Chapter 7
Ava
The day we checked out of the hospital, I had one last meeting with the social worker, this time with Mother present. We would be given the decision on my medical competency.
I caught myself squirming in my seat like the little kids in art therapy. Were they as nervous as I was now? I’d been fine alone with the social worker, but this felt too important.
The woman was far more formal than when we talked alone.
She folded her hands together on a stack of papers, her red mouth serious.
“Geneva, Ava, I’m here to discuss the findings of the ethics committee on whether Ava is sufficiently capable of living independently as an adult when she turns eighteen later this year. ”
Mother shifted in her chair. So she was nervous, too.
The counselor smiled at me. “Ava is incredibly resilient after her memory loss. She passed her cognitive tests within twenty-four hours of the event, and we can all see how well she was able to cope here in the hospital. She created original art, as well as read books and remembered what they contained. She even made new friends.”
Mother’s eyes got narrow. “You mean that boy.”
The counselor skipped over that comment. “The new medication is working. The neurologist’s report shows that Ava’s EEG is perfectly normal while on it.”
“Of course it is,” Mother snapped. “She only has these things on rare occasions. Do you know how many EEGs we’ve done? How normal they all looked until they weren’t?”
The counselor’s smile tightened in the corners. “I understand your fear, Geneva. I’m going to include the card for a therapist who might be able to help you. I’ve also provided a list of books to give you some insight on managing an empty nest after raising a child with a disability.”
When Mother inhaled sharply, the woman added, “Of course, we expect Ava will live with you for a while. But if she does choose to leave at her legal majority, you will have no recourse to force her back.”
I refused to look directly at Mother, but I could sense how she sank in her chair. “Of course, she’ll live with me,” Mother said. Her voice had a tremble I’d never heard before. “She has no means to support herself. If she lost her memory, who would help her?”
“We understand how hard it is to raise a child with a rare condition like Ava’s.
Finding ways to reorient herself to the world in the event of a breakthrough seizure will be part of the action plan we send home with you both.
” The woman turned to me. “Ava, it’s very critical that you keep scrapbooks and journals to help you re-enter your own life after these events.
Medication has failed you in the past, so you should prepare for the possibility of it happening again. ”
I figured that out when I was eight. “I have journals,” I said. And now I had a phone, but of course I wouldn’t mention that. I couldn’t wait to get home to a room away from Mother. I would learn how to use it. Listen to music. Talk to Tucker!
Mother’s voice wasn’t any more stable when she spoke again. “So Ava is going to be left to fend for herself? Despite everything? Even if she’s angry at me only because she doesn’t know her whole story?”
I wanted to shout, And why don’t I know it? But I wouldn’t. I had the phone. I was medically competent. I could wait until my birthday. The medicine would keep me safe. I would write on my belly to take it. To never, ever forget.
The social worker gathered her papers into a folder. “I hope the two of you will come to an amicable place and create a lifestyle that works for you both. These activities and books can help.”
Mother stood. “Right. A book. As if I haven’t read everything I could get my hands on already. If that is all, I’d like to get our things packed.”
The social worker slid the folder across the desk. “The teen years are always hard, Geneva. Ava, do your best to find common ground with your mother. She is your best advocate as you move into adulthood.”
Ha. I doubted that. When Mother didn’t reach for the paperwork, I took it myself.
I wasn’t any more interested in the activities than Mother was.
But I wanted any documentation I could get my hands on.
It was important to hide it away for the next time I needed to figure out what the hell was happening to me.
We drove home in a banged-up car that stuttered and wheezed at every intersection. I gripped the door handle, sure the whole thing was going to blow up any minute like the cars in the cop shows.
When we arrived at a funny house with two front doors, I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough, dragging my suitcase along the ground with both hands.
Two sets of stairs led to the doors. One side was spilling over with flowers, the other bare with peeling white paint. I started up the colorful side.
“Ava!” Mother called from the car, where she was struggling to pull out her bags. “Not that one. An old lady lives in the other half of the duplex. She isn’t kind, and you don’t want to bother her.”
I hesitated, sure I was welcome among those flowers. But I backed down the stairs and headed up the other side.
As I waited for Mother to unlock the door, I compared our barren porch to the other. My mind stumbled over the names of the blooms.
Then I spotted a pot of yellow flowers shaped like stars with long fluffy snouts.
Daffodils!
My heart turned over. This was a sign, like when Phoebe on Friends saw the franks and burger and knew she had to see her dad!
I reached over the rail between our porches to touch one of the blooms. Everything about the smells and color and feathery softness made my body wash over with contentment and peace, completely the opposite of what Mother told me about the woman who lived there.
My distrust of her inched up another notch.
But now we were alone. I had no nurses, no social worker, and no Tucker to help me.
I gripped the red pillow with its secret inside.
I hadn’t dared to take the phone out while at the hospital.
Carrying the pillow into the bathroom would have seemed strange, and Mother watched my every move.
I would have to wait until late at night, when Mother slept.
It would take time to figure out how to use it.
The door opened to a room not much larger than the one at the hospital. It was furnished like the places I saw on television. A sofa with a low table in front. A set of shelves with books and folders stacked inside.
