Fragments of Memory

(This story contains grief and death.)

Ava pounded her fists against the glass door of the bus, but they merely smudged the grimy surface. She continued punching at the door, knowing the bus driver was ignoring her. Her left hand, scarred and contracted, couldn’t feel the blows.

“Please, please. Let me back in!” Her voice strained as tight as the E string on a violin stretched to its maximum. Her constricted throat muffled her screams, shrouded in pain.

She saw the silent faces staring down at her from their window seats. The smell and vapors of exhaust collected on her clothes, in her hair, and found their way to her lungs. She willed herself not to gag, turned her face back to the driver, begging to be let back on the bus. The driver sat like a granite statue, facing forward, and Ava watched in horror as he shifted gears and the bus slowly pulled away. Ava screamed; unsympathetic faces looked down at their books, their phones, and their papers, dismissing her. She crumpled to the sidewalk, scraping her palms on the rough surface. Her right hand began to bleed, but her left hand, with its thickened burn scar, didn’t. As the bus merged into traffic, it morphed into a smeared Monet-like blur of blues, greys, and greens, her flooded eyes unable to clear her vision.

The sidewalk was crowded, and waves of people parted around her. The echoes of their steps barely penetrated Ava’s awareness. She rocked back and forth and covered her face with her hands.

“I can’t lose them, I can’t. I can’t.” Over and over, she sobbed while the walkers continued to pass.

A young woman approached and squatted down next to Ava. She quietly asked, “Are you alright? May I help you?”

Ava thought she could still hear the bus motoring away, taking her most precious possession. If only she had taken the time to double-check. In a hurry, she grabbed her things and headed off the bus. She realized her satchel was wide open only after she was on the sidewalk and the doors were closing. She stopped, rummaged through quickly, and couldn’t find her small vinyl photo sleeve. It only held three pictures. But she had to have it back. She turned just in time to see the doors close, and her panicked pleading began.

Her hands fell from her face, and she looked curiously at the stranger sitting on the sidewalk beside her, murmuring.

“I have to get the pictures back. They must have dropped on the bus. I have to,” she cried.

“We can call the city bus company and find out which bus. There’s going to be a way to get your things back.”

Ava allowed the woman to help her stand. She couldn’t think straight and felt shrouded in a fog, more so than every day this past six months. She only remembered she was on the way to her weekly grief counseling group.

“Do you have a cell phone?” The stranger wouldn’t leave her alone. Ava just wanted to jump on any bus, every bus, and find the photos.

“No. I lost it in the fire and can’t replace it yet.”

“Do you have family? Someone I can call for you?”

“No. Nobody. It doesn’t matter. I just need to get the photos back.” She turned to look at the blue-eyed stranger. “I don’t know what to do?” And the crying began again.

“Let’s go sit in that café. Get inside for a bit and figure this out. I’ll help you make some calls.”

They sat in a booth by the window. Ava watched the street, looking for any bus.

“My name is Marie. Were you on the city bus line?”

Ava nodded yes and sat quietly, listening to Marie make several calls, trying to find out the bus route and report personal items left behind. Ava closed her eyes, and flames lapped around her; she could hear the screams again. She rubbed her damaged left hand. She took deep breaths, trying to calm herself as she had been taught. The heat rose around her, and she inhaled the acrid smell of the flames. She could hear the crackling of the fire. When she forced her eyes open, she was back in the café, and Marie was staring at her.

“Did you hear me, Ava? Three buses make that route today. At the end of the shifts, someone will check all three buses for your photo album.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. They have to find them. I must have them back.”

Ava let Marie take her back to the small apartment she was renting. Marie promised to check on her the next day and follow-up with the bus station.

As soon as Marie was gone, Ava left the apartment, went to the bus stop, and hopped on the next bus. She looked under seats and along the floors and asked people to look around them. She changed buses frequently, using her pass several times throughout the day and evening. But she never found her small vinyl album with the three tattered photos, slightly singed on the edges.

A week later, she went back to her grief counseling group and told them how she lost the only pictures of her children. She had carried these photos daily since the fire, and her connection with the images was tangible. Many words of comfort were given, but Ava was unreceptive.

A month passed, and Ava rode every bus near her bus stop. She talked with every driver. She started talking with riders she recognized from day to day. And she began to tell her story. How her children, Milly and Brandon, 5 and 3, did not escape the fire that destroyed their home on a Friday night. A stupid appliance fire that took their lives. She had tried to save them, burning 30% of her body trying to reach their bedrooms. The sight of the firemen carrying out their limp, scorched bodies as she pulled away from the EMT holding her back, trying to give her oxygen, would stay with her forever. She couldn’t save them. Two weeks later, she found the pictures as she stumbled blindly through the rubble left behind—her only remaining connection with them. One of Milly, one of Brandon, and one of her with both kids.

Six more weeks went by, and one day, Marie stopped by. “They found your photo album! Let’s go!”

Ava and Marie arrived at the bus station, rushing to the clerk. They handed Ava the small palm-size photo sleeve, well-worn from her constant touch and the number of feet that must have trampled it. But as she opened it, the pages were empty. The pictures were not there.

Once again, the weight of her grief crushed her. Did someone take the pictures? Did they fall out? She felt she would never see those pictures again and never take a deep breath again.

Ava started working at the counseling center as a receptionist and, over time, was able to help others grieving their loss. As more time passed, she would have memories of Milly’s third birthday party and the friends she was making with the daycare moms. Brandon came to her in dreams, and she would wake up still able to smell his baby lotion on her skin. The good memories made her sad at first, particularly if she caught herself smiling. More guilt. But over time, she welcomed the memories, which allowed her to feel that her children were near her.

The pictures never resurfaced, but Ava realized that her memories would never be taken from her, and the connection she still felt for her children was as strong as ever. When the orange and blue flames lapped at the surface of her thoughts, she was able to replace them with memories of Milly and Brandon at the beach, playing in a park, and learning to ride bikes. She remembered trips for ice cream and running through the sprinklers in the summer.

As she sat on her patio one evening, watching the sun go down, the last rays of golden light touched her. In that quiet moment, she understood that her bond of love for her children would transcend the sorrow. Her memories would never be lost, forgotten, or left behind.