Center of Gravity

by Laura McNeill

  “Ava’s on the other side of the building,” Douglas informs me. He’s holding a copy of some official legal-looking letterhead. “They sent over a settlement offer this morning,” he explains and hands it over. He peers at me from above his glasses, which have slid down his nose, no doubt from the humidity. “It’s pretty damn generous.”

  I stifle a laugh.

  From my initial scan of the document, I see Ava is going for broke. No child support, no payments of any kind. Just the children. Sole custody. Her attorney makes reference to visitation whenever I “desire.”

  Under the table, I curl and uncurl my fists. Fury burns in my veins. The proposal is a joke, an insult at best.

  A knock at the door interrupts. Douglas jumps up. “It’s time.”

  The conference room, despite the palpable tension, is admittedly twenty degrees cooler.

  Ava is already seated behind the expansive oak table. In her gauzy yellow sheath, hair pulled back, sans makeup, she looks young. Innocent. Every bit the victim. I grit my teeth. How appearances hide the truth.

  When she bends her head to confer with her attorney, I study Graham Thomas, royal-blue tie slightly askew, shirtsleeves rolled up, and his longish hair in need of a trim. His leather jacket hangs from his chair, motorcycle helmet on the floor behind him.

  I turn away when I notice the arbitrator stand. “Thank you for coming today. Let’s get started.” He’s thin, in his midsixties, and graying at the temples. After introducing himself, he goes through the ground rules and asks for questions. Douglas looks at me and raises an eyebrow.

  “I don’t have a question,” I begin. “But I have two comments.”

  “Certainly.” The mediator smiles expectantly.

  Pressing my hands flat on the table, I stand and hover over the small group. “First,” I pull out Ava’s proposal and toss it down. It skids across the table like a sled on a snowdrift. Ava watches but doesn’t make eye contact. “We won’t be needing this.” I narrow my eyes at her attorney. “Don’t send me anything that insults my intelligence. I know what you’re after.”

  Douglas whispers for me to calm down. I ignore his pleas.

  “Second”—I stand up straight and point a finger at Ava—“stay the hell away from my truck, my apartment, and my children.”

  To my surprise, Ava shoots back. “They’re our children Mitchell. Jack and Sam. Sit down.” Her lawyer glances nervously at the mediator and touches her arm. Ava clears her throat. “Please sit down, Mitchell.”

  “I will not take directions from you or anyone,” I shout and point a finger in Ava’s face. “You’ve been lying to me since day one. I never should have believed a word you said.”

  The mediator begins to get up and wave his arms as if he’s directing air traffic on a runway. “Come now—”

  I slam my fist on the table, shaking the ice in our water glasses. “She’s dangerous and out of control! I have my rights!”

  Douglas gets ahold of my elbow. “Excuse us,” he apologizes and drags me out the door.

  Once outside, he explodes. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” He blows out a breath of air and runs a hand through his hair. “Do you want them to think we’re the crazy ones?”

  “She’s trying to ruin my life,” I retort. “I want a restraining order against that woman. Right now.”

  “I’ll work on it. But I can’t promise.” Douglas folds his arms. Beads of sweat appear on his forehead. “I am going to ask you, though, to get ahold of yourself and get back in that room.”

  My cell rings. I take it out and pretend to glance at the screen. An hour ago, I instructed Mary Grace to call in case there was no other escape route from this God-forsaken joke of a meeting.

  I straighten my tie and smooth my sport coat. “You forget who’s paying whom. I call the shots. Not you.” I narrow my eyes. “Am I clear?” I jab at his shoulder for effect. A tap to let him know who’s in charge.

  Douglas reels back, off-balance. His glasses tilt. Douglas pushes them back on his nose with one finger. “Um, clear.” He begrudges me even that one word.

  I walk away. And smile.

  “I’m needed at the college,” I snap over my shoulder at Douglas. “Get me the order. Today.”

  CHAPTER 35

  JACK

  TUESDAY, APRIL 20

  I want to escape, crawl into a secret place and close the door. Not hang out in Dr. Bennett’s office.

