Center of Gravity

by Laura McNeill

  Nothing works.

  “No!” Sam slaps at the slick pages. He shakes his head and pushes to climb off my lap.

  “But it’s Superboy,” I argue. “You love Superboy. And look, Superdog.” I point to the bottom corner of the cover where a bright red cape and winter-white canine float in the air.

  “No, no!” My brother chants. He throws his head back, catches me square in the jaw, inches away from my still stitched-up chin.

  “Ugh,” I groan and roll him off my legs. “Ow, that hurt, Sam.” The noise finally reaches my dad, who stalks over and glares at both of us.

  “We’re kind of bored.” I grimace. “Can’t we sit outside on the balcony? It’s nice out. You could sit out there with us like Ava does.”

  “I’m not Ava,” Dad snaps. “And we’re not going outside.”

  Immediately I avert my eyes and stare at the ground. Sam starts chanting “Mama” and walking in loopy circles, dragging his hand around Dad’s pant legs.

  “Maybe he’s hungry,” I murmur and cover the growl of my own stomach with one hand. The space inside my middle section echoes Grand Canyon–empty. As much as I’ve complained about green beans and snap peas, I’d eat an entire plate of them now.

  “Later,” Dad answers, distracted. His cell phone rings and he immediately takes a giant step over Sam’s head to leave the room. Dad paces the thick carpet, then stops at the window, listening. The person who called doesn’t make my dad any happier. He hangs up and shoves it in his pocket.

  “Dad?”

  “What is it now?” He glares at me, then stares past me at the blank wall.

  “Did you tell Ava seven or eight?” I trace the swirl of the rug with my finger. “When are we going home?” There’s no clock, so I can’t check the time, but Sam’s rubbing his eyes like crazy, a sure sign he needs to get into bed.

  “This is home.” Dad’s words lash out like Indiana Jones’s whip. “Right here.” He folds his arms across his chest, daring me to cross him again.

  Stunned, I can’t open my mouth. I sink to my knees. Sam reacts by toddling over as fast as his legs can go and burying his face in my shoulder. I pat his back and try to rock him like Ava does.

  “Now I don’t want to hear another word,” my father lectures. “Not about food, not about Ava, not about the DVD player. Got it?”

  I choke back a sob. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” For the first time tonight, my dad looks calm, almost normal. “Go to bed. Both of you. I have a lot of work to do. The crib should be delivered tomorrow.”

  I start to remind Dad it’s been hours since Sam’s last diaper change but decide I won’t. Instead, I hoist Sam on my hip, find the diaper bag, and try not to breathe too close to my brother’s bottom. The smell rivals the knee-weakening power of kryptonite.

  We head into the back bedroom. I unroll the sleeping bag and let Sam crawl around on top. The stuffing inside the cover mounds and bends into rolling hills. I reach for wipes, a diaper, and ease Sam onto his back.

  “We’re going camping, Sam,” I tell him. “We can pretend this is the jungle.”

  He kicks a leg into the air, smiles, and listens to me talk. As I pull and adjust the diaper around his legs and belly, I make soft monkey sounds and swoop my fingers like bird wings. As I wiggle the wipes back into the diaper bag, I take a closer look inside. Under the change of clothes, a pacifier, more diapers, and his fuzzy brown bear, I discover buried treasure.

  Granola bars! An apple! Cheerios! I should have known Ava would stash something, just in case. Sam and I take turns grinning and eating with quiet abandon. Shh! I put a finger to my mouth. I try not to crinkle the wrapper.

  We eat quickly and quietly. Later I drift off with Sam in my arms. His breathing, deep and even, lulls me to sleep. One final thought drifts through my head like clouds across the moon. Ava is not here to remind me to shower, to give Sam his bath, or to read us bedtime stories. But, somehow, she’s taken care of us anyway.

  CHAPTER 17

  AVA

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 31

  He’s an hour late and still no phone call. I try to read, but my brain muddles the words and sentences. Pressing the spine to my forehead, I rub the smooth cover against my skin, trying to soothe the building stress. The sharp caw of a sparrow outside my window causes me to jolt, and I toss aside my novel, letting the pages fall together, the closing of a fan.

