22
It’s not that simple, unfortunately.
We’re not instantly fixed by utterances of love and forgiveness.
Everything Ava and I did, everything we endured, it all leaves scars. Issues take time to work through.
We buy an RV big enough for the two of us to live in comfortably, and we drive away from South Carolina. We follow the coast north, away from Florida, away from everything.
There are arguments. Explosive moments of anger as we dig deeper into everything that happened. We talk through our feelings of abandonment, and how we each toyed with infidelity. We talk through mutual feelings of guilt.
We listen to audiobooks on grief therapy, and podcasts on conflict resolution. We read aloud to each other from books on forgiveness, and healing, and the nature of a healthy marriage.
In many ways, we have to create our relationship anew; we are both much changed as a result of the past year and a half, and I, especially, am far different from the man Ava met and married, different from the man I became as a result of wealth and success, and different again from the man who allowed grief to consume and cripple him. Ava, too, is different. Quieter, more given to long periods of introspection. Her passion lives more under the surface, now. She was always fiery and eager and quick to please, but now she’s…needier. She needs my reassurance more frequently, my attention, my affection.
As I do hers.
She has this look she gives me, sometimes. She’ll be sitting in the passenger seat of the RV as I drive, her legs tucked underneath her, a book open and upside down on her thigh, and she’ll look up at me. Her blueblueblue eyes will flit side to side, searching me, and she’ll bite the corner of her lower lip, and her brows will furrow, and her breathing will nearly stop.
And I know what she needs.
I will reach out with one hand, and take hers. I thread our fingers together. “I love you, Ava. Always and forever, no matter what.”
She’ll smile in relief, always seeming a little surprised that I know exactly what she needs to hear.
There are many moments when we falter, when we give in to doubt or worry. When old pain rears up. When living out of an RV is exhausting and stressful rather than fun and adventurous.
Times when we both just want somewhere to call home.
We drive north into Massachusetts, spend New Year’s Day in Boston, in a dive bar drinking cheap champagne, laughing and kissing as the ball drops. We head into Maine, and then back down into New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio, stopping for a day or two here and there when we feel like it, when we need a break from the RV. Our journey leads us into Michigan, as far as Mackinac Island, where we stay at the Grand Hotel for three amazing nights. We take the ferry over to Wisconsin. Cross westward through Minnesota and Montana and Idaho and all the way to the Washington coast.
We ease into a rhythm, together. We grow comfortable with each other once more, and conversations no longer wander into territory fraught with pain and remembered wounds.
By early March, we are in northern California, and we are ready to stop traveling. We rent a cottage in a little village nestled on the golden California coast. We cannot see or hear the sea from our home, but a short drive will take us to the cliffs, to the crash of the surf and the caw of the gulls.
I send a large monetary donation to the hospital in Conakry, care of Dr. James, with a photograph of Ava and I together in front of a mammoth redwood tree, from a hiking trip we took through the Redwood National Forest. The money we send is a huge donation, several hundred thousands of dollars, but it’s a drop in the bucket compared to what I owe Dr. James and the staff at that hospital. To Louis, I don’t send money, but French-language Bible, with a note scrawled on the opening page:
I’ll never forget your words, my friend—I’ve chosen life.
Thank you.
—Christian St. Pierre.
I owe him more than a Bible and a note, but it’s a start. A recognition of what he did for me, in saving me from the waves not just once, but twice, and then saving me again by showing me the importance of choosing life. Weeks later, I receive a package from Louis in return: my notebooks, left behind on the boat when I went overboard. I am overjoyed to have them back, as they represent my journey back to self.
Ava sits on our porch for a week straight, reading through every single notebook from cover to cover, often weeping, or stopping to kiss me.
There is a somewhat larger town thirty minutes from our village; I take a part-time job at a community college there, teaching creative writing. Ava works in a coffee shop and bookstore, shelving books and making lattes and chatting with the locals, who soon accept us both as their own.
We never discuss it outright, but somehow, at some point, it becomes clear to both of us that we are here to stay.
I don’t write, and neither does Ava; not yet. We’re not ready.
I’m not. I will write again, eventually. But, for now, we have this.
We are happy. Content. We’ve found peace.
But yet…something is missing.
It’s obvious in certain quiet moments at home, in the way Ava will search my face as if she has a question on the tip of her tongue, but she never says anything. It’s in the moments when I wake up in the middle of the night, and Ava is awake, staring at the ceiling, chewing on her lip, lost in thought.
It’s in the way, when I’m driving to teach class, that my heart yearns for something indefinable.
What is it?