A small television sat on a stand on the back wall. I headed straight for it. It was the one familiar thing.
Mother shut the door. “Don’t assume you’ll be able to watch those horrible shows here. No cable. No antenna. We have a few movies, though. You’ve always liked them.”
Movies? I wanted to ask her what they were, but I was too eager to see the rest of my house. I set down the suitcase and walked through another open doorway.
Here was a kitchen with a small table and chairs, cabinets, a sink, stove, and refrigerator.
I recognized the function of most everything, other than a few strange metal objects on the counter.
I lifted one, pushing down on a lever. The metal grew hot and I dropped it back to the counter with a clang.
“You forgot the toaster this time?” Mother asked, lifting the lever so that it popped back into place.
Right. Toaster.
“Do I usually remember it?”
“I bought this one recently.”
I wanted to ask her more, but I didn’t trust the answers.
A friendly man had come to my hospital room, showing me pictures of everyday objects and asking me to recite sentences and strings of numbers. He’d explained about the different types of memory and how they were stored in the brain. But I couldn’t keep up with all the thoughts and ideas.
I wished I could talk to him again. Now that I was someplace I ought to know, I had so many questions. Why did I recognize the refrigerator but not the toaster? Why did I know what some things were for, like spoons, but not others, like shoelaces? I’d had no idea how to tie them when we left.
“Your bedroom is down the hall,” Mother said. “The one with the pink bedspread. Take your suitcase. I’ll make some tea.”
She opened a cabinet and removed a small box that read, Black tea.
Good. She’d be busy, and I could look around on my own.
I returned to the first room and picked up my suitcase. Another opening sent me into a short hall. There were three doors.
The first room had a green bedspread, a dresser, and a table in the corner. I could tell it was Mother’s by the muted tones. The air smelled like her.
The second room was a bathroom, much smaller than the one in the hospital.
The third room held a narrow bed covered in a pink blanket. A small white dresser sat on the side wall, next to the closet door.
I breathed in. I couldn’t describe the scent of it, but it felt right. I set down the suitcase and turned to the wall behind me.
Flowers. So many flowers. They covered every inch, floor to ceiling. Pink ones. Red ones. White ones. Orange. Purple. Blue. All had green stems and leaves.
I touched one.
Paper.
The paper flowers.
I placed the heart pillow on my bed and carefully examined the flowers. They held all my secrets. Multiple notes said so. But where? How?
I stepped back. Did they make a pattern? Point to something?
The mattress dipped as I sat down. I couldn’t find any significance in the colors or rows. I knew the different styles probably had names, but I only knew two of them. Rose because all the women on the show with the bachelor had wanted one. And daffodil, thanks to Tucker.
I stared at them until my eyes blurred, then I realized some of the leaves had fine details, tiny markings that were barely perceptible.
I walked close to them. Not every flower had these markings. I pulled a pink one from the wall and brought it over to the small window for more light.
I turned it over and immediately registered the markings.
Words.
I had written words on the back of the flower, and the bleed-through made it appear as though they were little lines to give the leaves texture.
I greedily read the message.
Journal taped under middle dresser drawer.
Really?
I hurried to the dresser, setting down the flower and pulling out the drawer. I felt around, and sure enough, a sheaf of papers was fastened to the bottom.
I pulled it down.
The front cover had words similar to the ones on my belly.
Trust only this handwriting.
This is the book.
Remember your life.
The handwriting was a match. I’d carefully kept it on my skin with a marker from the art room. The teacher had let me take it.
I shoved the papers beneath some shirts in the drawer to look at later.
What other secrets did my room hold?
I almost jumped when Mother appeared in my doorway. “Would you like some tea, Ava?”
I steadied my breath before I answered, willing my voice not to shake. “I’m a little tired.” I closed the drawer slowly and carefully. She couldn’t look! That would be terrible!
“Putting your things away?” Her gaze slid to the unopened suitcase.
“Just seeing what all I had.”
She nodded, then stepped forward to pick up the paper flower I’d left on the dresser top.
My heart hammered so hard it was painful to take a breath.
“Did it fall off the wall?”
I took it from her before she might see the words. “It was on the floor.”
She glanced around my room, her gaze resting on the heart pillow. “Take some time to lie down.”
“Okay.” I moved to the bed and sat down, needing to protect my pillow. Something in her expression unsettled me, like she wanted to take it away.
My body didn’t relax until she left the hall. That had been close. Too close. I needed to be much more careful.
I wanted to close the door, lock it, move the dresser in front of it so she couldn’t get in.
But I could not raise her suspicions. I had to protect the pillow. The phone inside. My notes. My journal. My flowers.
Maybe I should sleep. Then I could stay awake late at night, when I could work without fear.
Read everything. Contact Tucker.
And if Mother scared me in any way, I would call the woman on the card. Get help. She said I could.
I stretched out on the bed, placing my head on the heart pillow. I pinched it until I could feel the solid mass of the phone hidden inside.
Tonight, I’d talk to my boyfriend.
And read the flowers to learn more about who I was.