Center of Gravity (16 page)
Try as I might, there's no amount of effort that brings back any cogent memory. I am vigilant about locking the house, double-checking
the oven light. And the air-conditioning. I take a few steps and glare at the defunct thermostat. Off. With the touch of a button, a blessedly cool breeze blows through the vents.
Gosh! What else?
Wine. I could use a glass of wine. I pull out the drawer, search for the corkscrew, which has likely gathered dust by now. There's every imaginable kitchen tool you can think of, except what I want. My lost vegetable peeler, a cheese slicer, and a Ginsu carving knife capable of cutting through a large tree branch. I set the shiny blade on the counter.
A heavy footstep nearly sends me into orbit. I whirl around. Mike Kennedy's familiar face peers back at me through the glass-framed back door. Hand shaking, I turn the lock and let him in.
“Mike, for the love ofâ” I clutch my throat in mock strangulation. “Are you trying to kill me? You scared me to death,” I scold him and smile.
“Ava, I . . .” Mike struggles and swallows hard. “I need a favor.”
“Sure. How long have we known each other? Anything for you.” I grin. “As long as it doesn't involve a speeding ticket.”
“It doesn't,” he assures me, much too readily. “Not at all.” He scratches his head and cracks his neck. “Damn, Ava. I hate to say this . . .”
I look where his eyes have landed, my hand with the corkscrew. The Ginsu knife. With its enormous silver blade glinting on the counter.
Laughing, I set down the corkscrew, fold my arms across my chest, and lean against the sink. “Now, really, what are you doing here?”
Mike clears his throat and adjusts his collar. “Can I take a peek around the place?” He shoots me a look. “It seems your husband thinks you might have a few things here that belong to him.”
“Well, I have a lot of things that belong to him,” I joke. “Half of this house. His clothes, his shoes.”
Mike holds up an arm for me to stop. “He's serious. Did you go by his place earlier?”
“Sure I did.” I hold my breath and count back from ten. “I dropped off some of Jack's things.” Perfectly legitimate, since he called me and asked me for them. But I won't say the words. Swear to myself the kids won't be involved in whatever crazy scheme Mitchell has decided to cook up.
“That's trespassing,” Mike informs me.
My brain rewinds. “What?”
“Trespassing,” he repeats. “And he thinks you may have taken . . . I'm going to say âaccidentally borrowed' a few items.” He checks his notepad. “He's willing not to press charges if you give them back.” Mike wipes his brow with a white cloth pulled from his back pocket. “Of course he won't be so forgiving the next time.”
Incredulous, I blink at the person I've known all my life. He's acting like a stranger. Have I fallen down the rabbit hole? I feel like I'm in some crack-addict version of
Alice in Wonderland
. Please! Anyone! Wake me up!
“Can I take a look around?” Mike asks. “Or do you want to hand them over now?”
“Hand what over?” I snap back. “I have no idea what you are talking about. This is insane.”
He doesn't flinch at my outburst. “If you don't allow me to check the property, I'll have to get a search warrant.” Mike stares back at me.
This is surreal. “Go ahead.” I nod and step back to let him pass.
When he heads for the foyer, I follow. Under the glittering crystal chandelier sits our half-built heart pine staircase, with its grand, curved railing and hand-carved balusters.
“Renovations, eh?”
“Mitchell's idea. Not mine,” I say, shaking my head. “Does this look like my kind of project?”
Mike rubs his chin. “Nah, not really.”
We fall silent.
“Listen.” His deep voice reverberates in the empty room. “So sorry to have to bother you with this. I really don't want to have to take you down to the station.” He takes a half step toward the hallway, then straightens his shoulders. “It shouldn't take long and will save us both a heck of a lot of hassle.”
I sink down on my heels against the wall. What. The. Hell? Doors open and close, drawers slide in and out. Curtains whisper as Mike moves them. I'm certain I hear him lift the rug.
Thorough as always, he inspects each bathroom from top to bottom. He pokes his head in the garage, glances in the trash, shuts the door. He spends what seems like an eternity combing through every inch of the house. In any other situation, I'd ask if he'd clean out the gutters while he's at it and then mow the front yard. Somehow, tonight, I'm sure he wouldn't find my attempt at humor funny.