  Today I feel like Bruce Wayne, minus the zillion-dollar mansion and butler, Alfred. As Batman, he hides in the shadows, takes cover in the Batcave, and feels at home in the dark. He’s a loner, an outlaw, but eventually takes on a sidekick, Robin. Together they outsmart the bad guys, take the law into their own hands, and trust no one. They can never reveal their true identities. If they did, Game Over.

  So, like Bruce Wayne, I act normal, keep my guard up. Inside I’m Batman—watching, waiting, looking for clues. Trying to decide who’s good or bad, who to believe. I have to look out for me and Sam. I’m not sure anyone else will or can.

  Like Ava. Can she really fix anything? She only sees us once a week. This afternoon it’s her time. One whole hour. I should be happy, like Sam, but my insides spin like someone’s put me inside a smoothie machine.

  “Hi, Jack,” she says, her whole face a smile once she sees us. She’s wearing a dress, blue like the Caribbean Ocean I’ve seen on postcards, and a white bracelet Sam and I gave her last Christmas. My eyes sting when I see it, and I whisper hello back. I make my eyes read words on the page, but they start to twist and dance. All I can see is that morning, seeing stacks of presents, the sound of red and green wrapping paper crinkling. The smell of eggs and brown sugar coffee cake is like heaven. In that moment. Ava’s hand brushes my head. My dad laughs at Sam.

  I choke. My throat goes dry, like I’ve swallowed dust. I shield my face with the comic book until Ava picks up my brother. After a half hour, I am still reading the same words. My back hurts from sitting still. One leg’s asleep. I lower the book an inch and I peek at Ava. Like always, Sam clings to her side like Velcro, crumbled cookie in one hand. She starts reading, and I pretend not to listen, but Ava does the best silly voices when she reads from Moo, Baa, La, La, La!

  After The Very Hungry Caterpillar and Green Eggs and Ham, I look at the clock. It’s already time for Ava to leave. She gets to her knees and unwraps Sam, who starts to whine. Ava murmurs to him, stacking blocks and arranging toys around his feet.

  “Can you play with him?” Ava asks, blinking up at me, patting the rug, and rubbing the back of Sam’s little overalls. She glances around the room. “Have you seen his fuzzy bear?”

  I nod, put down the comic book, and drop to the floor. It takes me a few minutes, but I find Sam’s favorite toy next to the bookcase where he left it. Handing it to him helps a little, but he’s locked on Ava, red-faced, looking like he’ll never see her again.

  Ava opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She shakes her head, smiles a little, and moves her hand to her heart instead. She kisses Sam on the head, does the same to me, then slides something small and smooth into my hand. She takes a quick breath and whispers in my ear.

  All of a sudden, my heart screeches to a stop. I’m mad at my dad. This isn’t Ava’s fault. She couldn’t do anything. I reach for the blue of her dress but only catch air. She’s already gone. The door clicks shut.

  Sam cries harder and louder now, his yowls like an abandoned kitten. Hands trembling, I slide Ava’s gift into my pocket, lift him into my lap, and wrap my arms around him. He hiccups, and his tears wet my shirt, making a dark puddle. As I rock him back and forth, the first tear falls on my cheek.

  And I finally realize what Ava said. “I love you. No matter what.”

  CHAPTER 36

  LUCY

  TUESDAY, APRIL 20

  The door creaks a little as I open it. On purpose, I’ve given the children time to breathe. If anything it’s a small way to dignify and honor their private pain.


  When I step into the room, Jack’s head snaps up. His eyes, rimmed with red, meet mine. Sam, holding a fistful of his brother’s shirt, breathes heavily, an occasional hiccup shaking his small body. I try to smile, but it falters.

  It’s a battle I fight daily, as I am only human. The emotional side of me, the mothering side, aches to fix the children’s pain and lost hope. Yet my objective, clinical side must observe, filter facts, judge, and make recommendations. In the best interest of the children. A heavy burden. Almost too much to carry. Weighted by the responsibility, I settle the latter over my heart. I bend down, putting myself at eye-level with the boys.

  “May I?” I glance from Jack to Sam.

