The shock was still fresh in my mind when we reached Ava's neighborhood. It looked the same – we had only been gone a few days – and the streets were deadly quiet. It was evening, nearly eight o'clock, and everyone was already in their homes. Ava led me by the hand down the road and around the different corners until we had reached the house that was her own.
I could feel my heartbeat speed up. Truthfully, I was scared. I didn't know how I would react to seeing her again... especially now, with her daughter dead. Would she look different from before? Would she act differently? Would she be sobbing her heart out at the loss of her little girl, or would she put on a brave face for her husband and son? I had no way of knowing. I could do nothing to prepare myself for the next few minutes.
Ava did not immediately walk inside the house. She stopped to look around the front yard. A large oak tree stood tall and proud in the middle of the lawn. The flowers near the house were in full bloom; white peony and little purple candy-stripes. Marmalade took the opportunity to roll about in the soft grass, purring contently all the while.
Ava bent over to peer at the grey cement of the road. She pointed to a small dark spot. "Is that blood?"
I took a closer look. It was. Dark red, dried, it was definitely blood.
"Is it... my blood?" she asked, almost as if the question would get her in trouble.
I nodded. "Yes. From when you got hit."
"Oh," was all she could say.
I suppose it was finally dawning on her that she was truly dead. She wouldn't be able to live out the rest of her life, wouldn't be able to grow up and go to university, get married, have kids of her own. Her time with me was a last adventure, and then she would have to leave. But, despite these heavy thoughts, she didn't seem all that depressed.
"Do you think mommy and daddy will be okay without me?" she questioned.
I licked my lips. "I suppose so, eventually. They'll miss you for a long time, but after a while they'll be able to move on."
Ava sat down on the curb. "I hope they remember to feed Mr. Bubbles."
I chuckled slightly. "Is that your pet fish, by any chance?"
"No." She kicked out her shoes. "Mr. Bubbles is my gerbil."
"Oh."
I sat down next to her. We remained quiet for a few minutes, watching the odd car go past, taking in the silence. I didn't know what to say.
"I guess we should go in now." She whispered the words, like she was telling me a great secret.
I nodded. "If you want to."
"Mm-hm."
We stood up. She took my hand. We walked to the front door. She knocked.
"You don't have to knock, no one can see us," I reminded her. "Just go in."
"Oh, right. I forgot." She took the door knob and turned it, the door slid open quite easily. We stepped inside.
The house was nice. Messy, perhaps, but just messy enough to make it look lived-in rather than dirty. The large stone fireplace was blazing brightly, set against wood-paneled walls. The various different armchairs were arranged in a semi-circle around the coffee table. The carpet was littered with toys and games, clothes, cards of condolences... things that both parents couldn't be bothered to pick up, not with the death of a child still fresh in their minds.
Ava led me down the hallway into the dining room. It was small, cozy, with a nice little table and a bright chandelier to light up the room. Next to the dining table sat three wooden chairs, a bright blue high-chair, and a pink chair with the name Ava painted on the back. It looked as if it hadn't been moved in days. A little purple sweater still hung from the back.
I could hear noise coming from the kitchen. My breath caught in my throat, I could feel my blood run cold. I didn't want to go in there. Ava was tugging at my hand, trying to lead me away, but I didn't want to go. I didn't think I could face her.
"Come one!" she whispered, pulling at my arm again.
I shook my head slightly. "I don't think I can. You should go."
Ava was having none of my antics. She sighed, quite dramatically, walked around to my back, and began to push me through the doorway.
There they were. She was sitting there at the counter, a mug of tea in her hands. Same fair skin, same freckles, same red hair. It was her. Only not her. Her hair, though the same fiery shade, looked unkempt. Wild, messy, thrown back in some sort of a bun. I could see her eyes – still green, like the deep waters – tinged with red, bloodshot, and sad. She had bags under her eyes. Her once-rosy cheeks were pale and gaunt looking. She looked defeated, miserable, and grief-stricken.
The husband was washing dishes, his hands moving as if on autopilot. He didn't seem any more cheerful than she did. They didn't speak, barely even breathed, the silence louder than anything.
"They look so sad," Ava commented, walking closer to her mother.
"They miss you," I croaked. "They miss you very, very much."
I took a step closer to where she sat. I felt the urge to reach out my hand and touch her. I wanted to hold her, to comfort her. I wanted to make her feel better. I wanted to brush the hair out of her eyes and tell her that hey, it's okay, I've got your daughter, I'll keep her safe. I knew it wasn't possible. But I reached out anyways, tentatively, and put a hand on her shoulder.
She felt it. I didn't think she would, but she did. She shuddered. Once, twice, she began to shiver like it was the middle of winter. And then she cried. Her husband dropped the dishes at once, letting one fall to the ground with a clatter, and ran to his wife. He put his arms around her, and she sobbed, louder than I had ever heard before. She rested her head on his shoulder and cried. Cried like the world was ending.
I took a step back. I didn't know what had happened, I hadn't done anything! I had only touched her! Why was she crying so much?
It's you. It's your fault.
No, it couldn't have been me! I didn't do anything to her!
You touched her. She felt Death. And let me tell you, right now Death is the last person she'd want to see.
But it wasn't my fault... I didn't kill her daughter, Gregory did...
Perhaps Gregory was directly responsible for the death of little Ava, but then again, if you hadn't caused Marvolo Warner to die all those years ago then absolutely none of this would've happened.
That didn't make sense. How could've it all been my fault?
Just think about it for a minute. Say you didn't knock over the bottle, that night when Warner died. Warner wouldn't have gotten shot; Demetri would've been killed instead. You wouldn't have followed Demetri to his home, you wouldn't have met that cat of yours, Marmalade would still be alive. If Marmalade was still alive, Gregory Fitch would not have been blamed for the death of a client's pet. He would've gone to Mr. Kingsley's office without such things weighing down his mind, he would've behaved more rationally, wouldn't have gotten drunk. He wouldn't have down all that alcohol and then decided to go driving. And if he hadn't gone driving—
"—Ava would still be alive."
Forgetting Ava and her parents, forgetting my surroundings, I came to terms with the ultimate fact. It was my fault that Ava had died. It was my fault that Ava's mother, the woman I loved, was being torn apart with grief. And after that realization, what could I do but run away?