How We Deal With Gravity

by Ginger Scott

  I pull my arm away as soon as we get inside, giving a wink to Claire before I head upstairs. “Mason Street, you and I are gonna have words, mister!” she yells at my back. I just wave my hand. I know she just wants to get details, and probably give me her own version of Ray’s warning, and she can do that—tomorrow.

  Max is working at the small desk in Avery’s room, his feet kicking wildly underneath. I walk over to the door, but he never looks up.

  “Whatcha working on, Max?” I’ve learned that if I use his name it helps get his attention. Claire taught me that.

  “I have to fill in every box for my teacher. I have to turn this in tomorrow,” he says, his fingers gripping at the edges of the paper like he wants to crumple it or tear it into pieces. I’m careful, but I move in a little closer so I can see. It’s an oversized paper, and there are a few boxes with some sparse color in them.

  “Mind if I take a look?” I ask, and he kicks back from the desk, his eyes still on the paper in front of him. I turn it, just enough to read the words. It’s a family tree, and it’s asking him to draw pictures of his mother, father, and friends. Max has only one small stick figure in each—the same drawing over and over. Shit!

  He pulls himself in and starts to draw backgrounds and scenes in each box, coloring carefully. They all look kind of the same, just different colors, and I’ve never felt sadder seeing something than I do right now.

  “Can I help…maybe give you some ideas, Max?” I swallow hard. I don’t know how this works—I don’t know if Max is the kind of kid you can give ideas to. I know he’s good at asking questions.

  “Claire says I have to make sure everything is colored, and work on this until 7:15 p.m.,” he says, continuing to color, his hand moving more quickly now. I just stand behind him, rubbing my hand over my neck, trying to find a way to talk to him, to fill in those goddamned empty boxes.

  “Okay, well, what if you fill in one of those boxes with me?” I say, hoping like hell he doesn’t just rip the paper in half at my lame suggestion. When he doesn’t protest, I keep going. “I mean…you and I…we’re friends, right? So, if you draw me next to you, that’s one more box done.”

  He seems to like my idea as he reaches for a blue crayon and adds a tall stick figure next to his. “Why am I blue?” I ask, a little curious.

  “You wear jeans a lot,” he says, and it makes me laugh. Everything Max says is slow, but he never seems to have any problem talking. And he’s funnier than people give him credit for.

  “You’re right. I do wear jeans a lot. Blue is the perfect color,” I say. “Now, how about your mom in that box? What color is she?”

  When Max picks up the pink, I don’t even question it. It’s perfect—fragile, feminine but bold, just like his mother. He’s busy working on the mother’s box while I’m staring at the father’s one—suddenly stuck, and wanting to punch something. I should probably call downstairs for backup, but I feel like this would just hurt Avery, and open up a wound that so far she’s been good at ignoring.

  Then an idea strikes me. “Everyone in the house has a box except your grandpa. How about we give him that one? He’s a dad—he’s even a grand dad, so it’s like he fits the question in two ways.”

  I hold my breath the entire time Max finishes coloring Avery’s box; when he reaches over for a brown color and starts to draw Ray without even saying anything to me, I almost pass out from the lack of oxygen. The clock says 7:12 p. m., and I’ve never been so happy to see a deadline approaching.

  “Three more minutes, Max, and you’re done. I’m going to go do my homework now, okay?” I say, and Max just keeps coloring, silently.

  I back out of the room, and turn to head to mine, only to see Avery’s back flat against the wall, her fingertips over her lips and a single wet stream down her cheek. I don’t know what to say, so I just pull her into my arms and hold her, letting her quiver silently for the next three minutes. When she hears the timer go off on Max’s desk, she backs away and mouths, “Thank you,” to me. I pull her head forward to my lips to kiss the top before heading into my room and shutting the door behind me.

  That was exhausting—a different kind of exhausting. I don’t know if I did the right thing, and I don’t know how Avery has lived this. It’s not Max’s autism—it’s the enormous hole Adam left behind and Max’s autism. How do you explain to any kid that their parent, one-half of who they are, just couldn’t hack it? I know my mom never really explained it to me.

