Center of Gravity (14 page)
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
I stand up and walk to my office, motioning for my assistant to let Ava into the long hallway that connects to the playroom. She's been in the waiting room for at least fifteen minutes. It must feel like a lifetime.
As I settle into my chair, I jostle my inhaler with my elbow and send it spinning to the floor. On cue, Ava opens a second door to the playroom. Eyes glued to the scene unfolding before me, I reach down and pick up the small container, tucking it into my palm.
I can't look away. If little Sam could have run on chubby legs any faster to his mother, he would have sprouted angel wings and flown. Ava scoops him up and hugs him so tight he squeals. On the other hand, Jack pulls back, unsure, tentative, like sticking a toe in the winter-cold ocean. He slouches down in the nearest chair and hunches over, placing his chin on his fist.
Her face emanates the pain of rejection, but she refocuses her energy, playing and talking with Sam. When Sam begins rubbing his eyes, Ava pauses. Wordlessly, she pats the carpet next to her and beckons to Jack.
As I am watching, I almost forget to breathe. My chest tightens. Out of habit, almost without thought, I uncap the inhaler, shake it, and direct a puff at the back of my throat. The mist, tangy and bitter, coats the back of my tongue. In moments my lungs expand and my shoulders relax. I set it down within reach. After a beat, Jack slips down beside her. Legs and arms askew, Jack and Sam huddle, two fawns to a doe in the thicket. I can almost hear the birds chirp at twilight. Finally, he breaks the silence.
“I want to go back to the way things were. I want to live in our house together. This sucks. Why can't you fix it?”
Ava thinks for a moment, stroking Sam's hair.
“Jack, you remember that time when Mo came over and you were wrestling and the china cabinet fell over?”
“Yes,” he mutters and squeezes his eyes shut. “So?”
“All of the teacups, the ones from my mother, broke into those tiny pieces, right?” Ava pauses and slips an arm around Jack's back.
He nods.
“Well, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't put them back together again. Not with glue or tape,” Ava continues.
“Uh-huh.” Jack purses his lips.
“They'd never be the same, right?” Ava smiles down at Sam, who breaks into peals of giggles.
The baby's laughter just bounces off Jack's stiff exterior. “But with the china stuff, you didn't cry or anything,” he accuses and flashes an angry look. “Mo said his parents would have grounded him for life.”
Ava takes a breath. “It doesn't mean I wasn't sad.” She puts her hand on top of his. “But, Jack, those were just things. A relationship is different.”
He shifts, fingering the carpeting. “How?”
“I-It can only be fixed if both people want to.” She pauses and chokes out the rest. “And right now, your dad's not sure.”
Jack frowns and sinks his chin to his chest. Then, with a sudden burst of resilience, he attacks. His words rush out, peppering Ava like tiny bullets. “You need to try harder. Make him see it. Promise?”
She flushes. “Of course. I promise.”
The scene, through the glass, pierces my soul. I jolt myself back to reality with a sip of hot coffee and a long look at Ava's face. Ava wouldn't be the first really, really good actress I've seen. Anyone can be sweet for an hour. No making judgments. No jumping to conclusions. My job is to observe. Let's see what the rest of the story brings.
FRIDAY, APRIL 9
Behind closed doors, my brave resolve fades a little. Without Sam and Jack, the house echoes like a mausoleum in a Hitchcock film. Dark, everything exactly in its place, books perfectly aligned and toys untouched. I run a finger over the rooftop of Jack's Lego fire station, pick up Sam's favorite red airplane with the neon-yellow propeller and press the plastic to my chest.
Back in the kitchen, I slip the pink Valentine heart from my purse, secure it to the fridge with a magnet. It looks forlorn, the edges wrinkled. Alone. I want to find a stray Nerf football in the hallway, trip over a stuffed giraffe. See dirt-covered tennis shoes left by the doorway. Smell the eraser shavings and pencil lead left over after Jack tackles an extra-tough math set. Or inhale the scent of soap bubbles and baby powder after Sam's bath.
Until now, I haven't allowed the emptiness to touch me. The boys' rooms, beds unmade, covers rumpled, tricks me into thinking they'll be back in an instant, a minute, an hour. Now it just confirms they are gone.
