Center of Gravity

by Laura McNeill

  “Jack, are you in there?” The glare from the light blocks my dad’s face. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  It’s probably a good thing he found me. It’s stuffy in here. Terrible monster-starvation sounds growl from my belly. And I can’t feel my right leg.

  His hand reaches in and helps pull me out by one arm. I limp to the sofa and collapse on the mountain of thick pillows, sinking my cheek into the one on top.

  “Jack.”

  I lift my head an inch or two. “Sir?”

  “Ava and I are having some issues. I’m sure you realize that.” He interlocks his fingers, puts his elbows on his knees, and stares at my face.

  “Yes.” No sense in lying, though this morning I’d like to fake a vomit-fest. Or have fire trucks scream by at ninety miles an hour.

  “You’re not a baby anymore, Jack. So I’ll give it to you straight. Sometimes parents argue. They disagree about things. And that’s okay.” He sighs. “But when you work hard, take good care of your family, and love your children and wife as much as I do, it hurts when one person isn’t telling the truth.”

  I sit up straight. He means Ava. Sucker punch. My gut contracts. The room turns like a Tilt-A-Whirl ride at the state fair.

  Dad reads my brain waves. “It’s a huge blow. I’m horribly disappointed.”

  He keeps talking. I stop listening. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to start over. I don’t want anything to change.

  Our hero, Harry Potter, at this point in the story, would receive a mysterious envelope. An invitation to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The answer to his dreams! But when his evil uncle finds out, he does everything to stop Harry, including hiding him at sea.

  In the book, half giant Rubeus Hagrid storms their rickety shack in the middle of the ocean for a dramatic rescue. Harry heads off to Hogwarts, makes friends, and finds an invisibility cloak along the way. How cool is that?

  Of course, he’s in trouble every other day, a dead girl follows him, he deals with drooling three-headed dogs, a huge snake, and You-Know-Who. Oh yeah. That’s the person who’s trying to kill him. But he’s got magic on his side. What I wouldn’t give to be Harry Potter right now.

  “I’m sorry.” My dad grips my shoulder and yanks me back to Mobile, Alabama. He stands up, brushes at an imaginary wrinkle on his pants. “The truth can be tough to take. There’s a line that’s been crossed.”

  I see his suitcase then. Packed full.

  “You’re leaving again?” Shock courses through me like I’ve stuck my finger in an outlet.

  He meets my eyes. “For now, yes. I’ll be nearby.” Dad tells me an address. Explains it has something to do with the college, but I don’t want to hear it.

  All of a sudden, I’m furious and freak out. “No. Fix it. Both of you apologize. Make her happy. No one has to leave.” I’m crying. Big, blubbery tears wet my cheeks, drip on my shirt.

  Dad reels back, off guard. He blinks at my outburst. For once, there’s no snappy comeback, no words of wisdom, no rehearsed, perfect answer. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Rakes his fingers through his hair. Turns around and leaves. A door opens and closes. Footsteps.

  The Range Rover’s engine rumbles to life. I race to the window. Taillights snake from the garage and swing out of sight. He thinks I’m taking Ava’s side. My body shakes like a winter’s wind has whipped my bare skin. My knees buckle. I press a hand to the window, my fingers wide. But he’s gone.

  CHAPTER 15

  AVA

  TUESDAY, MARCH 30

  I must be desperate. I’m calling my mother for advice. She answers before I can leave Sam’s bedroom.

  “Ava, is that you?” Her tone arches with a smidge of concern.

  “Yes,” I whisper back. As I place the phone between my ear and shoulder, I pull the cover over his legs, turn on the baby monitor, and tiptoe from the room.

  “Darling,” Mama says. “Your throat sounds scratchy. Make yourself some tea with honey.”

  All at once I’m twelve again, knobby-kneed and awkward, anxious to please. Stop it, I tell myself and sit down in the kitchen. I watch the red lights on the small, square receiver travel back and forth with Sam’s breathing, the motion of a pendulum.

  “How are you?” I stall and wipe down the counter until it shines in the sunlight.

  Mama winds up her list. “Just dandy, thank you for asking. That awful rheumatoid arthritis is flaring up in my hands, those obstinate squirrels are digging holes around my brand-new trailing verbenas, and all George wants to do is drink coffee with those horrible men who smoke cigars all day and talk about college football.”

