wasn’t much of a crime ring in our county, but we had some real problems with drug addiction, just like people in the cities died. So she had jumped headfirst into helping with that issue. I think watching Jenny struggle had really been eye-opening for all of us.
When she’d found out there was no type of shelter available in Pine Hills, or even in our county, she set to work. I knew, just from the experience of living in a small town, that most of the residents would be against creating housing for recovering drug addicts. But Ava didn’t let that mindset stop her.
“Not helping them find housing doesn't mean they don’t exist. It just means we’re ignoring the problem,” she said over and over.
I really liked watching her get fired up.
She’d brought the issue to one of the city board meetings, and when one of the farmers in town stood up and said, “Listen, miss, you need to take your big city ways back up north,” I’d been ready to haul him out on his ass, and then punch him in the face for good measure. Losing my badge would be more than worth it.
But Ava had merely stared at the farmer. “I understand that you’re afraid,” she’d said, which left him sputtering. Then she’d called the high school principal up, who shocked up all by telling his own battle with addiction.
“So there you just saw a perfect example of how the right support can help someone survive drug addiction,” she’d said to her captivated audience.
No one had complained openly after that.
Surprisingly, she found quite a few residents who had struggled with drugs themselves, and they all banded together to convince the rest of the town. The shelter wasn’t even going to be in Pine Hills, but was going to be in the neighboring town.
Some of the money Ava had inherited from her mother’s family had not been seized by the FBI. She put some aside, and the rest she put into her charity work.
She’d helped raise the funds, she’d applied for non-profit status through the IRS, and she’d finished all the paperwork.
The residents would mostly be self-sufficient, but there would be a full-time social worker who lived in the shelter with them.
Jenny had been integral in helping Ava decide what worked and what didn’t. She was one month out of rehab, and living in a half-way house in Chicago.
Now at nine months pregnant, I wanted Ava to take it easy. I had finally talked her into taking a mini-vacation with me, just two weeks before her due date.
We rented a cabin on Table Rock Lake, near Branson, Missouri, and most of the activities were out of the question. Water skiing obviously wasn't an option, and I didn't want her going into labor while we were kayaking. Even a bumpy ski boat seemed too much. I did rent a pontoon boat so we could very slowly cruise around in the water.
She had invited my mother and sister along, which thrilled both of them.
She’s feisty,” my mother said,
“I hope you’re baby’s just as feisty,” my sister said.
“You say that now but you might change your mind once you’re babysitting overnight and she’s up at three a.m.”
“Oh she’ll never do that,” Abigail said, putting her hand on Ava’s stomach. Ava had encouraged my sister to interact with the baby from day one. She’d read that the baby would learn to recognize voices even before she was born. I wasn’t sure about that, but I acted as if I was. I spoke to the baby frequently, but my sister did it almost as much as I did.
I couldn’t wait for us to be a family.
As I drove the pontoon boat into a shady cove, a pleasant breeze floated over us.
“This is so different from Lake Michigan,” Ava said. “Sometimes it’s like an ocean there. And it’s so cold this early in the spring.”
As we cruised along the lakefront, my mother turned suddenly to Ava. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked.
I looked over where Ava was wincing and holding her back. “My back aches.”
“Is it a sharp pain? Or a dull one?” my mother asked.
“It’s been dull for days. This is sharper.”
She hadn’t mentioned her back hurting, not even once.
My mother tapped the boat steering wheel with her hand. “Tyler, take the boat back in.”
Shit. “Are you in labor?” I looked at my mother. “Is she in labor?”
“I’m a teacher, not a nurse or a doctor,” my mother said. “But I’ve had two