  Instead, I pace the expanse of the house, dodging cans of lacquer, stepping over a pile of black-fringed paintbrushes, and picking my way over two–by–fours. I kneel by the tallest pile of wood, examining the curled lines of grain, the shorn edges, jagged and unfinished. Exactly the way I’m carrying my heart in my chest.

  I give up and call. The ring pierces my eardrum, but my husband’s greeting quells the shrill sound. His voice, mellow and unhurried, heightens my anxiety.

  I launch questions, rapid-fire. “Hey, where are you? I don’t mean to sound paranoid, but I thought we said seven—” I close my mouth, wishing I could swallow the pseudo-attack of anxious, accusing sentences.

  He’s so silent I stop breathing.

  “Mitchell . . .?”

  He clears his throat.

  “What is going on? Tell me, please. Are the boys okay?” I wait for his answer, my heart thudding like truck tires on a bumpy road.

  “They’re fine.” His voice is thick and tight.

  I exhale relief. “Thank goodness. So you’re on your way?” I take a step toward the window to peek out for his black SUV, listen for the deep rumble of a V-8 engine.

  “No.”

  My knees buckle and I fold into the nearest chair. “Why? Mitchell, what are you talking about? You sound so strange. What’s going on?”

  Outside the house, frogs croak and crickets chirp. A jet zooms overhead, blinking red lights against the black sky. The world keeps going, business as usual. Inside the door, the walls fold in, misshapen, bent, melting like Salvador Dalí clocks.

  “They’re staying with me,” Mitchell replies.

  “For how long? Do you want them another night?” I convince myself the problem is temporary. I misunderstood something, surely. “That’s all right, I suppose, but Jack has school . . . Sam has a playdate . . .”

  I try to picture my calendar and Jack’s schedule hanging on the refrigerator door, but confusion overwhelms my logical train of thought.

  “They’re staying here,” he repeats.

  Confusion blurs my head. I press a hand to my cheek. “Mitchell, look, I know I hurt your feelings. You don’t have to keep the children longer to make your point.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you, Ava.”

  “Argue?” I gasp. “I am asking a question about our children.” I cry out like a wounded animal. “I have a right to know what’s happening to them.”

  “Jack and Sam won’t be coming back,” Mitchell says evenly. “I filed for divorce and full custody of the children. The judge awarded temporary custody to me. There’s a hearing later this week. You might want to be there.” The phone hums with emptiness, echoing his dismissal. Of me. As the mother of his children. “I have to go.”

  My brain screams like the whistle of a freight train. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my children. For Jack.

  Before I can plead, beg, or cry out, Mitchell hangs up. The phone clicks and the line goes dead. There’s nothing left but static and the rush of desperation filling my heart. My body quakes with fear. Mitchell is abandoning me. As if our entire relationship had never existed. As if we don’t have a marriage and two children to raise. As if we never took vows to love each other forever.

  I brace myself. The room spins out of control in a drunken haze of pain. A rattlesnake bite without the anti-venom. Quicksand without the rope and someone to pull you out. I am drowning. Sinking. Dying.

  CHAPTER 18

  MITCHELL

  THURSDAY, APRIL 1

  Five days and still no decision. The president of Springport isn’t at all pleased. �
�How long is this going to take?” he asks. “I’m beginning to get concerned.”

  My pulse spikes as the line goes dead. Concerned. He’s not the only one.

  With the utmost patience, on Monday I approached Ava’s mother, Ruth, with the prospect of funding the athletic center project. Her initial enthusiasm waned, however, spiraling into dozens of questions, countless suggestions, and ridiculous ideas I’ve promised to run by the architect. Since that time, no matter what I come back with, she still can’t quite give me a commitment.

  The proposed athletic center, in the course of a week, has gone from my greatest vision to the massive roadblock sitting between ultimate career success and me. Of course, my wife isn’t helping my stress level either, but I have plans to deal with her.

  I stand, pressing my knuckles against the chill of the glass-covered desk. My reflection stares back at me, the outline of my face etched in worry. I exhale, pushing tension through my lips. As I close my eyes, I clear my mind and center my thoughts.

