I held Ava for hours in the same way near the stream as she slept that day. My arms were tired and tingling with numbness but I held her with determination. It was unbelievable how deep and relaxed her breaths were. Examining her body, I noticed that her feet were tiny and her toes were painted pink, which I found adorable but peculiar, knowing the type of lifestyle Ava led. They looked newly painted and I wondered if she had done it for my benefit.
She made no sound as she slept. I felt her pulse with my hand and then bent to hear her steady heart. That woman must never have slept so peacefully. It was like she had fallen into a temporary death as she lay next to the trickling stream. Her body was as seemingly lifeless as the bodies I cut open on my table. No sign of life until you peer inside and see the organ pulsing. The strange thing is that when you first see a beating heart, you expect to hear that rhythm that is so synonymous with it, but there’s barely a sound. Instead it’s just a motion like it has an independent existence. The heart will actually beat a few times once it is outside of the body, and even though I’m aware of the scientific reason, I wondered in that moment, holding Ava by the stream, if maybe our hearts really could be broken by shattered love or tragedy.
When she finally stirred and opened her eyes, she looked to the sky first, her eyes registering the observation that the sun was much lower than it had been when she’d fallen asleep in my arms.
“What happened?” she asked with a bemused expression.
I laughed. “You fell and then took a little nap.”
“How long?”
“A few hours.” I helped her stand on shaky legs.
“And you held me that whole time?”
“It was the nicest few hours I’ve had in a while.” Putting on her shoes, she seemed quiet and withdrawn again. “I didn’t mean to overstep my boundaries earlier. I’m sorry,” I said.
“I shouldn’t have, you know . . . we shouldn’t.”
I sat down next to her on a rock. “Are you still feeling a lot of grief?” What a dumb question that was.
“Grief, yes, I’m still feeling it and I always will. I don’t think it ever gets better.”
“It takes time to heal.”
“I don’t know if it’s the healing that hurts. I just miss him and I’ll never stop missing him.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” she said. She wasn’t being snarky; her eyes were wide with curiosity.
“I’m trying to.”
She nodded her understanding before looking back at the stream. “Let’s clean the fish down here. Bea can barbecue them tonight.”
Her abrupt change of subject was welcome. I thought it was interesting that the last time I had eaten meat was a piece of trout I’d ordered at a five-star restaurant in Hollywood. I watched Ava slice the belly of the small fish from neck to tail and then proceed to remove the guts. I thought about how she had wasted five years in her twenties grieving over a man who was too cowardly to live for such a strong, beautiful and capable woman.
She held the open fish belly out to me. “See? Nice and clean.” I scrunched up my nose. “You can’t be squeamish, you’re a surgeon.”
I laughed. “Good point. I just um . . . well . . . you’re doing a great job. I think I’ll let you handle this.”
“Redman would have a field day if he saw your expression.”
“Please don’t tell Redman I let you do this. He’d hang me by my balls.”
She laughed. “He’ll do worse than that. You better get used to this kind of thing though, Nate. You’re on a cattle ranch after all.”
Ah, the irony.
After we had cleaned the fish, we headed back to the ranch. I finally got up the courage to run Tequila for a short way back. It was freeing to be out in the crisp and clean air. Surely there must be more pure oxygen in the air in Montana. Growing up in L.A., there was this idea that breathing in the air-conditioning was actually healthier than going outside into the smog-filled air. People didn’t dare drive with their windows down or dance in the acid rain in the streets of Los Angeles.
In the barn, I wordlessly helped Ava brush the horses. Bea came down from the house and shuffled around in the shed. Ava went to her and handed over the bag of fish.
“Here. Trout.”
“Thank you, sweetie. I hadn’t a clue what I was going to cook tonight.” Ava nodded.
After Bea left, I asked Ava, “Do you like Bea?” in a placid, neutral tone so it seemed like idle curiosity.
She looked up immediately. “Yes, of course, I love her.”
“Oh. Sorry, I just . . . um, it seems like a struggle for you to talk to her.”
“It’s a struggle for me to talk to anyone.”
“Is it a struggle for you to talk to me?”
She threw the brush in a bin, walked past me, and replied, “Yes, but not as much.” As she left the barn I called out to her, “Are you going to be at dinner?”
“No.”
More than a week went by during which I only saw Ava in passing. I would see her truck and horse trailer going down the long driveway almost every other day, but at dinner she would be absent or sitting alone with the ugly dog on the back porch.
One morning, while I was performing the glamorous task of shoveling shit with Caleb, Ava passed us in her truck. I stood waiting for her to look over so I could wave but she didn’t. She just zoomed down the hill, leaving a large cloud of dust in her wake.
“Where does she go?” I asked.