Center of Gravity (10 page)

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.

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.