Center of Gravity (17 page)

“Flying in an airplane. Terrifies me. I usually get sick.” Dr. Bennett makes a sad face. “I'm kind of a chicken.”

I can't keep from smiling. I didn't expect her to say that.

“Ready?” she prompts. We flip the next cards. “Ace of diamonds,” Dr. Bennett says.

Mine is a three of clubs. I swallow.

“Gotcha.” Dr. Bennett winks. “Truth or scare?”

“Truth,” I say, holding up my chin.

“Okay. Tell me something special about your dad,” she asks.

I tilt my head and tug at my ear. It's a pretty easy question. “He
was a really good football player in college. He played for Alabama. He has one of those big college rings.” I hold out my hand, making a fist.

“Nice,” she says. “Ready? Go.” We flip again.

“I win,” I gloat. “Truth or scare?”

“Truth.”

“Hmm.” I pretend to debate about my question. I actually could think of about twenty. It's kind of fun. “How about . . . why are you this kind of doctor? And do you have to have one of those?” I squint and point at the metal tube.

She glances down and laughs. “This is an inhaler,” she explains. “It doesn't have anything to do with being a doctor, though I needed a doctor to get one.” I nod for her to continue. “So it's called an inhaler, because when I have an asthma attack from too much exercise or too much dust or pollen, my airways sometimes close up.” She makes a motion toward her neck. “I can't breathe.”

I feel my eyes get big.

“I'm fine,” she says, laughing a little bit. “I only need my inhaler in an emergency.”

“Okay.” I exhale, glad I don't need an inhaler.

She rubs her hands together. “So as for real life—and my job as a doctor—I like to help people. And solve problems.” Dr. Bennett looks straight at me.

I stare back. “Do you?” I ask. “Solve problems, I mean.”

“I've been told I'm pretty good at it.” She grins. “You can let me know.”

I like this. “All right. That's a deal. Ready, go!”

We flip over our cards, but she wins this round. I pick truth.

“Tell me something great about your mother.” Dr. Bennett sits back in her chair and watches me.

I take my time answering. “My real mom or Ava, my mom?”

“Both.”

“I don't remember much about my real mom. She was an artist.” I hesitate, flustered. “Ava, she was my school counselor for a while, 'til she met my dad.” I snap my fingers. “I've got it. Something about Ava. When we were on vacation in the Smoky Mountains, we stayed at this big resort. Some girl started choking in one of the restaurants. Everyone was screaming and yelling. The girl turned blue.” I take a breath. “Ava jumped up, did the Heimlich, and this piece of broccoli popped right out.”

“Wow! How'd that make you feel?”

“Good. Really good.” I nod my head. “It was pretty cool.”

We draw again and I come up with a three of clubs. Dr. Bennett's holding a nine of diamonds.

“Truth.”

She taps her chin. “Okay, here's a tough one. With divorce in Alabama, anyone over fourteen can say which parent he or she wants to live with. I know you're only eight, but we can ask for the judge to listen. Who would you pick?”

That's easy. I turn my head toward Sam. “Anywhere with my brother. I think—”

A knock at the door interrupts. My head swivels around before I can stop it.

I jump when I feel Dr. Bennett touch my shoulder. “We'll finish this next time, Jack. Let's not rush it.”

Another knock, louder.

“I'll bet I know who that is.” Dr. Bennett raises her eyebrow and gets up to open the door. She calls for Heather, who brings a red-faced but happy Sam back into the playroom. He's still holding fuzzy bear and dragging the new toy, which explodes with a pop-pop with every step.

I sigh and take both hands, pushing the cards to the center of the table. I wanted to finish the game, but I grab my backpack and hover over Sam.

“Hey, sport.” Dad steps inside and throws an arm around me, squeezing. “Ready to go?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

Dad reaches down to pick up Sam, who promptly begins yelling like someone's pinched his leg with a pair of pliers.

“Take this, please.” He shoves the diaper bag at me, hard. My dad, jaw tight, bounces Sam around to try and quiet him down, but it just makes my brother more upset.

Sam starts shrieking and kicking his legs.
“Mama! Mama!”

