In the weeks following Oliver’s return from New York, he brought Ava presents. Records, an old WWOZ T-shirt, faded and soft from washing, a cute plush pelican that she was too old for but slept with anyway. He’d kept his distance at first, but if she was staying, well then. They talked about Lane.
“I’m counting on you,” Oliver said. “I can’t be here all the time, so we have to help each other out. Tell me if there’s any new freak-outs. Or if she gets to be too much for you. I can come over.”
“She hasn’t even noticed the stove doesn’t work,” Ava said.
“Didn’t think she would.”
Ava thought of her mom, who had cooked dinner almost every night. They ate red beans a lot, and gumbo, but more often a simple stir-fry with tofu and vegetables, or pasta with roasted winter squash and wilted greens. Healthy simple recipes that came from magazines her boss’s boss left in the break room at the factory.
“Did Lane used to cook when my mom was little?” Ava asked.
“Jeez, I don’t know, how old do you think I am?”
Oliver was high, had been smoking through the afternoon as he went about his errands and chores. He brought the mail in, smoked, tidied up a bit, smoked, sorted through the bills and paid them. Now he was smoking again.
Ava held her hand out for the pipe.
“Fuck, no,” Oliver said calmly.
“Why?”
“It’ll ruin your brain. Besides, that’s not my decision to make.”
“I’ll just get it from Lane when you’re not here,” Ava said. “I want to try it.”
“Why?”
“Cause she’s high all the time. I want to find out what it’s like for her.”
Oliver peered at Ava. “You are an interesting little human, you know that?”
“I’m not little,” she said. “I’m almost as tall as you.”
“Smoking dope is not going to teach you what it’s like to be Lane,” he said. “Nobody’s like her. Nobody understands how her brain works.”
“You mean what’s wrong with her?”
“No. I mean she’s different. Always was. She pays more attention to what’s inside her head than what’s out here.”
“I figured that out already.”
“You know why, though?”
“Why?”
“Cause it’s better. Her thoughts, or whatever they are, are more interesting than what’s outside. More complicated. For me it’s the opposite. I’d rather be out talking to people, listen to some music, try a new bar, whatever. Cause inside my head it’s only me, it’s boring. But she’s never bored, she doesn’t need anything else.”
“Then why does she smoke?”
“To help her think. For me, it’s the opposite. I can’t do shit when I’m high, really. Not anything important.”
“Talking to me isn’t important?”
“Okay, little girl. You know what I mean. We’re just hanging out. But Lane goes right to work.”
“Why do you smoke?”
“Cause it’s here, I guess. I started too young, I get bored without it. Makes the boring shit less boring. Plus it’s free.”
“What do you mean it’s free?”
“Well, it’s not my money. It’s a perk of the job. Give me a break, girl.”
“I’ll give you a break if you give me some.”
“You’re killing me.”
“Fine. I’ll stare at you until you let me.”
Ava opened her eyes wide and looked into Oliver’s, cataloging their shape, their golden flecks within the gray-hazel irises. She noted a faint white line bisecting his right brow.
“What’s that scar from?” she said.
“Got punched in the face when I was a kid,” he said.
“Why?”
“People are dicks, what do you mean why?”
“That’s sad.”
“Quit looking at me.”
“Let me smoke, then.”
“God, this is unnerving,” he said.
“I’m happy to stop anytime.”
Ava barely cared about the pot. But she was curious to see what she could get away with, how easily Oliver would bend to pressure.
“You’re too young,” he said. “Your brain is still whatever. Still forming.”
“Grown-ups always say that.”
“It’s true. If you want to get high so bad, why haven’t you stolen some off Lane already?”
“I’m a good kid.”
“Yeah. I fucking noticed.”
“Also…” Ava finally broke eye contact.
“Also what?”
“She thinks I’m my mom.”
“Fuck. Really?”
“You’ve heard her call me Louise, haven’t you?”
“She gets names mixed up, that doesn’t mean anything.”
“She never calls you a different name. I think she’s mad at me. Or afraid of me, maybe? I didn’t even do anything.”
“She and your mom didn’t get along too well, I guess. Y’all never came down here.”
“My mom talked about New Orleans, though. She missed it a lot.”
“Must be weird for you,” Oliver said. He did feel sorry for her.
“Sometimes it’s like she doesn’t know I’m here. And the rest of the time it seems like she hates me.”