A hysterical sob unleashes in the empty abyss of my living room. On the walls, family photos, carefully framed, bounce back the guttural sound coming from my throat. I spin and dissolve in my own grief, like sugar crystals poured into hot tea.
After what feels like several hours, I run freezing cold water, splash my face, and let the rivulets fall into the sink. The tiny drops echo in the stillness, urging me forward. Enough with the pity party.
Thirty minutes into staring at the Mac screen, my neck aches. Notebook to one side, pen in hand, I've googled Mitchell one hundred different ways. News stories pop up about Mitchell being named a VP of the college, his charity work for St. Jude's, special events.
Further back there are fewer photos, more articles. Graduation from the University of Alabama, then again with his PhD. The other pieces I find document his comet-fast rise in academia with stops all over the state: Gadsden State, University of Montevallo, Huntingdon, and UABâthe University of Alabama at Birmingham.
Not a single out-of-the-ordinary notation. No arrests, no domestic violence, not even a traffic ticket. In fact, to the discriminating reader, Mitchell Carson is completely, nauseatingly normal. To the outside observer, borderline boring.
Maybe I haven't been completely, utterly fooled by the man I pledged my life to 'til death do us part. So much for Mitchell's end of the bargain. He's not here. He is somewhere with my children. With a gun. The thought makes me angry, fuels a fire in me and energizes me. Now, as Graham would say,
time to figure out what the hell happened.
Then I notice a tiny, but distinct, delineating fact. In every picture, Mitchell is alone. No Karen, his then very-much-alive wife. No Jack. No family shots. Always Mitchell.
What about all of Jack's school activities, scouting, peewee soccer?
I click through more pages. Nothing. No Jack. Nothing but Mitchell.
Dozens of photos flash past, his dark hair the perfect foil for a set of brilliant white teeth. Each looks identical. The same shoulder to the camera, same slight tilt of his head. Posed, measured, frighteningly precise. If I Photoshopped his head from the page, I'm certain it would sit seamlessly on the next, and the next, and the next.
And sure, his tragic story of loss attracted me at first. Then the
movie-star good looks, a jawline impossible to ignore. Now the frozen-plastic angle of his face seems more Stepford spouse than sweet husband. I click back further and further. Widen the search parameters. Include Jack's name. Nothing. Then Karen's. I hold my breath and tap the Enter key. I hit pay dirt.
“Local children's author and illustrator to launch book tour.” Wow. The image of Karen captures a beaming, waif-like creature wrapped in a gauzy moss-green dress. Her long, straight brown hair hangs to her waist in a shiny waterfall. The photographer captured her laughing shyly at the camera, sharing the moment with a man identified as her agent.
It's clear the agent, Will Harris of Harris Talent of Mountain Brook, adores her. They're holding a children's book between them, a gray-silver mouse on the cover. And there's the title:
Beach Mouse Magic
. The very same book I bought for Sam. I scan the photo for clues and notice Will's eyes on Karen, not the camera lens. And Mitchell, for once, is nowhere to be found.
The author of the story praises Karen's work, mentions a three-book deal from a major publisher, and talks about the successful book signing held that morning. Evidently a
Beach Mouse Magic
craze hit Birmingham and every nearby city, with busloads of schoolchildren and their parents clamoring for signed first editions.
Karen was scheduled to leave on a ten-city book tour less than a week later. I check the date with the details about Karen's car crash and swallow hard. A mere three days after the event and photo ran in the paper. Officers ruled out weather and poor driving conditions. The police speculated Karen might have swerved to avoid an animal or object in the road. Nothing definitive. My unease ratchets up a few notches.
There's a story about Karen's obituary; next, her funeral, attended by dozens of people. Donations to the Alabama Art Commission in lieu of flowers. Mitchell and Jack are listed, as well as Mitchell's
father, Frank, who died shortly after Karen's accident. No other family members are listed.
I weigh my discoveries. People don't just drive into cypress trees with perfectly functional cars. And why didn't Mitchell say anything about a book tour? In retrospect, I didn't ask much when Mitchell and I were dating. The past is the past. I always thought Mitchell just wanted to focus on the present. Our family. Not hurt my feelings by bringing up his former life.
