She picked up her keys. She walked to the front door and opened it. And the Georgia night was warm and still and smelled like somebody three houses down, was burning leaves. That particular autumn smell she associated with being a child and knowing that something beautiful was ending, but it was ending in a way that was itself beautiful. She stood on the porch.
She stood there for a full 30 seconds. Then she went back inside and walked down the short hallway and knocked once lightly on the doorframe of Ava's room. Marcus was sitting on the edge of the bed. Ava was under the covers with the dinosaur book closed on the pillow beside her. She wasn't asleep yet.
She looked at Victoria in the doorway with those direct. Dana bright eyes. The festival tomorrow, Victoria said. What time does it start? Ava sat up two inches.
1:00, she said. There's a cakewalk. What's a cakewalk? Ava looked at her father. The look communicated volumes.
She doesn't know what a cakewalk is, Ava said in the tone of someone who has identified a serious problem that must be addressed immediately. Then I guess you'd better explain it to her tomorrow, Marcus said. Ava turned back to Victoria. You have to come, she said. You need the full explanation in person, then I'll be there, Victoria said.
Ava laid back down with the satisfaction of someone who has successfully organized an event. Good night again, she said. Good night again, Victoria said. She walked back through the hallway and out the front door. And this time she kept going and she got in the old Honda and started the perfectly functioning engine and sat for a moment in the driveway before she put it in reverse.
Marcus appeared in the doorway behind the screen. She rolled the window down. 1:00, she said. 1:00, he said. She drove back through Mil Haven toward the Birchwood Inn.
Through the four lights and the blinking yellows, past the church and the school and the fall festival sign. She got back to the inn at 9:47. She sat on the edge of the bed in room 6 with her hands in her lap. She pulled out her phone. There were 31 notifications, 14 emails, three missed calls from her chief of staff.
A text from her CO that said, "Everything's fine here. Hope you're getting rest. " She looked at the screen for a long moment. Then she turned the phone face down on the nightstand. She lay back on top of the covers with her shoes still on and stared at the ceiling. And in the dark, she thought about a child's drawing taped to a dashboard.
She thought about a rice pot on a stove and a woman who could tell in 30 seconds when an engine was fine. She thought about what it felt like to dry dishes and put them somewhere that turned out to be the right place and then wrong and then get corrected without consequence. She thought about a man who looked at her and said, "The rest of it is just information. " She thought about how long it had been since she'd been just information to anyone. A very long time. She fell asleep with the lights on and her shoes on and her phone face down on the nightstand.