  Some things never change.

  My mother clucks her tongue in frustration. “And I’m out the door for a meeting at the country club. Did you need something, dear?”

  “Sort of.” I hesitate and reach for the small watering can under the sink. After filling it, I move from ivy to fern, African violets to bright pink bromeliads. Mitchell finds all of my plants cluttering, but it’s a point I’ve refused to concede. The greenery soothes me, especially in moments like these.

  I hear her breathing quicken. My mother hates, hates, hates hearing about anything difficult or personal when it comes to family. She doesn’t want the details—won’t spend hours dissecting a relationship’s strengths and quirks. She’s much better at handing out advice. Still, she’s my mother. And I could use some help. A little bit of empathy.

  “Mitchell and I. We’re having . . . problems.” The confession spills like marbles across pavement. I massage my midsection in an effort to settle my stomach.

  Mother rattles her keys, a signal of her impatience. “With the house? The plumbing again? Call my handyman and get him out there.”

  On cue, the workmen in the foyer burst into laughter. I lower my voice and turn my back. “No, Mother. Personal issues. And I don’t have anyone to talk to,” I say. “In fact, I—”

  My mother coughs violently, enough that I have to hold the phone a foot away from my ear. I’m probably giving her chest pain.

  “Ava, I’d like to help. I wish I could. But I think you’ve been watching too many movies. Then again, you’ve always had a vivid imagination. You’re simply overreacting.”

  “Mother—”

  “You listen to me, young lady,” she interrupts with hushed urgency. “Think before you do or say anything irrational. Use caution. Unless the damage has been done already.” She pauses. “It has, hasn’t it? What have you done? Oh, Ava.”

  Guilt, familiar and heavy, rushes through my veins. My mother is an expert at seeing everything as my fault. For a long time, I believed her.

  Gripping the counter’s edge, I watch my knuckles turn white. “We might not—”

  Mama cuts me off a third time. “Let me tell you this: Mitchell adores you. And women, especially in your position, need to support and love their husbands unconditionally. He holds a prestigious place in the community. He has an image to maintain, responsibilities. As I live and breathe, Ava Keyes, I think you’ve done enough to tarnish your reputation over the years. Now go fix everything before it gets . . . unfixable.”

  Judge, jury, verdict decided. Arguing is pointless.

  “Yes, ma’am.” And I hang up.

  I rake my fingers through my hair and sigh. My biological father did a number on both of us; his behavior, his recklessness, caused lasting scars for both Mama and me. Daddy, an account manager and salesman for an international paper company, was a philanderer of the highest breed. Charming, adept at spinning stories, so earnest and likable that Mama always said he could sell ice to the Eskimos. On the outside their marriage looked perfect, but life with Daddy was far from blissful. Even as a young girl, I remember Mama complaining about him staying late at the Mobile Country Club, having expensive dinners out with clients, or racing off to emergency meetings in Birmingham or Huntsville.

  Any questions I posed were met with silence from Mama, and as I grew into a teenager, I w
atched her sink further into depression over Daddy’s extended absences. The strange thing was, while he disappeared for days at a time, my father meticulously checked in on Mama. I would overhear their phone conversations, Mama explaining that she’d been to the hairdresser or grocery store, tearfully defending herself if she missed one phone call.

  I began to dread my father being home. Mama and I tiptoed around, assessing his demeanor before speaking. If he was happy, Daddy was a joy to be around. I would hope upon hope that he had finally changed; that he’d love me the way other people’s fathers seemed to adore their daughters. But it never lasted. If something or someone annoyed him, his black moods could last for days, like molten lava waiting to bubble to the surface of the earth, exploding all at once in a fiery stream of smoke and ashes.

  Then one phone call during my senior year of high school changed everything. The blur of events played out like a movie—Mama dropping the phone, the police coming to the house, calling hours, Daddy’s funeral. He’d had a heart attack in Montgomery and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. At first I didn’t comprehend that it all had happened in his mistress’s bed.

  The news shook me to the core. My body swirled with shock, grief, and anger. Worst of all, he’d let his life insurance lapse, leaving Mama and me close to destitute.