“She doesn’t hate you. That’s just how she is, these days. She wasn’t always like that. She used to be more fun. More on top of things.”
Lane had been funny, hyperobservant, quick. She hadn’t been funny in a long while. She’d lost that and it probably wasn’t coming back. It was depressing to think about.
“How about some ice cream?” he said.
“What kind do we have?”
“Blue Bell. Mint chocolate chip.”
“Okay,” Ava said.
Ava was glad Oliver hadn’t given in. It was nice to have somebody watching out for her. They ate on the narrow balcony, surveying the roofs of garages in the alleyway. When they had finished, Oliver took the empty bowls to the kitchen and left. He could tell Ava was hoping he’d stay later. It was lonely for the kid. Lane wasn’t great company these days, and now that she’d begun her new piece, they barely saw her.
The next morning Ava was sipping iced coffee when Oliver banged through the front door. She went to meet him.
“Morning, Little Bit,” he said. “What’s shaking?”
“Lane’s not up yet.”
“Cool. Let’s see what she did yesterday. Come on.”
Ava followed him into the front room. She was about to ask him if he’d called Kaitlyn yet, or talked to Lane about her situation. But she forgot all that when she saw the drawing.
Lane’s sketch covered the entire wall. She had roughed in a landscape, the sea in the background, and a figure, a child, standing on the beach. Straggly grasses and palmettos protruding from the sand, cloud shapes, boats, a crushed beer can washed up onshore. Sandcastles, the remains of a bonfire, and the girl, facing Ava, her back to the sea, holding a crawfish, showing it off. The girl was unmistakably Louise.
“Coming along,” Oliver said. “It’ll be pretty. She got a lot done yesterday. Must have been up late.”
Ava half-heard. She walked forward to stand in front of the girl, perhaps seven or eight years old. The little girl’s hand extended toward Ava. She was sketched lines, she was pencil on a wall. But she was Ava’s mother and she was coming to life. Her face more excited than afraid of the crawfish’s snapping pincers, her posture, the part of her hair, the ties of her little sundress at her shoulders flapping in the sea wind. It was magic: Louise was dead, but here, again, was Louise. Ava began to tremble.
“God, she made a mess of this floor,” Oliver said. “Check out these scratches. It’s dusty in here, too. It’ll have to be cleaned before she starts painting. Some of these chairs could go in the living room for now. I wonder if she’s doing more than the one wall. We could shove everything else over there.” He picked up one side of the heavy wingback chair Lane had moved the day before. “Ava, hello. Give me a hand.”
She turned to face him, unable to speak.
“Aw, girl, now what?” He set the chair down and came to her.
Ava turned back to face the drawing. “It’s my mom,” she whispered.
Oliver put his arm around her and drew her to him. In his embrace her whole body became a conduit of grief. Sobs wracked her frame. She leaned into him, she clutched at his shirt, now soaked with tears. Her occasional hiccups and labored breathing were the only sounds. He held her until she calmed down.
Finally she let go of Oliver, came back to herself, and turned away, embarrassed.
“Okeydoke,” he said. “Take a shower, get dressed, get yourself together. You’re coming with me. Go on.”
She obeyed, stood under the hot water until she felt stronger, then dressed in her favorite shorts and old Iowa Hawkeyes shirt. She brushed her hair and stepped into her sneakers.
He drove them up Magazine through the park, to a riverside cottage turned into a bakery. He ordered for her: crawfish baguette, iced mocha, an almond croissant.
“This oughta fix you up, Little Bit,” he said. “Carbs always do the trick.”
Ava ate and began to feel more present, less depleted. They sat in the front window and beheld the narrow, rutted street and the levee wall beyond it. Gulls lined up atop the wall, squawking and messy, swooping down to pick at trash in the gutter. Ava thought of the pelican on the front room wall.
“How long will it take her to finish the painting?” she asked.
“A couple weeks, maybe a month if she gets distracted.”
“She has to finish it.”
“She will.”
“When school starts, I’ll be gone during the day.”
“You worry too much,” Oliver said. “She’ll be fine, I’m gonna be there. Just like I was before you came to town.”
Ava pushed the remains of her breakfast toward Oliver. “I’m full,” she said.
“Well, I’m not eating it,” he said. “You trying to get me fat?” He got a go-box for the leftovers and drove her home.