London from My Windows (13 page)

“You may not believe this, Ava, darling. But we all want to see you try.”

What was this? He seemed as if he genuinely cared about her. For a second she wanted to throw herself at him, hug him. Beverly's dear friend. He could be like an uncle. He was a good cook, and he was probably a lot of fun at parties. But he was also an actor. This sudden kindness could be nothing more than a ploy to steal her flat. She wasn't going to fall for it. But she couldn't alienate him either. He had very practical uses.
Survival of the fittest. Forget that. Survival of the smartest.
“Can I trade you my American dollars for pounds?” Ava asked. “Or are those septic too?”

“Not at all,” Queenie said. “American dollars are welcome. As long as you give me twenty percent above the exchange rate.”

“That's hardly fair.”

“Then go out and go to a bank.”

“Ten percent,” Ava said.

“Fifteen.”

“Fine.” Ava went to her purse and handed him three hundred dollars.

He reached for his wallet, which was propped on the coffee table next to the sofa. He dug in and came out with twenty pounds. “I'll get the rest to you later.”

“I'll take the dollars back until you do.”

“I need to take the dollars to my bank and exchange them for you. Unless you want to go to a bank today?”

Go to a bank, go to a bank, go to a bank
. He was getting on her nerves. He might as well be asking her to rob a bank. “Will you do it soon?”

“Darling, the banks here don't open at five in the morning. And from now on, neither do I.”

“I'm just not used to the time change.”

“I'm going to back to sleep,” he said. “I wouldn't wake me twice if I were you.”

Ava went back to the bedroom to get dressed even though she still had close to three hours before the market would open. She would do it; she would go. For once in her life, she would just do it. That's what everyone said.
Just do it. It's not as bad as you're making it out to be. It's all in your head. What's the worst that can happen?

Do you hear that, Ava? It won't be that bad.
It was the market. A jolly place where pleasant Londoners went to buy food. Surely she could manage that. It was right across the street.

Fire extinguisher, fire extinguisher, fire extinguisher.
Little colored dots appeared at the mere thought of crossing the street. This was so ridiculous. Why did she have to go through this? She wanted to smash everything in sight. This wasn't fair. Why couldn't she trade places with someone else, see how easy it was to walk outside? She'd give anything. Anything.

And what did it mean that Beverly was at her father's funeral and her mother wouldn't let her see Ava? Cruel, it was just cruel. Ava was going to have to confront her mother. All that money on psychiatrists, yet she wouldn't even let Aunt Beverly help Ava. Was her mother at all to blame? The homeschooling, keeping family away, the ridiculous doctors?

Not entirely to blame. Ava wouldn't have gone to school. Her mother would have had to have her committed. Maybe she should have. Neither of them could change the past. But one of them was certainly going to have to explain it. And this time, Ava wouldn't settle for anything but the truth.

She would call her mother, lie in bed until Sainsbury's opened, and then be the first in line. Aunt Beverly had a red rotary phone. Ava enjoyed rolling her fingers through the numbers. It was after eleven p.m. in Iowa. It was technically the day before there, right? What a strange thing, as if she were calling back in time. She got her mother's voice mail. She was probably line dancing.

“I know,” Ava said. Then hung up.
There.
Let her mother think about that one. Ava got dressed for the market. That was step one, wasn't it? Fake it until you make it. She lay on top of the bed. She drifted in and out; she replayed her life so that she went to her father's funeral, where she was embraced by Aunt Beverly, who instantly adored Ava. She took Ava and her mother to London to live. Ava never had agoraphobia again. They went to all the touristy spots together. Ava accompanied Beverly to the theater and played in Beverly's dressing room when she was onstage. Soaked in all the applause from the wings, attended all the parties. Ava went to a private school. What did she become? A famous dancer? An actress? It wouldn't have mattered. She would have been a girl who lived her life outside. Parks, and parties, and parades. Ava drifted off, watching the fantasy her do everything a girl should do, and then some. She even went skydiving with Aunt Beverly. She grew up to be the kind of girl Jasper Keyes could fall in love with. Fall in love with and enjoy the rest of his life with. An active life. Full of hiking, and faraway trips, and mini-adventures. Ava slept. And then, she woke up and glanced at the clock beside her bed. It was time. The market opened in twenty minutes. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if she was the first in. The streets wouldn't be too crowded. She would get in and out. It would be easy.
Lies, lies, lies, lies.
How did she know? Maybe if she just pretended to be normal, she'd make it across. Maybe if she stopped making such a big freaking deal out of it, she could do it. Didn't they say the most complicated problems often had simple solutions?
Don't think
.

