Chapter 7 - THE TEMPERATURE SHE CHOSE
Dad was charged with unlawful restraint, felonious assault, forgery and financial exploitation of a disabled adult.
He pleaded not guilty initially.
Six months later, his attorney negotiated a plea that required him to admit locking Ava in the garage, removing her oxygen and using false authority to access her funds. Sentencing was scheduled for the fall.
The court imposed a no-contact order.
The house was sold through the civil restitution process. After the mortgage was paid, the remaining equity went into a protected account while the audit determined how much Dad owed.
My condo was not sold immediately.
I refinanced it and began monthly restitution payments. The lien remained until the full amount attributable to me was repaid.
Ava never told me the payments fixed anything.
I never asked her to.
She spent three months in pulmonary rehabilitation and then moved into an accessible apartment near downtown Dayton. The building had on-site support staff, backup power for medical equipment and thermostats residents controlled themselves.
She appointed a professional fiduciary.
I was listed only as an emergency contact.
On move-in day, Ava stood in the center of her new living room while an oxygen technician tested the backup concentrator. Snow pressed softly against the windows.
The thermostat read seventy-two.
Ava raised it to seventy-three.
Nobody corrected her.
She gave me one spare key in a plain envelope.
“This is for emergencies,” she said.
“I understand.”
“Not for checking whether I took my medicine.”
“I understand.”
“Not for entering because I don’t answer fast enough.”
“I understand.”
She held the envelope a moment longer before letting go.
Our relationship rebuilt itself through ordinary things.
I drove her to pulmonary appointments when she asked.
She declined when she wanted the medical shuttle.
We ate lunch twice a month. Sometimes we discussed Dad. Often we did not.
In September, his attorney sent Ava a sealed letter.
The return address was the county jail.
Her attorney confirmed that reading it would not violate the protection order because Ava had not requested the contact and did not need to respond.
She brought it to my condo one Sunday.
“Do you want me to open it?” I asked.
“No.”
“Do you want me to throw it away?”
“No.”
We sat at the kitchen counter where Dad’s money had once helped pay for the cabinets.
Ava placed the letter between us.
“What do you think he wrote?”
“Probably an explanation.”
“Do you think it’s an apology?”
“I don’t know.”
She traced the edge of the envelope with one finger.
Then she placed it inside her bag.
That evening, I drove her home.
Ava unlocked her own front door, set the portable oxygen machine beside the couch and placed Dad’s letter in the top drawer of her desk.
She did not open it.
She did not throw it away.
Before I left, she checked the thermostat and lowered it by one degree because the apartment felt too warm.
Then she handed me my coat and waited while I stepped into the hallway.
The door closed gently behind me.
May you like
The spare key remained in my pocket.
For the first time, I understood that possessing it did not mean I had the right to use it.
