Page 5 of The Girl He Loves
My mind doesn’t care. It’s ruthless that way. It pounds and pounds at me, until I’m beaten, “Who is Ava?” it keeps asking, over and over again, begging to be answered.
“Who is Ava?”
Unexpected discovery notwithstanding, my day must go on. I proceed as if nothing has happened, because for all I know, nothing has. This is all in my silly imagination, I’m sure. But just to ease my crazy obsessive mind, I check my address book. I don’t know what to expect when I dial the number Janet gave me years ago when she first moved. I’m happy when I get their voice message.
“Hi, You’ve reached Robert and Janet, Jordan and Brianna. Please leave a message, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”
I leave a quick awkward message. I ask her to call me back.
I check my watch. Fuck. It’s 4:15 PM. I’m off schedule. I should already be reviewing my accounts, and planning for tomorrow. Stupid picture.
They’re so loud. Every time the three of them get home, it’s mayhem. Brian kisses me on the cheek. “How was your day, sweetie?”
Sweetie. It’s what he calls me. “Good,” I reply, my mind full of Ava. I just want to wave the photo at him, and shout out,Who the heck is this girl? Who is Ava? Do you have a thing for young girls?
But I don’t. Of course I don’t. He already thinks I’m crazy, and it embarrasses me, because let’s face it… I am. I’m certifiable. I’m on two different medications. I attend therapy twice a month. And I have been hospitalized, more than once.
It’s practically a full-time job for me to appear half sane. It’s hard, but I don’t want my kids to know what their mother is really like. My friends know I’m kind of odd, but they have no clue just how messed up I really am. And Brian… he knows, and he loves me regardless. I’m lucky to have someone who is willing to put up with all my quirks.
Trevor gives me aTrevor Hug,“Hi, Mom.” And Tristan pulls me in for aTristan Squeeze. TheTrevor Hugis quick as a flash, so swift, you barely notice it, and you sometimes have to ask yourself,Did our bodies actually make contact?TheTristan Squeeze, on the other hand, is long and tight, and I feel compelled to say,I’m here, Tristan. I’m not going anywhere. I know you love me, now let me go.
When Tristan finally releases me, I check him out to make sure he’s not on drugs. I always do this. He’s never given me any reason to obsess — he’s only thirteen, after all. But he does take after his dad, and Brian used to be a stoner and boozer, back in the day. Trevor, on the other hand, is as straight as me.
“How was piano?” I ask Trevor.
He pulls out books from his backpack. “The usual.”
“Allana says he needs to practice more,” Brian tells me.
Trevor rolls his eyes, and Tristan plops down at the table. “Why do I always have to hang around after school? Why can’t you pick me up?”
I blow out a breath as I retrieve tonight’s dinner ingredients. “You know, Tristan, that I don’t drive often. Only in emergencies.”
He sighs. I know what he’s thinking.You’re such a weirdo, Mom.
I do have my license, but I don’t drive much. I can’t handle it. I’m a nervous wreck. Too much chaos. Too many rules I can’t keep straight. Too many cars. After my third road accident, Brian and I decided that I would only drive in extreme circumstances. Since I work from home, and everything is within walking distance, it’s not too bad. Brian is the one who taxis the boys around, and for that, I’m very thankful.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” Brian asks me with a pat on the rear. I smile, but then scowl at him. How dare he do that in front of the boys.
Does he do that to Ava?I shake my head.There is no Ava. Stop obsessing.
“Lasagna,” I tell him, and turn back to the pantry.
* * *
Most people’sfirst memories date back to when they were about four years old or so. Mine was when I was two. I remember it distinctly. My mother and I were at a kids’ play center. I can recall everything about it: the purple carpet, the border of letters lining the walls, in both block and cursive, the elephant on the wall, the rack of children’s books, the blocks and wooden puzzles, and the worn down instruments; a xylophone, a tambourine, maracas and a small guitar. And most of all, I fondly remember the doll house with its wooden furniture and tiny heavy cloth dolls. I liked them because you could bend their legs easily, sit them on the chairs, and tuck their legs comfortably under the table. I’d always run to the house first thing, and if there happened to be another kid playing, I’d push them out of the way. I had to tidy the house. It was always a mess. I had to make everything right. If not me, then whom?
My first meltdown took place at the play center. I’m sure it wasn’t my first, only the first one I remember. I was playing with small plastic animals. I had carefully categorized them in groups. African animals in one group: lions, elephants, zebras and the like. Domestic and farm animals in another: pigs, cows, dogs, cats, etcetera. Northern American animals in another: wolves, bears, and the tiny raccoon. Even at the tender age of two, I knew raccoons didn’t live in Africa. I had a final category for the unknowns: the cheetah was in this group.
I knew a lot about animals. I was obsessed with them and I devoured all my older sister Sacha’s animal books.
I had them all in perfect order when a small boy, about my age, perhaps a little older, came and picked up a lion. I watched him and his mother intently and scowled because I wanted them to know I wasn’t happy. He played with the lion for a while, making roaring sounds. The mother picked up the cheetah. “You like animals?” she asked.
I nodded quietly.
“What about this leopard? You like leopards?”
I stared at her for a moment, not believing what I was hearing. “It’s not a leopard.”