  Much to my mortification, Mama wasted no time finding Mobile’s most eligible bachelor. She married George a year later in a lavish ceremony on the grounds of the Bragg Mitchell Mansion. From that point on, between shopping trips, spa days, and vacations to Napa, Mama drilled into my head the importance of marrying well. Choosing a mate with money, a man who appreciated me, who didn’t travel fifty weeks out of the year. A man who didn’t cheat.

  I reacted like a typical teenager—I ignored my mother’s advice and ran off to Texas with a boyfriend I thought would love me forever. Instead of happily ever after, I was left alone and humiliated. My mother almost disowned me. My friends ignored me for months. The gossip was brutal and cruel. I couldn’t get to college fast enough.

  It’s a wonder, after Daddy and Dallas, that I ever got married at all.

  Still smarting from my mother’s lecture, I decide to look for the pictures Jack needs for school. I head for the bedroom and step inside the closet. Above my head, on the tallest shelf, I reach a hand and stretch my fingers, nudging the album to the edge. Finally, it teeters and falls. I catch the book in my arms and sink to the floor.

  As I begin to turn the pages, I find a photo or two of Mitchell and discover gaps several pages long. I flip through, faster and faster. The pattern continues. No Jack, no Karen, no family pictures, no house. It’s as if my husband’s past life has been all but erased.

  My chest tight with worry, I turn the album over and shake it. A small rectangle flitters into my lap. With a trembling hand, I pick it up. Jack. The photo is tiny and faded but will have to do.

  From his bedroom, Sam calls out for me. I jump up from the floor, slip the photo in my pocket, and put the album back on the shelf. Which is when I notice that the gun case is gone. The one Mitchell took to the school the night of the senior prank. He put it back up on the shelf the next day. It’s been here since then . . . hasn’t it?

  I stand on my tiptoes, craning my neck to look. A finger, ice cold, trails down my back. I shiver and cross my arms, frustrated. Sam cries out again. As I jog to his bedroom, I block out my confusion. Surely there’s a logical explanation.

  Hours later, after school, Jack grabs at the phone when it rings. While he’s talking to Mitchell, my mother’s impassioned words echo in my mind. “Think. Use caution. Fix it before it gets unfixable.”

  I’m holding Sam in my arms, breathing in his innocent-baby fragrance. Jack hands the phone to me. He goes back to doing homework, pretending he’s not listening to our conversation.

  Mitchell is polite, respectful, and careful. He lets me know that he paid the contractor in full for the staircase renovations. It’s just easier, Mitchell explains, and I find myself nodding in relief at his decision. Then, after a pause, he asks if he can pick up his overcoat. And the boys. Tomorrow. Just for a few hours, he says, after school. He misses them so much.

  Like a ghost breezing by me in a darkened hallway, my mother’s thoughts nudge me. He misses them, Ava.

  “Would that be all right?” he asks. “I’ll have them back around seven. Just pack their pajamas and toothbrushes. They’ll be ready for bed.”

  And stupid me, I say yes.

  CHAPTER 16

  JACK

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 31

  When Dad swings by to pick up Sam and me, a million questions fly across my brain, like Scooby-Doo chasing clues.

  What’s happening? Are you getting a divorce? What’ll happen to Sam and me?

  But I keep my mouth shut.

  Ava keeps her bright smile while the workmen are here, four of them in their sweaty, worn T-shirts and frayed jeans. She keeps a pot of coffee brewing and, this afternoon, slides chess pie from the heat of the oven. The top of it glows gold like hay in a farmer’s field. The entire house is thick with the smell of warm caramel, the kind you drizzle over vanilla ice cream. As usual, Ava doesn’t eat a bite, just passes it out to the men and me on wobbly paper plates.

  When the workmen leave for the afternoon and Dad pulls into the driveway, her mood clouds over like a storm that’s raced across the sky. Her shoulders curve inward, like she’s bracing herself for a blast of wind. Without a word, she hands over his long, tan coat.

  Sam, permanently velcroed to her hip, starts crying the moment Dad touches his middle. “No, no,” he cries, squawking and tilting his head back, flailing his arms.

