Chapter 23 Ava
Ava
Tucker was right.
Mother found me.
She probably saw the online post too.
I was so stupid.
So. Stupid.
I was wiping down the counter to the bar in the back of the diner when the door opened mid-afternoon. I recognized her hair and flowered dress right off and ducked down next to the sink.
Harry had been replacing a keg when he saw me hit the floor. “What’s going on, Lil’ Ava?”
I pointed up.
Harry stood and grunted. “I see the resemblance.”
I tried to keep my breathing steady as footsteps approached the bar.
My mother’s voice was strong and sharp. “I’m looking for Ava Roberts.”
I squished myself between the ice vat and an empty keg, pulling a damp towel onto my head for good measure.
Harry glanced down, then leaned over the bar, his big belly hanging over his black jeans.
“Nobody named Ava here.”
“She answered a job ad for your restaurant.”
So, Mother could use the internet. I knew now that the machine in the box in her room had been a computer. She must have fired it up after I ran away.
“I might recollect someone by that name posting,” Harry said easily. “But she never showed.”
A silence ensued. I peeked up at Harry and his gaze was boring into her, his elbows braced on the bar.
“Might I have a look around, then?” Mother asked.
Shoot. If she moved to the side, she’d be able to see me. The counter didn’t fill the entire wall, so if you walked to the end, you could easily glance behind it.
“Certainly,” Harry said.
I kicked out my boot to smack his ankle. He didn’t even flinch.
I covered my face with the towel, which reeked of beer and lime juice. She couldn’t do anything to me, not really. I was an adult with a job and my own apartment. I had nothing to fear.
Still, I did. She knew secrets about me. That I had seizures. Could she make one happen? I didn’t know.
I risked another peek and saw Big Harry gesturing toward the opposite end of the counter. Charles, one of our regulars who kept a semi-permanent residence on one of the stools, stumbled off his chair.
He headed over to the juke box and dropped in several coins. A corny country song came on, and he moved out of my sight.
Harry winked down at me.
“Can I have this dance?” Charles asked, and I knew the sudden gasp was my mother. “Come on, darling. It’s my favorite song.”
Rapid footsteps headed in the direction of the door. The light brightened, then dimmed again.
“Is she gone?” I asked.
Harry nodded. “You’re safe.”
I stood, eyes on the door, terrified she’d return.
“You owe her something?” Harry asked.
“She’s my mother.”
“I figured. So you don’t owe her nothin’.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “Exactly.”
Charles sank back onto his stool. “I scared her off,” he said.
Harry pulled a tall draught from the keg and slid it over to him. “Thank you kindly for your service.”
I would have to be a lot more careful. I couldn’t trust anybody. I was like this big target anyone could bring down. What would happen if I lost my memory alone in my apartment? I wouldn’t even know I worked here. I wouldn’t know anything.
I felt sick. Big Harry told me to go home for the day. The restaurant was dead anyway.
Paranoia took over. What if I had a seizure in my apartment right now?
I worked like my life depended on it.
I printed the words “trust only this handwriting” on my belly, like my old notes told me to do.
I wrote down everything I had learned.
About the shelter.
About the things the women taught me.
Men can’t be trusted.
Don’t become a baby mama.
Don’t let anyone hurt you.
I wrote about Big Harry’s and how he kept me safe. I described my apartment. I wrote out everything from all the backs of the paper flowers I’d brought from my room at my mother’s house. Then I collected my birth certificate and medical records, everything I had.
I took the whole stack to a print shop and had the originals bound in a spiral, plus an extra copy made. I took the second book to Sheila. I said if I ever ended up at the shelter again, she should use it to help me figure out who I was. She said she would.
She sent me home with a DVD of a movie called Memento. Said I might learn something. I watched it three times and bawled my head off. How could he live like that? If his mind drifted even for a moment, he forgot everything all over again.
But at least he knew his name, his childhood, his purpose. I wasn’t sure which was worse, his condition or mine.
The next afternoon, I collected some tips and went to the tattoo parlor down the street from Big Harry’s. I got my warning inked onto the inside of my wrist, based on the words I scrawled on a sheet of paper for the artist to use. Trust only this handwriting. Find the book. Remember your life.
Then I had them tattoo my name and birthdate on my hip, upside down, so I could read it myself. On the other hip, we added Mother is bad.
Nobody could erase them now.
I hoped Mother never found me again. She scared me.
Maybe my brain couldn’t remember everything she’d done or why, but the part of me that controlled my survival instinct knew to stay far, far away.