And then Mike coughs. “Ava?” he calls out.
I stand up. “Where are you?”
“Master bedroom.”
When I reach the sound of his voice, I can't make sense of what I see. Money, a roll of it. A wad. More than I'd ever keep. Mitchell's Alabama ring. And a piece of paper with the college insignia embossed at the top. Nicely, neatly placed in the top drawer of my nightstand.
Mike doesn't speak.
“Those are not mine.”
“Not yours.” His lips curl. He doesn't move from where his feet are planted.
I throw up my hands.
“It's . . . I've never . . . there's no way.” In my haste to expel whatever voodoo black magic has leaked into my bedroom, I realize I am possibly incriminating myself in some way.
“Ava.”
“There's noâ” I stop myself.
Mike scoops up the cash, the ring, and the letter. “I'll just be going.”
Scenes of the county jail flash in front of me. Bars slamming shut, the clanging of handcuffs. Feet leaden, I manage to escort him to the back door. “Good night, Mike.”
“I'm awfully sorry to have bothered you, Ava.” Mike shakes his head.
Not as sorry as I am.
I close the door, double-check the lock, and move a chair to block the entrance. Nothing's safe anymore.
Nothing.
TUESDAY, APRIL 13
The apartment's a total mess when Dad gets back. Soap bubbles float from the kitchen where Isabel's washing dishes. Except for the kitchen, the lights are all off, and I hear my dad cuss when he trips over the baseball bat propped by the front entrance.
I wince and grit my teeth, hoping the noise doesn't wake up Sam. But when I look, the red lights keep moving across the monitor screen. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Oh, there you are.” Dad darkens the doorway, holding something big and bulky. What he's carrying smells sweet, like saltwater taffy mixed with bubblegum.
I glance up from my Spiderman comic book. “Hey, Dad.” I strain my neck to see what he's carrying.
When Isabel walks into the room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, her tan hands still shiny and wet from the dishes, my father flicks on the light and holds out a humongous arrangement of fresh flowers. I squint hard at the brightness but peel one eye open enough to see white daisies, lacy purple lilies, and crinkly pink carnations.
“For you.” He gives Isabel with a small bow, a knight's offering to his maiden.
Isabel gasps and clutches her chest, her crucifix. For a moment, I think she might be allergic or having a heart attack. Instead, she begins to cry.
I gulp. Dad waits. But then Isabel wipes her eyes on the towel and throws up her arms. “
SÃ, sÃ
.” She nods and reaches both hands for the bouquet. “
Gracias
.” When Isabel buries her nose in the flowers, the petals seem to pat at her face, telling her everything will be okay.
I jump up and make a beeline for the other room. Even there, I can still see and hear them talking.
“My husbandâ” Isabel lifts her head and begins again. “What he always bring me,” she explains. “He die last year. The pneumonia.”
“I'm so sorry.” My dad squeezes her free hand. “I just wanted to say thank you for all that you do for my family.
Muchas gracias
.”
Isabel flutters her eyelids and stands on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. The next instant she is back to Super Nanny status. She bustles away, grabs a potholder, opens the oven, shows my dad our dinner.
“Eat!” she dictates, and grabs her oversized gold purse from the counter. She hesitates before leaving. “Baby Sam misses his mama,” she whispers and shakes her head.
Isabel's dark eyes, full of questions, search my dad's face. It's plain she doesn't understand what's going on. Then again, neither do I. She glances at my dad's hand, wedding ring still on. Her red lips part and close.
“Good night, Isabel. Thank you,” he says firmly.
I come out of my bedroom and watch from the window as she makes her way down the sidewalk, past all of the houses, under the yellow glow of streetlights.
“Homework done?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply.
“About time for bed, don't you think?”
I nod and hold the slick pages of my comic book close.
“Anything special happen today?” A dark cloud passes over his face.
“No, sir. Nothing.”
Robot-like, he avoids my gaze. “So where'd you get the cookies?”
“Uh, Ava,” I answer, feeling like I'm telling a secret no one should know.
“How long'd she stay?”
