I sit next to her. “And here she is.”
Ava fakes a smile. “Hey, Ava. I’m you. Just another you. I’ve started a new medicine. We’re hoping this is the one. We’re on what—number five?”
“We are,” I say. “We’re hoping this drug is the one.”
“I’m feeling okay,” Ava says. “The side effects aren’t too bad. I’m thirsty all the time.” She holds up her big green water bottle. “Easily solved.”
I turn the screen back to me. “We’re heading out in a minute to make our rounds of ‘This Is Ava’s Life.’ And hopefully this sequence will be the last for a good long while.”
Ava nods. “Not loving this journey for me.”
I let out a chuckle. Ava watched an entire season ofSchitt’s Creeklast night, and she definitely loved Alexis. She’s quoting her constantly.
I shut off the camera so we can move on. “You ready?”
She nods. “Just you and me?”
“If that’s okay.”
“Sure.”
We lock up the house and get in my car. I’ve taken the week off from my job, like I always do when she resets. It takes a while for her to be alone safely, as she still easily jumps to conclusions based on what she finds and reads first.
We don’t tempt fate, ever. We’re fastidious about movies we see and places we go. Strobe lights are stupidly ubiquitous in entertainment. Amusement parks, haunted houses, and even roller rinks and indoor mini golf can be treacherous.
But things are good. Ava’s classes are going well despite the wild ride of medicine roulette. Her professors are informed, and Marcus got a specialized plan put into place ensuring they couldn’t fail her because of her disability. But it’s been fine. So far, people are more curious than anything.
Today, it’s time to remind her of who she is outside of our house.
“So first we see the lady I lived next door to for a few years,” Ava says, consulting the book of photographs we’ve put together. She doesn’t yet know she took them all herself.
“Right. You bonded with her over the flowers on her balcony. Her name is Maya. Grandma Flowers in your notebook.” We switched to using Maya’s real name afterthe last reset because Ava insisted on seeing photo IDs that time.
We park in front of the duplex and stomp up the steps. Maya rises from her porch chair to envelop Ava in a big hug. Ava is gracious, even though she often bristles when new people act too familiar.
Maya also believes that the heart remembers. When we first created the memory reorientation sequence, I suggested she be less touchy-feely at first. But Maya insisted that her hug would bring back more connection with Ava than any conversation or photograph. As usual, she’s right, and Ava melts into her.
Maya shows Ava the shared back porch and talks about the flowers Ava loved the most. I point out the window I crawled through the fateful night of my arrest.
Several college boys live next door these days, and Maya clucks her tongue at the beer cans strewn around the yard, saying, “This too shall pass.”
We drink lemonade and eat cookies while I video their interactions. Eventually, I recognize the glow in Ava’s face that lets me know some piece of herself has returned, not in memory, but in the emotional connection. So, I tell her it’s time to move on.
Maya leans close to me and quietly whispers, “Good luck, sweet boy.” I know she means getting Ava to return to me, which is always the hardest relationship to reestablish.
Next, we visit Big Harry’s Diner. As we park in front of the dive, Ava turns to me and asks, “Where the heck are you taking me?”
“You used to work here.”
Ava peers out of the car window with trepidation. “Was it safe?”
“You were epic. You could handle the most belligerent customer with a practiced hand. Besides, if anyone gave you an ounce of trouble, Big Harry would have thrown them out.”
Despite Ava’s insistence that she isn’t familiar with the place, she knows exactly how to tug on the cranky door to make it open.
“He should fix that,” Ava says.
“You say that every time.”