I even try writing as a means of exploring it, of trying to finesse the notion into fullness, but the words won’t come out, and the feeling remains vague and under the surface.
And then something happens which highlights what it is we’re missing.
It’s a Tuesday night. I arrive home a little after nine p.m., after teaching a three-hour class.
I’m tired, and out of sorts, though I can’t put my finger on it. I’ve been out of sorts all day, and found it difficult to focus on teaching. I was looking forward as I drove home to opening a bottle of wine with Ava, sipping it as we stream a show on Netflix.
But, as I set my backpack on the kitchen island and dump my wallet, phone, and keys, I notice the house is too quiet. Silent. Empty.
“Ava?” I call out.
No answer.
Our home is a small two-bedroom cottage with one bathroom, a small kitchen, and a cozy den. There are only so many places she could be, and after a brief search, it’s obvious she’s not in the house.
Her purse, her phone, and her keys are here—we only have one car, as we live within walking or biking distance from the café where Ava works, but she wouldn’t leave the house without her keys, much less her phone or purse.
I call the café, but at 9:15 at night it’s been closed for hours, and there is no answer.
The door to the second bedroom—which we’ve set up as an office where I grade papers—is ajar. Our shared iMac is there on the desk, the screen asleep, silver keyboard pushed up underneath it, out of the way. A stack of short stories waiting to be graded sit neatly aligned at the corner of the desk.
Something niggles at me—but what? Ava wouldn’t come in here, except maybe to check for an email from Delta. I sit at the computer and pull up our email—we have both our email accounts on this one computer, so it’s a matter of clicking on her inbox to see if she got anything that would have prompted this absence.
There’s an email thread between Delta and Ava, from earlier in the day.
DELTA to AVA:
Hey, babe. Thinking of you, today. Hope you’re doing okay. We’re on the road today, so if you need me, I’m here.
AVA to DELTA:
Thanks, hon. It’s hard. It’s always hard, and it will always be hard. It’s just extra tough today.
DELTA to AVA:
Why so? Are you guys doing anything together to commemorate the day, or whatever?
Commemorate the day? What are they talking about? It’s connected to the niggling, out of sorts feeling I’ve had all day. Like I’m missing something. Forgetting something. Avoiding something.
AVA to DELTA:
It’s like he’s forgotten. I don’t know. Things are good between us, but it’s a new sort of good, you know? Like, I’m scared to bring it up. Today of all days, I need him, but he’s working. I thought he’d take the day off at least. I thought we’d go somewhere and talk about it. I don’t know. I don’t want to push him, though.
DELTA to AVA:
I wish I knew what to say. Maybe it’s just how he’s dealing with it. I love you. Our tour ends next month, and Jonny, Alex and I are coming to visit you guys, if that’s okay. Not the best time to bring it up, maybe, but I just want to put it on your radar.
AVA to DELTA:
I can’t wait to see you. It’s been too long! We heard your latest single on the radio the other day, and I about lost my mind. I’m so proud of you!
DELTA to AVA:
Thank you, Ava. It’s been surreal, this whole thing. Selling out shows, adding dates. I got invited to headline a festival in Raleigh in the fall.
In other news, Jonny proposed last night.
AVA to DELTA:
WHAT?! And you’re just now telling me? You accepted, right? OHMYGOD, you’re marrying him?
DELTA to AVA:
Well of course I accepted, crazy head. Duh! I love that man more than anything in the whole world. We’ll talk more about it when I get there, though. We can plan my wedding together. I’m sorry, I kind of hijacked this thread. I didn’t mean to make it about me. Today is about you.
AVA to DELTA:
It’s about us, Christian and me. It’s about…everything. Which is why it’s so hard today, because he’s gone and I’m alone again, which right now just feels more significant than usual. I’ll be okay. I’m also worried about something else, but I’m not quite ready to share that with anyone yet. I’m just…
I don’t know.
I’m a lot of things.
DELTA to AVA:
Well, I know I’m no expert, but if you care about my opinion, I’d say that you should talk to him when he gets home. Be honest.
I’ll email you tomorrow, OK? And call me anytime if you need me. I love you.
AVA to DELTA:
Love you too. Talk to you tomorrow.
And that’s when my eyes land on the time and date on the top right corner of the screen: Tues Apr 3 9:22 p.m.
April 3.
April 3.
Fuck.
I lean back in the chair, scrubbing at my face.
It’s April 3.
Henry died on this day, two years ago.
And I forgot.
Well, no, I didn’t forget. I suppressed the knowledge. Coerced myself into forgetting.
I know where Ava is, though.