  I can hear the water running, and cabinets opening in the hall, so I know Avery’s getting Max ready for bed. I’m completely amazed by her. Nothing is easy, everything is so fucking hard—it makes me feel foolish for thinking I have ever deserved anything at all.

  When the water stops, I decide to spend a little time on the guitar to clear my head. Maybe part of me is hoping Avery will hear it and follow it into my room. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m hoping.

  I don’t really like the Beatles. I know everyone says you’re supposed to, and I appreciate some of the risks they took, but they just have never really been my fit. I’m more of a blues lover, and gritty classic rock like the Stones. But for whatever reason, all my fingers can seem to play tonight is “Blackbird” by the Beatles. That song has always made me think of Avery; it’s kind of where I got the nickname Birdie. I must play it six or seven times before she finally cracks open my door and slides down to sit against the frame, her knees barely covered by the long T-shirt she has stretched over them.

  “You still doing this?” I say, nodding my head in her direction, pointing out that she’s still in the hall.

  “You used to play that all the time. I love that song,” she says, and it makes everything inside me feel warm…right. I smile and finish out the last verse, taking my time and improvising a little on the chorus to make it last just a little longer.

  “That song always made me think of you,” I say, putting my guitar away and purposely not looking at her when I admit it. “That’s where Birdie comes from…sorry.”

  “I wish you told me that. I probably would have liked Birdie then,” she says, her smile soft, but still so damned cautious.

  “I think we’re past you needing to keep the door open,” I laugh, hoping like hell she’ll come closer so I can touch her. She slides up to her knees and crawls inside, shutting the door behind her, and then sitting with her back against it.

  “I’m a terrible mom,” she says, her face suddenly full of pain. I hate Adam for doing this to her.

  “No you’re not,” I say, forcing her to look at me, rather than the nothingness she keeps trying to go to.

  “I’m not?” she asks, her breathing growing harder. “My son probably thinks his father is dead. Not that I’d know, because I’m such a chicken shit that I’ve opted to pretend he never existed. I haven’t said Adam’s name out loud in front of Max once since the day he left.”

  Her eyes are full of water when she talks, and I would give anything to fix this guilt she’s feeling. I don’t think she’s earned it—any of it.

  “My dad left us when I was five,” I say the only thing I think might make this better for her. Her eyes shift completely to me when I do, and her breath hitches. I can’t take the intensity of her stare along with the weight of the story I’m about to tell her, so I lie back and look up at the ceiling instead.

  “I don’t remember much. He had a beard…I think? I had a baby brother. He died when he was maybe two or three weeks old,” I say, and when Avery gasps I stop her. I’m not telling her this to make her feel sad. I’m trying to make her feel less alone.

  “It’s okay. Your dad knows, but we don’t talk about it much. I don’t expect people to know about it. I was five when he died. Mom was really sick. I know now she was depressed, but it just looked like the flu to me…you know…from a kid’s eyes?” Avery is holding herself tightly, her arms wrapped around her body. “My dad—his name was Mitch—he didn’t know how to deal with my mom. He was a truck driver, and he used to
be on the road for days. Then one day, he just never came home. Mom doesn’t talk about it. And I don’t ask. What good would it do?”

  “Do you…ever wonder about him?” she asks, her voice cracking.

  “I’m not gonna lie. Yeah, Avery. I wonder about him. But I wonder about him less and less every year he’s gone. I’d give anything to be able to disconnect from it a little, too—like Max does,” I say, and her eyes flash wide for a brief second from my honesty. “You’re not a bad mom. You’re an amazing mom—an unbelievable mom. Hell, Avery, you’re pretty much the best damn human being I’ve ever met. So please, quit doubting yourself.”

  I hold her stare for minutes after that. I haven’t talked about Mitch for years—and I’m pretty sure I was drunk with Ben the last time I did. I’m pretty sure I was drunk every single time I ever talked about my father. But Avery needed to hear this, and for some reason, I want to tell her things.