But maybe Mitchell wasn't trying to protect me. With a click, I shut down my overworked Mac. In my brain, I reorganize the puzzle pieces, slide them around to find connections. Karen. Spotlight. Birmingham. Mitchell. Book tour launch. Ten cities.
In the time before the accident, Karen was leavingâalbeit temporarily. Possibly with Will Harris. Or not.
It may be that I am totally overreacting and my imagination's gone berserk. But what's certain? It's obvious I didn't examine what lay behind my husband's shiny-clean exterior. And now I may end up paying an extraordinarily high price.
MONDAY, APRIL 12
“Graham, the thought occurs to me”âMarley Kennedy, proprietress of Miss Beulah's café, glances at meâ“that it might be faster to hook you up to one of those IV drips every morning.”
She's married to a town cop, Mike, and she's adorable and bohemian, a tiny gap between her two front teeth. Her hair is piled on top of her head, a scarf intricately woven into the layers of golden strands. Marley also has an incredible memory for names, favorite drinks, and preferred sweets. She hands over my travel mug, her bracelets jingling. “We can set it up over in the corner.”
I hide a smirk. I've actually come to adore my morning harassment. As Marley moves to ring me up, the raw edges of her red tie-dyed dress sweep the wooden floor.
“Well, I'll take that under advisement. After all, we attorneys are all about efficiency and productivity.” I nod with mock courtroom seriousness. “However, it might scare the tea drinkers. I'll get back to you.” I raise a hand to wave at Marley and push open the wooden door.
The humidity rises up and swirls around my legs as I stir up the morning-still air. It's no more than a hundred steps back to my office, and the streets are dead quiet. A dragonfly buzzes my head, wings beating silent against the fence post where it lands.
Ava is waiting on the steps, elbows on her knees. Her hair is tousled and shines red-gold in the early light.
“Hey, good morning,” I call out when I come closer. Immediately, when I see her face, I want to take back the words. She's breathtakingly pretty without a bit of makeup, but her sea-green eyes are brimming with worry.
Be professional, Graham. Clearly, she hasn't slept. And she's here on business.
“Hey,” she says, offering a weak smile.
“What brings you over here this morning?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“The workmen are at the house. Every day. They're making great progress, but the pounding and banging are getting to me.” She looks down at the ground. “I thought maybe we could talk about the case.” Gingerly, she stands up, reaches out a hand to steady herself on the railing.
“No problem. Want me to go back and grab you some coffee?” I hold up my cup. “Just takes a second to walk down there.”
“Thanks, no.” She presses a hand to her lower stomach and grins weakly. “Nerves.”
We step inside; I push a pile of paper to the side of my desk. I am careful to sit across my desk from Ava and give her lots of space. It takes her less than five minutes to run down yesterday's events.
“I don't need to tell you this now, but I'm going to say it anyway,” I lecture. “Your husband is a smart man. He has an agenda, which seems to involve getting you into as much trouble as possible.”
Ava clasps her hands tightly.
“Stay away from him, Ava. I mean it. His truck, his apartment. Try not to talk to him on the phone. If you have to have a conversation, make it only about the kids. Got it?”
She nods.
After clearing my throat, I continue. “In the meantime, unless
you disagree, I'm going to draw up a proposal, a parenting plan. It'd relieve Mitchell of all financial responsibility; give him liberal visitation, you physical custody. I'll fax it over to Douglas's office by lunchtime. How does that sound?”
“Will it work?” Ava lifts her chin, hopeful.
“No telling.” I begin to jot down a preliminary outline. “It's worth a shot. If he says no, we haven't lost anything. We'll go forward with the mediation.”
The fact is Mitchell is unlike anyone I've ever come across. Normally, most guys would cut and run with a deal like this. Free and clear, no child support. But this almost-ex-husband . . . no telling.
“If Mitchell goes for this . . .” Ava hesitates. “Graham?” She waves a hand in front of my face and snaps her fingers. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry. Just brainstorming.” I run a hand through my hair. “Any luck finding out about the wife?”
She fills me in on the book, the tour, the article, and Will Harris in Birmingham.