Free London from My Windows by Mary Carter Page A

“Can I use your phone?” Ava said in a calm, normal voice. The lady’s head snapped up and she looked at Ava and she screamed as if Ava were standing there with a bloody cleaver and a severed head. “Stop,” Ava said. “I’m not going to hurt you.” Great. Now she did sound like a psychopath. Couldn’t the woman see that she was suffering? “I need help,” Ava said. Maybe she should have just let herself pass out instead. At least then she would have been picked up to a stretcher and maybe carried to her town car. For somewhere, at the other end of this terminal, if it ever did end, there was a driver picking up her bags and waiting for her with a sign. She hoped it didn’t read: Total Nut Job.
    â€œWhat are you doing? What on earth are you doing?”
    â€œI just needed a quiet space.”
    â€œIt’s the cleaning cabinet.”
    â€œI am aware.”
    â€œPassengers are not allowed in the cleaning cabinet,” the woman said. The tone of voice was as if she’d just caught Ava peeing in the supply closet. Ava was simply standing and breathing. People were so judgmental. The cleaning lady no longer sounded afraid, and she had stopped screaming, but she was hiding behind the cart. One false move and she would shove the cart at Ava as hard as she could. Ava could see it in her eyes.
    â€œI just need your phone, your mobile, or I need a man with a cart—what is that in London Lingo? A trolley—you know. To drive me to Baggage Claim.”
    The woman thrust her arm out. “Baggage Claim is that way. You will not find Baggage Claim in here. Off with you then. Out, out, out.”
    She was being shooed away like she was a child or a rodent. Shouldn’t they be a little nicer? Offer her a cold compress and a cup of tea? “Please. Just call for a trolley.” Ava stepped forward and put a hand on her heart. “I’ve always counted on the kindness of strangers.”
    Apparently the cleaning lady wasn’t a Tennessee Williams fan. Instead of helping her, the woman came from behind the cleaning cart, reached out as if to manhandle Ava. Ava grabbed a broom and held it across her chest. “Don’t touch me,” Ava said. “Just get a courtesy officer, or a trolley person, or a nice airline person who understands people with disabilities—and get them here right now.”
    â€œYou have a disability?” The woman squinted at Ava. “Are you blind?”
    â€œI’m not blind.”
    â€œAnd we’ve established you’re not deaf, haven’t we then?”
    â€œSo why are you still shouting?”
    The woman’s eyes flicked over Ava’s perfectly good legs. “Can you walk?”
    â€œYes, I can walk.”
    â€œThen what on earth is wrong with you?”
    â€œNot every disability is visible,” Ava said. “Some are hidden.” A strange, cold thought took root in Ava and began to grow. Am I disabled? She wanted to walk across the terminal by herself and she couldn’t. She wasn’t faking it, she wasn’t seeking attention, and she certainly would have given anything to be like all of those normal people out there. Maybe she did have a disability. An invisible disability. Like Superman without any powers.
    â€œYou cannot stand in the cleaning cabinet. I’ve got work to do, I have.” The woman reached for the broom and held it up like a sword.
    Where did they recruit these workers? Prison? “I’m having a panic attack. Please stop talking to me.” Ava snatched a black garbage bag from the cart.
    â€œOy,” the cleaning lady said. “Rubbish bags are not for the public.”
    â€œSo sue me.” Ava fumbled opening it—those stupid plastic bags never wanted to open—but finally got it open and put it over her head. Darkness. That was better. She could still feel the woman staring at her.
    â€œYou’re a right