I cover my ears with my hands. Dr. Bennett grabs a little cylinder and shoots it into her mouth.

“Sorry,” Dad says, raising his voice above Sam's cries. “Didn't mean to upset everybody. He never, ever does this. I can't imagine what could be wrong.”

I don't say a word, but I know he's lying. Sam cries every day for Ava. I pinch my lips together and don't look at Dr. Bennett.

Dad pats Sam, shushing him on his way out the door. “Thank you so much, Dr. Bennett. See you next time.”

“Next time,” she agrees.

Sam's cries fade into the roar of the truck engine while I think about my last answer to the card game. I wanted to answer. I was ready. I love my dad. I really do.

But right now, I choose Ava.

CHAPTER 31

MITCHELL

FRIDAY, APRIL 16

My father, Frank, and I never agreed on much, but there's one philosophy of his I can live with. “There's no such thing as luck; sometimes fate needs a little push.”

Today the push looks a lot like Jack's DeMarini baseball bat. I know football is not Jack's thing, but he's a natural athlete. I want him to widen his horizons past the soccer field, so we settled on the great American pastime. Signed him up for a clinic this summer at the Birmingham Baseball Training Academy. Then I bought him some gear.

After careful research, I chose this bat. Perfect name, Vendetta. The online write-up sold me. “The composite barrel and flexible inner core reduce vibration zones, increase the sweet spot and produce the ultimate bat speed.” Too bad Jack won't have a chance to break it in at the plate.

Dad is taking the first swing.

Isabel stayed overnight, so I steal out of the house at 4:00 a.m., drive to campus, and park in a remote space behind the deserted college post office. The building is on a small corner of the grounds, far away from sleeping students in their residence halls.

I step out, gravel crunching beneath my shoes. It's warm, and the air is moist and heavy with the smell of a coming storm. As if they've anticipated my arrival, the crickets swell with music, the rubbing of gossamer wings filling my head. The gunmetal-gray barrel glints as I pull back and swing. My headlight splinters apart, sending plastic flying into the fresh-cut grass. Next, I smash the windshield edge. That blow sends a spiderweb of cracks radiating from the corner.

In the soft glow from a nearby streetlight, I catch a glimpse of myself in the side mirror and hesitate. For a moment, I see my father's face in the reflection. Angry, jaw twitching, beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. His voice resonates through the empty lot.
Mitchell.

The shock forces me to look away, swipe a hand across my forehead. When I look again, my own face stares back.
Damn. Screw you, Dad. Screw you for leaving us. My kids will know their father. This'll make sure.
I give the bat another go for good measure, this time against the driver's side door, leaving a dent the size of my fist. Nicely done, if I do say so myself.

Back inside the Range Rover, I take a cloth and scrub every inch of the bat clean. Satisfied, I drive the five miles back on empty streets to my house. Ava's Jeep sits on the edge of the driveway. I ease in, careful not to kick up gravel. Fortunately, the office air-conditioner provides enough white noise. I step next to the vehicle, unzip the ragtop, slide the bat inside.

Done.

Hours later, my assistant's silver Ford Fusion sits, perfectly parked, in her usual spot. She's on time every day, prompt, and chipper to a fault. My desk has never been cleaner, my calendar so well organized. Mary Grace actually anticipates my needs. A rare talent even the best-trained workers seem to miss.

As I open the door to the reception area outside my office, Mary Grace pounces to take my jacket. She smiles broadly, and as I ease
out of my sport coat, I breathe in a hint of vanilla and warm undertones of caramel on her skin. It's pleasant and soothing, like the smell of pecan pie on Thanksgiving.

“Good morning, sir,” she says. “Coffee, Dr. Carson?”

“Certainly.” I smile.

“On your desk, sir.”

“Any messages?” I ask and adjust my yellow tie in the mirror. “My appointments for today?”

Mary Grace rattles off a list of who's who, followed by a down-to-the-minute schedule. Ava's mother is last on the list. I've scheduled one last meeting to discuss the athletic center donation. Today I'm coming to her.

“Well now, that gives me about ten minutes to check e-mail and drink my delicious coffee.”

She beams in delight. “Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

I step into my office and call back. “Repair shop number. Do you have one?”