I listen for the anger building in his voice, the bubbling up of lava that bursts from the earth. But it's not there.
“Not long,” I reply.
He actually smiles at his plate, but his eyes stay hard as the granite countertop, which makes me bite the inside of my cheek and wish I'd lied.
“How nice. So you gave her the tour?”
I hesitate, shuffle one step back from my father, my chin touching my chest.
“I'll take that as a yes.” Dad turns. “Look at me, Jack.”
I clutch the comic book tighter, until I can feel my rib cage. Then I raise my head.
Dad keeps his voice even and flat, but now he grips the table, making his knuckles bulge bone-white. “That woman is
never
to set foot inside this apartment again. Do I make myself clear?”
Heat rises in my chest, creeping up to my face. “But you told meâ” I argue.
Dad brings a finger to his lips. “There's nothing more you need from that woman. She's trying to trick you. Get you to take her side.” His jaw tenses.
I lift my foot.
“We're not done until I say so, got it? You're already in big trouble, mister. Do you want more?” My dad's breath comes fast and hard. A bead of sweat drips down the side of his cheek.
“Wake up, son,” he hisses. “She doesn't love you.” He stands up,
strides over, and squeezes my shoulder. “It was all a trick, a game. She adopted you to make me think she was good, that she cared. And all the whileâ”
He grips tighter, until my skin folds. I wince at the pain and clench my teeth.
“Go on, son. Get some sleep.” He pushes me toward my room. “I have work to do.”
Once I'm inside the bedroom, I let my shoulders droop and grip my knees with both hands. The pounding in my head slacks off to a slow, steady beat. In the other room, my dad is calling someone and pacing the floor. I leave the door open just a crack, crouch down, and listen.
“Dispatch? This is Mitchell Carson at 88 South Davenport. Apartment A2. Could you send someone over please? Right away. I need to report a burglary.”
THURSDAY, APRIL 15
It's been the longest week. Sam crying all of the time. Isabel talking about her dead husband. Dad freaking out and calling the cops didn't help. And now, we're back in Dr. Bennett's office.
“Hey, Jack,” she says, adjusting her red glasses. “How are you?” Her assistant, a small dark-haired girl with a long ponytail steps out from the office then, giving me a smile.
“Um, hey.”
“Heather's going to play with Sam today, if that's all right.”
I dart my eyes at Sam, who's carrying his fuzzy brown bear like an airplane, making buzzing sounds, and circling the room. I'm not sure he'll go, but Heather bends down and catches his attention with a bright new plastic corn popper, one that you have to push. She shows Sam how it works, making the blue, red, and yellow balls go crazy when the wheels turn fast. He claps his hands and squeals, then trots after her down the hallway to the lobby for his turn.
Dr. Bennett smiles, sits down on the floor across from me, and takes a deck of cards. She cuts them, shuffles them with a flick of each wrist, making my eyes zigzag, and settles them back in place. “Want to play cards?”
I wrinkle my nose. “Cards? Like
Go Fish
or
Crazy Eights
?”
Dr. Bennett laughs. “No, this is my own game. It's kind of like War, but I call it âTruth or Scare.' Want to hear about it?”
“Sure.” I sit down across from her at the small round table.
She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a short silver tube with a plastic top. After setting it next to her hip, she starts to deal the cards.
“Okay. We each get half the deck,” Dr. Bennett explains. “At the same time, we both flip over the top card. If yours is higherâlike an ace beats a king, or a jack beats a nineâ
you
get to ask a truth or a scare. Ask anything you want. If my card is higher, I get to ask. The only rule is that you have to be honest. Got it?”
“I think so.” I peer down at the stack and wish I had x-ray vision.
“Ready,” she says and places her hand on the top card.
After a beat, I reach out my hand, touching it to the shiny deck.
“Go!”
I flip up an eight of spades. Dr. Bennett turns over a two of diamonds.
“Ha,” I say, puffing up my chest. “Truth or scare?”
“Scare,” she says and crosses her arms. “Go ahead.”
I think about what I want to ask. I decide to see if there's anything she's scared of, like bugs or snakes or worms. I hunch my shoulders and tap my chin. “What's the one thing you're most scared of in the whole world?”