once, her mother didn’t seem to care. “My husband. My love. My only love. He’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone. Why? Why? Why? Why?” Ava thought her mother was pleading with God. “Why, Ava, why?” She was wrong. Her mother wasn’t pleading with God; she was pleading with her. This was Ava’s fault. Her father was dead, and it was all her fault.

A fireman came into their class just last week to talk about CPR. He said it was never too early to learn because you could do CPR on animals too. That’s why Ava really wanted to learn CPR. In case she had to save a dog one day. Maybe a poodle, or a beagle. She prayed she wouldn’t have to put her mouth on something big and mean like a Rottweiler, or slobbery like an English bulldog. But she would. She would save any breed of dying dog. The fireman was going to teach it at the firehouse on Saturday. Ava had signed up. Her father was going to take her. But this was only Wednesday. It was never too early. But it was too late. She was too late.

“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?”

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.

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 m