  Jack nods his permission for me to take his brother. I want him to feel in control, like he’s making decisions, protecting his brother in some small way. Sam snuggles into my shoulder, sticky-sweet and chubby. One arm wraps around my neck as he begins to relax. I sit in the small chair across from Jack, pull the seat closer. After a few pats on the back, Sam is able to relax. Worn out from excitement, confusion, all of the tension and emotion. His first bear cub snore makes Jack smile.

  “Babies are funny, aren’t they?”

  Jack’s happy look vanishes like vapor in the atmosphere. He fiddles with his fingers, unsure of what to say. Finally, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How’s this week been? Everything okay at school?”

  “Sure,” he answers with a quick duck of his chin.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t interrogate you.” I lean to the side and feel for my bag.

  Jack watches. “Are we going to play that card game again?” He furrows his brow.

  Sam stretches and readjusts in my arms. He yawns and turns his head. Gone again.

  “Not today. Maybe next time.” I fish out a few sheets of paper, then a marker or two. I plop them on the table casually and push them across to Jack.

  “If it’s okay, I’d like you to do a few drawings,” I explain. “How about your house—where you live. And your family.” I reach down into my bag and pull out a few more markers, lay them flat in front of him. “Do you like to draw, Jack?”

  He chooses a gray marker. “Sure, sometimes. I mostly like comic books, graphic novels, anything with a lot of action.”

  “Great! A future book illustrator in our midst.”

  Jack uncaps the marker. “Like my mom. That’s what she did.” He stares at the paper intently. Thinking. After the invisible wall he seemed to build when Ava was in the room, the personal admission both startles and pleases me.

  I jump ahead with my question before thinking it through. “What kind of art did she do?”

  He looks up and blinks, eyes sad and empty. “I don’t remember all of it. I guess she was good at drawing animals and kids.” Jack swallows hard. “She died, you know.”

  The hurt must eat at his very soul. Instinctively, I reach for his hand but stop myself. If he were mine, I’d fold him in my arms and try my best to hug the pain away.

  I remind myself of my role and tread lightly. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

  Jack averts his gaze. “Don’t be. It’s okay.”

  The brush-off is quick and deliberate. Practiced. Learned. He hunches over the paper and begins to make lines. His arm moves smoothly across the table, fingers guiding the picture-in-process. In minutes, in immaculate detail, a large bungalow-style house appears, a driveway, swing set. Distinctive black gum trees with red-dark leaves surround the home. He pauses, surveys his work, then adds a man’s torso, legs, arms, an unsmiling, dark head. A woman with long brown hair next, then a small boy, which I take to be Jack. The first family. Mitchell, Karen, Jack.

  Before I can interject, he grabs a second piece of paper. There, four people come to life. Again, a man I presume to be Mitchell, whom he places on one side of the page. On the opposite, a strawberry-blond woman, a chubby baby on her hip. A sullen-faced boy is sketched out, his foot on a soccer ball. In the middle of the paper, Jack outlines a house in the background, larger, more regal and foreboding.

  It’s here. In Mobile. The drawings are amazing. Jack’s talent is obvious. The intensity on his face pours into the page. Jack caps a green marker, lays it on the table. He spreads out his two creations side by side, then selects a red pen. With a deft motion, Jack puts a hard-lined X through the woman on the first page.

  Shock value or true emotion? Whatever the reason for this “message,” he’s chosen to share it with me. A huge step for an eight-year-old.

  Jack tips back on his chair and sets his jaw, studying the drawings. If I had to guess, I’d take a stab at intense anger and justifiable confusion in equal amounts.

  I decide to ignore the red X for now. “Which one is your dad’s new place?”

  “Neither.” Surprised at the question, Jack brings all four-chair legs back to the carpet.

  “Why not?”

  “My things aren’t there. My bed. Most of my stuff, my books. You know.”

  “Okay. Fair enough.” I examine the first picture. “Tell me about this one.”

  Jack wrinkles his forehead. “It’s the old house. My real mom, Karen, my dad. Me.”

  “What was the best thing?”

  He closes his eyes for a moment. “The swing set.” He actually smiles and his face goes soft and dreamy. “I used to pretend I was Superman on the swing. I’d lie down on my belly and get a running start then just let go. Stick my arms in front of me, one fist out, like Superman does. My mom—Karen—I think she used to clap for me when I did it. It felt like flying.” He stops abruptly. A cloud steals the air between us.