“Sir?” Her face pales, making the sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks stand out.

As much as I hate to repeat myself, I need to be vague.
“A body shop, really. That's the number I need.”

Mary Grace draws herself up to her full height, all of five feet, three inches. “Are you all right? Was there an accident?”

I rub my chin thoughtfully. “You could say that.”

She rushes to the window and peers out, a hand above her eyebrows. Mary Grace draws in a sharp breath when she sees the dents. Wide-eyed, she darts a glance at me, then back at the truck. “What in the world?” she murmurs. “Did a tree branch fall on your truck? Did a deer jump in front of you? Or a bear?”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, then remind myself I need the jump-to-your-death kind of loyalty Mary Grace offers. Her concern is awe-inspiring and deeper than I'd imagined.

With a soft touch, I take her elbow gently and lead her away from the window. “It seems someone is a bit upset with me.”

Mary Grace whirls, mouth open, indignant. “Who would do such a thing?”

“It doesn't matter.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Could you find the number, please?”

Flustered, her fingertips fly across the keyboard. “Of course, sir. It's just . . . I'm so . . . shocked.” She produces several numbers and scribbles them down on an orange Post-it. “Would you like me to call?”

“Yes. Forgive me, I'm not thinking straight.” I force a grateful nod of my head. “Of course, please call.
Then I can focus on my day.”

“Have them come get your vehicle, sir?”

“That would be perfect.” I drop the key into her waiting palm. “Just let me know what they say after they take a look.”

“Will your wife be by to pick you up or will you need a rental?” Her pencil hovers in midair.

I squint my eyes, run a hand through my hair. “I'll need a rental.” I pause. “Actually, on second thought, schedule everything for in the morning. I'll need the truck this afternoon.”

“Very good.” She hands back the key.

“And Mary Grace? About Ava. Do not let her in the building. If she calls, I'm not here or I'm in a meeting. If she comes to the office, call security. No. Better yet, call the police.” I close the door firmly.

“Yes, sir.” Her lower lips quivers. Slowly, she reaches for the phone.

CHAPTER 32

JACK

SATURDAY, APRIL 17

I haven't had the guts to ask what happened to Dad's truck. The broken headlight yawns open wide like a monster's mouth, yawning and bearing its jagged teeth. When Dad isn't looking, I brush the dent on the side with my fingers. The crater, rough and uneven, looks like it belongs on the moon. Missing paint chips show glints of silver underneath.

When we climb inside the Range Rover, I stare through the shattered windshield, the sunlight catching a million tiny corners. It's like seeing the world through a kaleidoscope, the diamonds and triangles piecing the trees and road together.

As we ride along, hitting the occasional bump, I grip the armrest and hold on. Dad drives fast, and when the accelerator hits 70, everything tingles, my hands, my ears, my feet.

If I had spider-sense, like Peter Parker, and his other powers, I'd be a wall-crawling, web-shooting superhero. I'd be in the middle of battles with great foes like Doctor Octopus, the Sandman, and the Green Goblin. Homework, chores, and dealing with adults would be the least of my problems.

As Spiderman, I'd know trouble was coming and make a plan to deal with it. Learn to trust my instincts. Figure out who was evil
and who was just plain weird. Creepy guys, like Grandma Ruth's husband.
George
. That's Ava's stepdad. He's about a hundred years old, yells when he talks, and smells like bug spray. He's hardly ever home, and that's a good thing. Otherwise you'd have to drag me to their house with my heels digging into the dirt.

Grandma Ruth's house rises out of the ground like a brick mountain, dark red with white pillars. The first time we visited with Ava, years ago, I half-expected to see a royal flag flying overhead or a knight atop a snorting silver steed—complete with moat and drawbridge.

“Yoo-hoo!” And there's Grandma Ruth, waving at the top of the winding driveway. I've always thought it would be so awesome to ride my skateboard all the way to the road, but Ava says I'd break my neck.

The look of happiness turns to surprise as she checks out the dents in Dad's truck.

“Mitchell, what in the name of the Lord happened?” She covers her mouth with short, white-tipped fingernails. “Something at the college? Or was it those hoodlums who stand around by the Winn-Dixie?”