  The lights flood my room, and I think if they didn’t, we’d both be happy to sit here, with ten feet of air between us, just staring into each other’s eyes. Avery looks up at the ceiling and takes a deep breath, drawing her legs in close to her body so she can stand. I sit up and walk to where she is at my door, knowing she’s going to leave because Ray’s home. But before she goes, she pauses and stands on her tiptoes to reach my lips, holding both sides of my face with her cold, tiny hands, and kisses me softly. My body wants to push the door closed behind her and pull her to my bed, but I don’t. I let her leave. And I hope like hell she comes back.

  Chapter 14: Deep

  Avery

  I couldn’t wait to show my dad the drawings Max made. I think more than wanting him to be touched by the fact that Max put him in the father box, I wanted him to know that Mason helped Max through something difficult. My father has always been protective, and when Adam left, he stepped right back into his role of guardian.

  He was still in a foul mood when he came in the back door, heading right to the fridge and cracking open a beer. My father doesn’t drink a lot—part of his creed in running a bar, he says. So when he does, I know he’s feeling stress.

  “Hey, you’re home early,” I say, my voice quiet enough so Mason doesn’t hear upstairs.

  “Uhhh, yeah,” my dad grunts, kicking his boots off at the back door, and pulling all of his things from his pockets into one loud pile on the counter. He’s doing that thing where he barely makes eye contact with me, like he did the first time he ever caught me kissing a boy.

  “I wanted to show you what Max made tonight,” I say, hoping this will pull him out of his funk.

  “Let’s see,” he says, breathing deeply. It’s Max, and he always takes Max seriously, giving everything about him his full attention.

  I open up the folded poster to show him the various pictures; I can see him scratching at his chin, trying to figure everything out. When realization of who everyone is hits him—he breathes hard and heavy.

  “He put you in the father’s box. I thought that was pretty cool,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder and squeezing. When he puts his hand on mine and holds it hard, I know he’s breaking down a little, so I stay still and let him have his moment.

  “That…that one’s Mason, huh?” my dad says, pointing to the friend box.

  “Yeah. Mason, uh…actually helped him with his homework,” I say, and my father just nods. “I overheard them. He didn’t want Max to be in any boxes alone.”

  “What did Adam want?” my father asks, not even transitioning. His question jars me—I’m unprepared to answer, so I stammer, which only makes him get anxious. “Did he do something to you Avery? I swear to God, I’ll kill that punk.”

  “No, Dad. No…I just wasn’t ready to talk about this with you,” I say, all strength completely draining from me. I sit in the chair next to him and look down, ashamed of what I have to tell him. “Adam’s getting married. He, uh—”

  “That little shit!” my dad’s hand comes down hard on the table, and in seconds Mason is behind him at the end of the stairs. I meet his eyes and try to signal to him that this isn’t about him, but I think he knows.

  “There’s more, Dad,” I say, keeping my eyes on Mason for strength. He steps down to where my father can see him now, and moves over to join us at the table. When he does, I can see my father instantly tense up. I don’t know if this is the best idea, but I want Mason here. I need him here. “He wants to sever his parental rights—basically disown Max. He’s hiding him from the new girl.”

  The beer bottle flies across the kitchen fast, crashing into the back door and shattering into hundreds of wet pieces. It scares me, even though I know my father isn’t angry with me. He’s on his feet fast, tossing the chair to the floor behind him, and going to the counter immediately for his keys.

  “That son of a bitch!” he yells, turning and pointing at me. “He can’t do this, Avery. He’s not going to do that to you…to Max!”

  He’s out the door, swinging it so hard the deadbolt dents the inside of the wall. I can’t help but cry, and I reach to fold up the picture again, wishing I never came down in the first place.

  “I got this,” Mason says, following my father’s footsteps outside. I had almost forgotten he was here for all of that, and I start to protest to stop him, but I think more than me, my dad needs Mason now.