  He thinks he’s said too much.

  “Thanks for telling me that. That’s special.” I lean forward and rebalance Sam. “So tell me about the second picture you did. Who are those people?”

  “My dad. Ava. Sam, of course. And me.”

  “The house in this picture is a lot bigger. And no swing set,” I comment. “What do you think about that?”

  “It’s a mansion, I guess.” Jack rolls his eyes. “Even Ava said it was too big when they got married, but my dad said he had to have it.”

  My neck tingles. “Wow.”

  “So, anyway, my dad wouldn’t let me get another swing set. He said it would just rust in the rain. And we’d look like trailer park people.” Jack rubs the knees of his pants. “I just wanted it for Sam, you know.”

  I smile. “And then what happened?”

  “Ava said she’d work on dad to get a swing set, but I don’t know if she tried. Too late now,” Jack says. He tips back on his chair again, looks past me to the wall.

  I take the pictures and push them toward Jack. With my index finger I tap the red X on Jack’s biological mother, Karen. “Is that why she gets crossed off? Because she’s . . . gone?” I remind myself that Jack can’t answer one hundred questions at once. I’m a psychologist, not a detective. And I need to listen.

  “She was leaving us anyway,” he snaps. “For her boyfriend, some guy she worked with.”

  Who told this child that? Did he overhear an argument? See something or someone?

  “And you know this for sure?”

  Jack hesitates. He rubs his temples. “My dad told me. Why would he lie?”

  I don’t answer, move my finger to the other drawing, point to Ava. I raise an eyebrow.

  “Ava was going to leave too.” Jack crosses his arms, defensive.

  “Did you ask her, Jack?”

  “I just know.” He shrinks back in his seat. “It’s what my real mom did.”

  “You might want to give Ava a chance. Talk to her.”

  “What for?” He’s being cavalier on purpose, testing me. “Why should I?”

  Fine. We can play it this way. My serve.

  “Think about it this way. If you were accused of, say—robbing a bank—wouldn’t you want someone to listen to your side of the story before they threw you in jail?”

  Jack is silent. Then he volleys back. “Why wouldn’t she just tell me herself?”


  Match point.

  “I don’t know,” I answer. “Sometimes adults don’t think they need to. Or maybe she can’t find the right words to explain just yet. You’ll have to ask her.” He keeps his chin down. “While we’re on the subject, can I ask what Ava gave you today?”

  Jack twists to the side, reaches into his pocket. He holds up gum, black package with an artsy, glowing green 5 on it. “Want a piece?” He turns the box and looks at it. “We had this deal going. Whenever I’d get mad or upset, she’d give me a stick of gum instead of a lecture. Like, to say, instead of freaking out, wait five minutes, think about things. Whatever’s wrong might not seem so bad then. She was there to talk to if I needed it, but she never pushed me.”

  Smart. Very smart.

  A knock at the door startles both of us. “I think that’s your dad. Time to go.” I slide the pictures in a folder, out of sight. “And Jack? Thanks for the tip,” I say. “I think everyone could use some of that gum.”

  CHAPTER 37

  AVA

  THURSDAY, APRIL 22

  The mediation debacle and Mitchell’s crazy behavior propel me to work harder on my plan of attack. I pace back and forth in front of Graham’s beat-up wooden desk, one hand locked on my hip, the wide planks of the hardwood floor protesting under my heels.

  It’s a gorgeous April day. Outside the window, azaleas bloom in pink and purple glory, raising their faces to soak up the bright sun and azure sky.

  Adjusting the sunglasses on my head, I check the GPS on my phone one last time. “I’m going to find Will Harris, Karen’s literary agent,” I say, announcing my plan to Graham as though I’m embarking on an archaeological dig. “I called yesterday to check his schedule. His assistant said he’s in most of today and tomorrow.”

  Graham leans back in his chair, propping his legs on the desk. “I like it. Not making an appointment is a risk, but you don’t want to scare him off on the phone. If he’ll talk, get some insight into Mitchell and Karen’s relationship, their marriage.”

  I shiver and hug my arms close. “All right.”