  Moments later I walk into the huge boardroom, with its mahogany walls, tall-back chairs, and thick Oriental rugs, and settle into my rhythm. Controlled, laser-sharp. Pausing by the huge picture window, I gaze out onto our magnificent chapel, flanked by a rich, green lawn, waving palm trees, and brick-lined sidewalks. Students carrying backpacks hurry past marbled statues. Below us, the wrought iron fountain arcs water into the morning air. Its droplets sparkle silver in the sunlight.

  I am the vice president of advancement here. On my campus. Something no one will take away. I rub my hands together, ready to start the meeting. Waving for my receptionist to gather the staff, I remind myself that we’re on track for a stellar summer session, class schedules are solid, and more recruitment efforts are under way around the state. As everyone takes their seats, I wait for complete silence.

  “Good morning. Thank you all for coming. First, kudos on the website upgrades.” I nod in the direction of the marketing folks. “Nice job. The parent and family weekend—”

  My cell phone, deliberately set to ring at 8:45 am, starts blaring. A few department heads stand up, move away from their chairs. It’s protocol to leave the room. Today I hold up a finger for them to wait. I create a concerned look, then agree with the nonexistent person I pretend is on the line. For effect, I rub my forehead and heave a deep sigh. I make certain to almost whisper my wife’s name.

  “Ava. Of course. Certainly. Thank you.”

  My phone snaps shut with the flick of my wrist. I set it on the table as if it weighs three hundred pounds.

  “Everything all right, Dr. Carson?”

  Evidently my acting isn’t too shabby. I hesitate and force the corners of my lips up just an iota. “Oh, thank you.” I press my fingers together. “Could we adjourn until next week? I have some personal matters to take care of.”

  A swarm of bodies rushes for the door. My core team hangs back. Blake Michaels, head of the business school, speaks up. “What can I do?” Michaels is, by far, the least able to keep a secret on my entire staff, thus making him the perfect person to disseminate my story. I estimate warp-speed delivery.

  “That’s very kind.” I pat his shoulder, lower my voice. “It’s my wife . . . she’s a bit unstable these days. Ava’s been stopped a few times by the police. Drinking and driving with the children.”

  Horrified looks all around.

  “I’ve all but confirmed that she’s having a liaison—” I let my voice trail off and project a look of anguish.

  No one moves.

  I swallow. “Worst of all, she’s completely unstable. Her moods are up and down. One minute crying, the next laughing. I don’t even know her anymore.” I drop my head into my hands, let my shoulders droop.

  Genuine pity surrounds me like thick fog on an English countryside.

  “I’ve said too much. You’re all too kind.” More sympathetic noises and shoulder patting. “We’ll be fine. I’ll get Ava some help. The children are my number one priority.”

  Vigorous head nodding.

  “Thank you again.” A sober group shuffles out of the room at the very moment Ava appears at the end of the hallway.

  Despite my surprise, I arrange my face into a concerned expression. “Ava,” I say under my breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Mitchell,” she calls out, raising a hand in the air in greeting.

  My wife walks up, shoulders straight, hair tied back at the nape of her neck. She looks elegant and lovely, makeup attempting to mask the dark circles under her eyes.

  I reach for her elbow, drawing her close to me. The scent of her skin wafts around me, hints of cinnamon and vanilla. Any other day it would intoxicate me, draw me in. Today it is repugnant.

  “What are you doing here?” I hiss into her ear, tightening my grip.

  She ignores me, which only serves to fan my growing annoyance. “Hello, everyone. Hi, Blake.” She smiles brightly and offers a hand to Michaels, who shoots her a menacing glare and stalks off. The other staff members murmur hellos, then turn and walk away.

  Ava blinks, incredulous, then gives me a sidelong glance. “Did you deliver some bad news to your staff?”

  “You could say that,” I reply.

  She stares after them, brow furrowed. “Can we talk? In private?”

  My hand finds the small of her back, and I guide her into my office. “Certainly.”

  Door closed, Ava glances around the room, taking in my neatly arranged bookshelves, the rich, dark carpeting, the elegantly framed photographs of Springport College buildings on the wall. The room, just cleaned, smells of freshly-squeezed lemon and citrus.

