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For now.
I graduated from St. Luke’s under “special circumstances.” Miss Turner sent my diploma to Amy’s PO box. It’s the only address I felt comfortable giving out. I’m not really sure what to do with a certificate that says Congratulations. You survived. Barely. She’s the only one I talk to from back home, and our phone calls have become less and less over the year.
Sometimes, when I get really lonely, my thoughts wander to my old life, to my old friends, to Connor. But I’m quick to push them away. I have to be. One thing I’ve learned from Miss Turner’s random emails she sends is that I need to stop punishing myself, and thinking about Connor is the worst form of punishment there is.
“How have you been, Mama Jo?” Trevor asks her.
“Same. Always the same.”
Trevor glances at me, and I can see the struggle in his eyes. I shake my head, mouth, “No.” Because I know what he’s thinking. He wants to give it all up. Again. Quit school and work and find a way to take care of her. Of us. But I won’t let him. And it’s not that I don’t think about it or think of other ways we can do this. Every day I wake up, and it’s the first thing on my mind, but we can’t go through all that again. We went through so much pain and so much heartache, and it’s not our salvation; it’s just a band-aid.
We stay for a couple of hours before Mom says she’s tired. I get her into bed and then manage to find a nurse so we can get our weekly rundown.
Everything is the same.
Her meds haven’t changed.
Her moods haven’t changed.
It’s always the same.
And that same has to change.
I just don’t know how.
* * *
Trevor drives me home, walks me to my apartment, his nose scrunched the entire time. From the busted stairs to the rickety hallway, all the way to my door that has to be kicked open with force. “Have I mentioned how much I hate that you live here?”
My neighbor, an old man wearing nothing but striped blue and white boxer shorts, opens his door and peeks outside. “Can I help you?” he growls.
Trevor’s brow dips. “Yeah, you can. By getting some damn clothes on.”
I pull on his T-shirt until he’s in my apartment, then close the door behind him. He jiggles the knob until the lock clicks. “Ava, you need out of this shithole.”
“I like it,” I tell him, and it’s not a complete lie. I like that I have my own space and that I can go from my bed to the kitchen to the bathroom in five steps, total. I like the crazy old lady a few doors down who sits out on her balcony every night and tells stories to no one about all the drunken sailors she courted once upon a time. I like the morning sun when it filters through my curtains, and I like the smell of my little herb garden I keep in the corner of the living/bedroom.
He reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a glass—I like that I can keep glasses out in the open and not freak out if it breaks. He fills the glass with water from the tap, then opens the fridge and stares at the contents. “Feed me.”
I tap on his shoulder until he moves out of the way and start getting ingredients to make him a stir-fry. Just as I pull out the chopping board, my phone rings. I take it out of my pocket and stare at the number, my heart racing. It’s a North Carolina number, but I don’t recognize it, and so I do what I do every time an unknown number calls me. I answer, but I stay silent. Trevor watches me, his brow dipped in confusion.
“Hello?” a lady on the other end says.
Trevor motions to the phone, as if to say talk, but I press my finger to my lips, tell him to shut up. I made a choice to block everyone’s numbers for a reason—to help heal my heartache—and I don’t want to go backward now.
“Hi, this is Lydia from Sunshine Oak Residential Clinic. I was hoping to speak to Ava Diaz if—”
“Hi,” I cut in, my eyes wide. “I’m Ava.”
Trevor steps closer, his glare panicked.
“Hi, Ava,” says Lydia. “I wanted to speak to you about your mother’s care—Joanne Diaz. Are you available to discuss this at the moment?”
“Yes,” I breathe out.
Trevor’s rolling his hands as if asking for answers. I put the phone on speaker and hold it between us.
“Great,” Lydia perks. “Well, I’m not sure if you’ve heard of us—”
