Free London from My Windows by Mary Carter Page B

nutter!”
    â€œEven if that’s true,” Ava said, “you shouldn’t speak to customers like that.”
    â€œI’m getting airport security,” the woman threatened.
    â€œFinally,” Ava said. “Do it.”
    The security officers treated her with the same respect she got from the cleaning lady. It wasn’t until Ava dissolved into helpless tears that some sympathy crept into their eyes. She told it like it was. If she had to walk through this busy, humungous airport she would pass out. So they let her ride in the back of a trolley. And although she didn’t keep the garbage bag over her head—oh, how she wanted to—she did keep it clutched in her left hand, head down, and her eyes covered with her right hand. “This, too, shall pass,” she whispered to herself, over and over. “This, too, shall pass.” So many echoes in the airport. Every sense bombarded. The smells of fast food and chemicals. Dings, and clicks, and footsteps, and beeps. The bounce of the trolley as they swerved to miss pedestrians. Ava wasn’t crazy; everyone else was.
    How did people do this day in and day out? Ava’s senses weren’t used to it. They’d atrophied. She wasn’t equipped to deal with this. She was never, ever going to speak to Diana again no matter what she had packed in that suitcase for her. It was torture. It was that simple. It was torture for her and it was easy for everybody else. It made her feel enraged but impotent. As if she had a machine gun but no bullets.
    The cart jerked to a stop. Ava flew forward; her chest hit the seat in front of her. Ow. That really hurt. For a moment she forgot about everything but the sharp pain in the top of her breasts. She wanted the driver to do it again and again. “Are we here?”
    â€œI got you as close as we’re going to get,” the driver said. “If you need help the rest of the way we’ll have to get a wheelchair and—”
    Ava opened one eye. People swarming, shoving, moving. She shut the eye as quickly as possible. “Yes, please,” she whispered. “Wheelchair.” She didn’t have to cry. She was shaking. And pale. Surely everyone would think she was British.

CHAPTER 7
    Her driver looked like a member of ZZ Top. He had on a driver’s cap, dark glasses, and was sporting a long beard. Ava had an urge to tug on it, see if it was real. He held up a sign: Ms. Ava Wilder.
    Ava pointed to the sign and the driver from the trolley, who was now pushing her wheelchair, wheeled her up to him.
    â€œâ€™Allo,” the driver said with a slight bow. He sounded like the chimney sweep in Mary Poppins . He took in the wheelchair and his eyes widened. “I didn’t realize,” he said.
    â€œI can walk,” Ava said. “I’m just a little weak right now.”
    â€œOf course,” the driver said. He turned to the attendant. “I can take her from here.”
    â€œBritish luck to you,” the attendant said to her driver with a parting glance at Ava. “Leave the chair at the curb.”
    â€œJerk,” Ava said under her breath. She clutched her suitcase on her lap as the driver wheeled her and Diana’s suitcase out to the curb where a boxy white car was waiting. Ava felt every bump the wheelchair hit along the way, and every noise jangled her nerves. She squeezed her eyes shut.
    They stopped. Her luggage was lifted off her lap and Ava listened as he put it in the trunk. Boot, isn’t that what they call it here? Soon he was standing over her. “Do you need help? Shall I lift you?” Ava opened one eye. Just enough to see the car door open, black leather seats beckoning her inside. From what she could see, it was a cloudy day. It smelled like rain was coming.
    â€œNo, thank you.” Ava stood, then crawled into the back seat, lay down, and since there weren’t any covers, draped the plastic garbage bag over her