  “It’s lovely, Mitchell.” Her eyes meet mine. “Your office looks wonderful.” She gazes out onto the campus, taking in my view of the lush, manicured lawns, wrought iron benches, and tree-lined paths filled with students on their way to class.

  I nod, forgetting she hasn’t seen it since the complete renovation a few months back. “Thank you.”

  Ava slides into the chair across from my desk, leaning forward to make sure she has my attention. When I don’t say anything further, she draws a breath and begins speaking.

  “Mitchell, I’m confused.” She tilts her chin. “I love you. I love our boys. This . . . misunderstanding . . . what I said. It doesn’t have to go this far.”

  The words hang in the air between us, stilted and awkward. I won’t allow myself to digest them or be softened by pretty phrases. For just a moment, I consider whether she practiced her little speech.

  It doesn’t matter. I stare back and drop all polite pretense. “My dear, it’s what you wanted.”

  Ava bites her lip and drops her eyes. Her voice lowers and slows. She’s choosing her words carefully, as if picking her way around landmines. “I know what I said. I know how it sounded. I’m sorry.”

  “Really?” I tighten my jaw.

  She nods, eyes widening. Ava presses her fingertips together into a prayer, touching them to her lips. “I am. You didn’t have to move out or take the children to make your point. We all need to be together. I miss the boys horribly.”

  Her stab at raw sincerity almost fools me. I lean back in my chair, clasp my hands behind my head. “They’re fine.”

  She hesitates, and I can see the pain and confusion on her face. “They haven’t asked for me?” She begins to choke up.

  “Not at all. Not a word.” I shrug and flick a speck of dust from the polished surface of my massive desk.

  “Who is taking care of them?” Ava blinks back tears.

  I rock in my chair and glance away. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

  “Mitchell—”

  From the corner of my eye, I see her wrestle to stay in control. It’s admirable. I stand up and put my fists on the desk.

  “Raise your voice to me again and I’ll call security.” I reach for the phone.

  Ava’s eyes dart from me to my hand and back again. She swallows and presses both hands into her skirt. “Mitchell, be r
easonable. Let’s go to counseling. Come home. Let’s talk about this. Figure it out.”

  I chuckle. “Right. Are you figuring it out with Mike Kennedy?”

  Ava jumps out of the chair, her green eyes pinned to my face. She begins to pace in front of the window, then stops, centering the brilliant blue sky behind her. “Mitchell. Please. Listen to me. You know full well Mike’s just a childhood friend. That’s all he’ll ever be.”

  “I’ve already had one wife betray me, Ava.” I point a finger across my desk. “Karen told me the exact same thing about her agent. Just a friend. Don’t you think I know the signs?”

  I pick up the phone, watching her as I grab the receiver. Ava presses her lips together and tightens her fists. Her chest flushes pink as a sunset.

  “Get me security,” I bark.

  “Don’t bother,” Ava says, eyes flashing. My wife lifts her chin, determined. She stands up and turns on her heel. “I know my way out.”

  CHAPTER 19

  GRAHAM

  FRIDAY, APRIL 2

  “I take it this wasn’t something you expected?” I lean forward and grab a notepad and pen.

  In my past life, secretary summoned, I’d have gazed out of my corner office, overlooking a killer view of Birmingham, sipping a latte. But Ava has barely noticed the stacks of dusty books in the corner, the fake paneled walls, the less-than-ideal office with more than a few stains on the ceiling tiles. The rent’s cheap, the office sits in front of my tiny rental house, and for now, it’s enough for someone starting over.

  She shifts her weight, and the wide planks of the wooden floor creak beneath her chair.

  “No. Never. He moved out a few days ago. I thought we’d work something out. But then he drops this bomb. He’s taken the kids and won’t bring them back. He’s filed for divorce.” Her voice breaks. “And I found out this morning, he’s called everyone. Every single attorney in a fifty-mile radius.”

  “Everyone?”

  Ava offers a rueful smile. “Except you.”

  If he’s gone to those efforts, that trouble, the husband is resourceful. Calculating. Definitely revengeful. But I don’t say the words out loud. Not yet.