She picked up her keys. She had twenty pounds. She looked over at the market. There were only a few people going in and out. She went to the front door of the apartment. She opened it. She closed it. She went into her bedroom and shut the door. She crawled on top of the bed. She could feel the market glowing, calling to her like an alien ship. What was she thinking? Leave the flat? She couldn't even make it out the front door. She got under the bed. She sneezed.
Bloody hell.
This was no way to live. She sneezed again.
Bollocks.
Cursing in British didn't help either. London hadn't changed her. She was still her.
Wherever you go, there you are
. Ava hated that saying. Ava was handicapped. What did people trapped in wheelchairs do? People who wanted to get up and walk, but couldn't? Did anybody blame them? Did they stand over them, shouting at them to get up and walk? People were constantly standing over her, telling her to get over it, to go outside. They were yelling at a cripple. And they made her feel worse. She wanted it way more than they did. Shame on top of rage. Too many years of it. Cliff was right. Ava was handicapped. Doomed to sneeze underneath dusty beds from London to Timbuktu. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. What would Jasper think if he could see her now? She would stop flirting with him. He deserved better than this. He deserved better than her.

CHAPTER 13

It was Ava's ten-day anniversary. She was going to mark the occasion with a special series of sketches. A young man who lived in a building across the street had captured Ava's attention. The brick dwelling was a one-story rectangular structure at street level. It was next to Sainsbury's. She'd yet to make it there, but that was Queenie's fault. He'd actually bought her groceries, a “Welcome to London” do-over. It even included a bottle of Scotch. But the food was almost gone. She would have to go to the market soon.

In the meantime, she was fascinated with the young man across the way, and his nondescript building. Given the location and foot traffic, it was obvious that the building was prime commercial real estate, yet it had no sign, and the windows were always covered with dark curtains. Was he a fellow agoraphobic who had worked up to sweeping the sidewalk? There were support groups online for agoraphobics, but Ava had never taken any comfort in them. “You're isolating again,” Diana would say. “Give them a chance.”

“They're strangers,” Ava would say. “I don't feel any kinship with them.”

“You haven't given it enough time.”

She didn't want to give it time. She didn't want to give them a chance. She didn't want to be in some kind of insiders' club. She didn't want to listen to others describe their panic attacks in every gory detail. What she hoped would be a group focused on overcoming their fears turned out to be people going to a place just to kvetch. Even worse were the videos online of people who actually had filmed themselves having panic attacks. Who in the world wanted to see that? It was embarrassing. Some of them seemed totally unhinged. It made Ava want to slap them across the face and yell,
Snap out of it!
“I'm not that bad,” Ava would say to herself after viewing yet another spectacle. “I'm not that bad.” Was she? Was that why she couldn't stand to watch?
They're holding up a mirror to you, Ava, and you can't stand looking at your own reflection.

But she did like sketching the man across the street. He always came out to sweep at three p.m. He looked to be in his twenties, with brown skin and dark hair, Middle Eastern or Indian descent. He had such a calm demeanor that Ava liked watching him. He would sweep first, then lean against his building and smoke a cigarette. He held it like a joint, pinching it between his thumb and index finger, and then, just as it neared his lips, he'd squint and thrust his head back, as if it were being forced on him. That was the part Ava found fascinating. Like he was eating a wriggling cockroach on a dare, every day at three p.m. He only smoked one, and he always behaved as if every second was torture. Was he facing his fear of smoking? The thought made Ava laugh. Maybe she could sketch a series of people trying to overcome outrageous “fears.” People tightrope walking, running out into traffic, running
into
burning buildings, trying to adjust to being waterboarded. It made her feel better to laugh even if there was no one around to share it.

Sometimes, when there was a breeze, Ava could smell the cigarette smoke wafting into her flat. At those times she felt as if she was truly mingling with the world. How could she not be if she could actually smell it? See the wisps of smoke floating through the air? Did he know how funny he looked? None of us did, Ava realized. None of us realized how completely ridiculous we really were.

Life's short. Go outside.
That would be Ava's motto if she ever conquered this. She wouldn't let people complain, or explain, or excuse.
Life's short. Go outside,
she would say, her arm outstretched in a commanding gesture. Someone could build glass boxes for agoraphobics. Set them on street corners and force agoraphobics to stand in them like they were David Blaine conducting a spectacular magic trick.

What are they doing?
outsiders would muse, circling the box.

Maybe it's really hot in there,
another would say.
Look how they're sweating.

How long before the participants were throwing themselves against the glass, smashing their noses and lips against the scorching pane, begging for someone to throw a sheet over them? Would they eventually get used to it, enjoy the great outdoors, or simply die in their little glass boxes, alone in the crowd and misunderstood? Maybe they could set the boxes in the woods. Ava often wondered if she would like the woods in the fall with giant red, yellow, and orange leaves cascading on top of her. She could imagine them twirling down, no two alike, gently sticking to the glass box until they completely covered her. Buried her, even. She could trace them with her finger, the spikes, the dips, the stem. She would want to be there the night of a full moon, bathe in its radiant light. Maybe even on Halloween, with the smell of a campfire in the air, and a hay wagon circling the perimeter. Maybe after a while she would be brave enough to get out of the box. She wanted to hug a tree, feel the strong trunk against her body and the rough bark underneath her fingertips. Or the beach. No, not the beach; there was no end in sight, sand and sand and sand and sky. Water without walls. Endless open space. Ava would rather die.