  Ava turns away, closes her eyes, and gives me a quick hug. She hands over Sam’s diaper bag and disappears into the house.

  An urge to run after her hits me. My legs twitch, but I force them to be still. It will only make Dad mad, and I can’t risk that. I make myself metal instead. Tough, unbendable, blocking out everything, even my brother’s cries—even if it’s just for a second.

  Before I get into the Range Rover, Dad asks me if I’ve brought a few DVDs, just in case. I show him my personal favorite, Scooby Doo and the Witch’s Ghost, along with The Samurai Sword, and a few others.

  Sometimes I like to pretend I’m right there with the Mystery Machine gang, hiding in a dark closet behind the brooms to get away from creepy villains. Making a plan with Fred and Velma to solve the crime.

  Sure, I’m old enough to know that monsters and goblins don’t exist, but there are bad folks that like to trick other people. Like the time I figured out my ex-friend Stuart stole my baseball cards. Man, he loved them, looked at them every time he came over. One day, gone! All of them, and I didn’t want to believe he’d take them.

  When I got up the courage to ask, he choked up, turned tomato-red, and denied it. He stopped coming around. Weeks later, on a whim, I took a detour by his house. His mom let me in, smiling, and gestured at the stairs with oven mitts on her hands. Stuart had his back to me, playing some new version of Call of Duty, oblivious to my footsteps. And there they were, my cards, in a neat stack by his bed.

  I didn’t want to find them. Didn’t want to know he’d do a buddy like that. I took a step or two, grabbed the cards, turned around, and left. It stung for a while, but I’m over it.

  Lesson learned: Monsters don’t have to be green or crazy with gnashing teeth. They look like regular people. What’s different—what makes them mean or bad—is on the inside.

  On the ride over, Sam’s sobs turn into an occasional hiccup. I keep my hand in his, and he squeezes my two fingers as we watch out the tinted window. The apartment complex is tall and sprawls out in all directions. It’s painted in shades of light green and the panes of glass glow red in the fading light. My heart falls when I realize there aren’t any trees or a park for running and climbing. As we drive up, I count rows of silver Mercedes, Volvos, and BMWs.

  Inside the apartment, everything’s colored
a creamy white. The rooms smell like new carpeting, which makes me want to sneeze. The ceilings are high, the walls bare, except for stacks of cardboard boxes. A few tower above my head; mountains of thick brown squares. Sam and I crawl through a few empty ones, white mice in a maze.

  As we pass other boxes, labels shout “kitchen” or “bathroom” in neat sharpie marker, but it seems like the movers didn’t pay much attention. Nothing’s in the right place, everything’s askew, which has tweaked my dad into a rubber-band-tight bad mood.

  There’s a mattress I don’t recognize on the floor in one room, a lone pillow and a neatly folded blanket on top with the tags still attached. In the back bedroom, a rolled-up sleeping bag leans against the wall. Camping? A trip? My dad isn’t much into outdoor stuff, but these days, you never know.

  “Great,” I hear him mutter as he attacks the packing tape. While one huge hand braces the cardboard, the other holds a box cutter. He plunges in the silver blade and pulls it back with the ease of a skilled fisherman cleaning his catch.

  My stomach grumbles when I imagine a largemouth bass, even an uncooked, dead one. It’s been hours since we’ve eaten. The cabinets echo when I open them. Peanut butter on toast is all I can scrape together. Grocery shopping is not Dad’s favorite chore, but I’m hoping he’ll make an exception tomorrow.

  Sam is tired of crawling through the box maze, so we settle against the only piece of furniture in the living room, my Dad’s sofa. As we lean against it, I think that I can smell Ava, a mixture of coffee and cinnamon. I wonder if Sam does too.

  Since Dad doesn’t move to hook up the DVD player, I decide Sam might want to look at a comic book. I only put one in my backpack, Superboy #97, featuring “The Super Mischief of Superbaby!” For fun, I do different voices for all the characters, deep and gruff, high and raspy. Usually, Sam thinks it’s hilarious.

  Mo says I’m crazy for letting Sam near Superboy #97. On eBay, a copy goes for two hundred dollars. Sure, the cash would be great, but tonight I’m desperate to keep Sam happy.