  It takes me a while to find the dustpan. We’re not one of those families that clean the house often—other than vacuuming and picking up clutter. I spare a peek out the back window and see Mason talking emphatically with his hands, my father’s hands stuffed in his pockets while his feet kick at the ground and his eyes stare at the dirt. I want Mason to get through to my father, to calm him. More than that, I want my father to trust Mason—like I’ve grown to.

  The pain shoots up my arm quickly, and when I look down, there’s blood all over my hand. I move to the sink fast to get the cold water running, grabbing for the dishtowel to wrap it around my hand. I was being stupid, not looking at the glass shards on the floor. The cut is deep, and the pain stings; the blood isn’t really slowing down, but all I can focus on is the conversation happening on the other side of the window.

  I take my eyes off for a few minutes to tend to my hand, wrapping the towel tightly and putting my entire body’s pressure on the wound as I lean against the sink.

  “Avery! Are you all right?” Mason is next to me within seconds. I didn’t see them come in, but now looking at the floor and the amount of blood spread around, I feel rather faint.

  “The glass. I was…cleaning,” I say, my stomach suddenly feeling sick. “Oh, Mason…I’m going to throw up.”

  “I got you,” he says, sweeping me effortlessly into his arms and marching me upstairs to the hall bathroom.

  “I’ll clean this. You take care of her,” my dad says, his words seeming to cover more than just the broken glass below.

  Mason sets me on the toilet and runs a washcloth under the cold water, quickly putting it on my head. Then he starts pulling things out from underneath the sink, sorting through the cleaners and looking desperately for something to use.

  “In the back,” I say, my throat a little hoarse when I speak. He follows my lead and finds the alcohol and gauze quickly, ripping the box open and coming over to kneel in front of me.

  “Let me see,” he whispers, taking my hand carefully, unwrapping the kitchen towel now soaked completely in my blood. The cut is still gushing, and seeing it makes my forehead break out into a sweat. I lay forward on the counter, trying to force myself to stay with him. “Shit, Avery. It’s deep. I think I can get it to stop though.”

  He’s back under the sink, then moves quickly to the medicine cabinet, tossing everything out on the floor until he finds the jar of Vaseline.

  “This is how my mom used to stop my bloody noses. You know, like they do for a boxer. Here,” he reaches for my hand again and mushes a giant blob on the cut, slowing the bleeding immediately. He’s wrapping the gauze a second later, pulling it tight and ripping w
ith his teeth before tucking the end near my wrist. It looks like a giant snow mitt, and for some reason, seeing it gives me the giggles.

  “What kind of fights did you get in to get bloody noses like that? I look like Mickey Mouse,” I laugh, half waving my bandaged hand at him, until it stings from the movement. “Ow, shit!”

  “Stop moving it, you stubborn woman. Go lay down in my room, I’ll be right there,” he says, picking up the various packaging and putting everything back in its place. I’m still giggling when he comes in to his room, and he just shakes his head at me, smiling on one side of his mouth.

  “Seriously, Mason. This is, like, the worst bandaging I’ve ever seen!” I’m lying on my side, still a little dizzy, and rolling my near-cast around the air mattress to admire it.

  “One, I didn’t get into fights. At least not back then. I had really bad allergies, and my nose just bled a lot. But thanks for thinking I was a hoodlum,” he says, pulling his shoes from his feet, kicking them to the corner before hitting the lights and motioning me to move over in the bed. “And second, my mom was a bartender, not a nurse. She did the best she could, and so did I.”

  Well shit, now I feel bad. I stop my laughter and force my lips into a straight line as best as I can. “Thank you. I’m sorry,” I say, and he just rolls his eyes at me, which unleashes the laughing again.

  “Next time, I let you bleed out,” he says, sitting up and pulling his shirt over his head, which now has my laughter completely hushed. I shouldn’t be here. Not with my dad downstairs, not with Max in bed down the hall, not for a second night in a row. This is too much, too fast.

  “I…uh, I should go,” I start to get up, but he rolls to his side and lays his arm heavily over my chest.

  “Uh uh. Ray’s busy downstairs. And you heard him, he said to take care of you. You stay here tonight. I’ll set my phone to wake us up before everyone else,” he says, his expression not one to argue with.