Ava refocused her binoculars on the man across the street. He flicked the cigarette nub to the ground, smashed it into the pavement with his foot, and then swept it up into his dustbin. Maybe someone inside didn't know he smoked and he was sneaking out every day to indulge in his vice. But why look so miserable doing it? Ava couldn't make out the brand. Not that she needed that kind of detail for her sketch. It was his expression she captured on the page. The agony. The odd fear. To be fair she sketched other sides of him too. Sweeping the street. Leaning against the building. Who else was inside? What was inside? Was he in college? Was this the family business? Why bother to sweep when five minutes later someone would drop a piece of trash at your doorstep? Was it simply the ritual of doing it that he liked? Was it meditative to sweep a city footpath? Did it make him feel like he was doing his part to clean up society? Should she do that? Could she do that? Find a broom and simply stand on the stoop of her building sweeping? She'd have to think about trying it. So far all she'd managed to do was find a broom. Sometimes she stood in front of the window with it, imagining she was outside. Sometimes she imagined she was sweeping grime off the London skyline.

Sometimes she would see a few men dressed in business suits enter the young man's building. Always men, always brown skin. Maybe they were accountants. Or private detectives. Or an Internet company. It seemed to defy the odds, that he wouldn't look up even once.
Outsiders
thought they saw the world. But they didn't. They had blinders on, too; they just didn't know it.

Oh, the things she'd been learning. Ava could spend hours people-watching out her London windows, and sketching. It was the best job in the world. She wished Beverly were here to see it. Maybe she would see it wasn't such a bad way to live. Maybe she would take back the stipulations. Forced sightseeing, it wasn't right. This was the real London, at least her little slice of it, right outside her window. Had Beverly also spent hours looking out?
Happy Anniversary, to me
.

Ten days. Ava couldn't believe she'd been in London for ten days. She hadn't seen much of Queenie lately; he mostly communicated through Post-its on the fridge, bathroom mirror, and the bar in the living room:
Paws off my meat
,
Please hang your towels on YOUR rack, Are you drinking my Scotch again??!!

But he wasn't all bad. Queenie had come through with a few more pounds. She was almost out again; she'd have to confront him about the rest. Either way, Ava wasn't going to starve. But just in case that day came, every day she visualized herself going to the market. In the meantime, and in addition to Queenie's food offerings, she was getting takeaway. The takeaway in London was such heaven. That alone was a reason to stay forever. She started ordering three lunches because they were always the least expensive. Then she had something to heat up in the microwave for the next two meals. And, oh, did she love the takeaway in London. The Indian food was divine. She could also get burritos, Chinese, pizza, and Greek. But mostly she ordered Indian. And sometimes Queenie took pity on her and brought her home a few requests from the market. Namely peanut butter and jelly—or jam, as they said here, and bread. That and coffee and she was a happy girl. Could she make Queenie like her enough that he would own the apartment but want to keep her on as his flatmate the rest of his life? Highly doubtful.

She'd seen very little of Jasper since the embarrassing porno fiasco. It was probably for the best. It was normal to think of him for hours a day. Who else did she know?

Three p.m. That meant it was espresso time. Her taste buds were primed for the rich treat. Ava headed to the kitchen to make one. She opened the freezer, where Queenie kept the espresso. A barren frozen tundra stared back at her. Gone were the bags of veggies, the mint chocolate-chip ice cream, the microwavable meals, and the espresso. All that remained was a single tray of pathetic ice cubes. She slammed the freezer door shut. It bounced open again. She shut it less violently the second time although what she really wanted to do was rip off the door and hurl it out the window. She took a step back and stared at the fridge.

Please. Let there at least be crumbs.
She opened it. White, white, white, empty, sad, bleak. Not a single bottle of salad dressing or stick of butter to be seen. It was so white she had to shield her eyes. How could he? One by one she threw open the cabinets. Dishes, cups, martini glasses, and alcohol shakers, and salt and pepper, and tea, boxes and boxes of tea, but nothing edible to be found anywhere. It was as if the entire cast of
The Walking Dead
had come through and cleaned out every edible morsel.

Queenie. That diabolical bastard.
And just when she was starting to like him. This was beyond cruel, especially since he had taken her three hundred American dollars and so far had only given her what amounted to sixty pounds in return. He was probably keeping the rest to make up for the Scotch, and the espresso, and all his groceries. Perhaps that was justified. But leaving her to starve? It was sadistic. She'd spent so much on takeaway lately she doubted she had more than ten pounds left. She headed for the little table by the windows. Sitting in the middle was a note.