Center of Gravity (29 page)
I run a hand over the door trim. The car looks brand-new and smells expensive, like leather. There's no dirt on the carpeting, not even a speck, and the seats are so clean and slippery that my pants slide when we go around a corner. My stomach pitches back and forth, and I tighten my seat belt. I hope Ava doesn't ask about the cell phone. I can't tell her what really happened, but I don't want to lie either.
Dr. Bennett takes another puff from her inhaler. This time nothing comes out. She shakes it, holds it up to her mouth, presses it again. Still nothing.
“Are you all right, Dr. Bennett?”
She erases the worried look from her face.
“Jack, honey, I just need to get a refill for my medicine.” She glances back at Sam. “I'll take care of it later.”
Sam kicks and gurgles at the signs whizzing by.
“What medicine?” I press. “We can stop and get it.” A pharmacy sign zooms past the car. “Look. See, right there.” I shoot her a look and point out the window. “See?”
“Darlin', I'll be just fine.” She checks her watch, then studies the GPS. “Hmm, should be here, just about a mile on the left.”
I gesture to my own personal landmark. “Turn past that butterfly tree. See the flowers? Ava planted those. I helped.”
Dr. Bennett makes the turn. “I'll bet you did. Thank you, Jack.”
Sure enough, more foliage, bursting with purple blossoms, appears. The paved driveway arches back and up, leading to the house, set back from the road. I sneak a peek at Sam. Even he seems to know he's near our real house. He babbles happily at my grin. We park next to Ava's Jeep.
Dr. Bennett unstraps Sam and gathers him in her arms. I bolt from the car and run to the steps. I take them two at a time.
Ava opens the door, exclaiming about how big I am and running her hand along my shoulder. At first it hurts when she touches my arms, drawing me close, but I can't say anything about the bruises or my dad. I can't believe the slap mark faded. I just lock that out of my head.
So when she finally folds me to her like a snug down coat on a cold Alabama night, I relax. I press my cheek against her body, inhaling cinnamon and vanilla. Ava smells like Christmas.
“Mama.” Sam tries to wrestle away from Dr. Bennett. “Mama, Mama.”
Ava releases me with a smile, then kneels down and scoops Sam to her chest, hugging him as if it's her last moment on the planet.
Ava wipes at her eyes and smiles at Dr. Bennett. “Coffee?” She lifts up a mug. “Have a cookie before Jack and Sam make them disappear.”
In the kitchen I grab two cookies and hand a small one to my brother. The treats are warm with a bit of a crispy, golden edge. When I break one in half, the chocolate chips stretch and bend upside down into mini jump ropes. I catch a drip with my tongue, letting the sweet, smooth goodness slide down my throat and into my waiting belly.
“Yum,” I declare, rubbing my stomach and making Sam giggle. My brother's already smeared chocolate across his cheek and is crumbing bits of cookie all over the floor. Ava laughs and chases him with a washcloth to wipe his face.
Dr. Bennett sits down at the breakfast bar and looks around, checking out the house and the kitchen. “Everything's so neat.”
“Oh, I have plenty of time to cook and clean up.” Ava lays the washcloth into the sink and swipes at an imaginary speck on the tabletop. “No one here to mess it up but me.”
The coffeepot gurgles as we all stand there, awkward, waiting. Sam and I inch toward the playroom. Ava doesn't move. We're all just waiting for Dr. Bennett to give the okay.
“Oh my goodness. Go! All of you,” she finally says, realizing it. “Please, spend time together. I'll entertain myself just fine right here.”
Ava practically melts with relief. “Take a look in the back, guys.”
I squeal when I see what's behind the house. Sam jumps up and down, clapping. There's a huge playground set and a sandbox. The breeze catches an empty swing and pushes it.
“You remembered!” I call out.
Ava spends the next hour playing with us. Sliding and racing and pushing. We laugh a lot and roll around in the yard. I laugh extra hard when I see Sam's hair sticking to his head in curls. My arms ache, and I've got stains on the knees of my pants, and there's grass in my hair. I'm hot, sweaty, and thirsty, but happy. Everything smells like sunshine.
When Dr. Bennett gives us the signal that it's almost time to go. I want time to stop.
I lock in place, burrowing deep into the dirt, like the roots of an oak tree. It takes Ava ruffling my hair to unbend my body, straighten my arms and legs. We shuffle toward the house, bone-tired.
“Give me just a minute,” Ava whispers to Dr. Bennett but loud enough for me to hear. “I need to grab something.” Then to me, “You and your brother need to get some water. Can you help him, please?”
I oblige and fill a sippy cup for Sam. “Yes, ma'am.”
“Having a good time?” Dr. Bennett asks while Ava's out of the room.
“Yes, ma'am,” I answer between gulps and snatch another cookie.
“What was the best part?”
My throat gets scratchy. I pretend to pay attention to my cookie, break it in half, and play with the crumbs on my plate. I think about my answer.
“It's home. All of our stuff is here,” I mumble. “Now the swing set.”
“So the swing set makes it better?” Dr. Bennett tosses out the question. “Or is it more space, a bigger place?”
“No, not really.” I pull at the collar of my shirt. “I'd share a room here if I had to. Um . . . Ava has more time for us. She plays with usâ”
“Play!” Sam bangs his cup on the ceramic tile.
Ava walks back into the room. “I know it's time to go.” She holds out a package. “This is something from your mother.”
I draw back. But when I blink again, and really look, it's just a box, plain, four corners, tied with a limp ribbon. Gingerly, I take it with both hands. “My mom? You mean Karen? What is it?” I examine the bottom, tip it to one side.
“We don't know for sure.” Ava looks at Dr. Bennett, then puts a hand on my arm. “Your grandfather gave it to me.”
I open my mouth but can't make words come out right. “M-my . . .”
“Your grandfather,” Ava repeats.
Anger wells up in my chest. “You're not telling me the truth,” I spout. “My grandfather is dead. Dad said so. He told me.” I spit out the words like poison and toss the package on the table.
“No. That is absolutely not true.” Ava flushes, puts both hands on the edge of the gift. “I met him. Your dad's father.”
Sam stomps around underneath our feet. “Dad-dad-dad-dad.”
“Stop it, Sam,” I yell and cover my ears. “Quit it! Right now.” Sam starts to cry.
Ava picks him up, hugs him close, and shoots Dr. Bennett an apologetic grimace. “Bad timing,” she mouths. “I'm sorry.”
I push the chair back so hard it crashes to the floor. “And I don't want any stupid present. Not from you or anyone.” I run from the room, pass the new staircase, and out the front door. The door slams behind me. The windows rattle.
“She didn't care. She had a boyfriend,” I say to myself. “She left.”
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
I sit at the window forever, replaying the last few minutes with the boys. The surprise on Jack's face, then anger. Jack tossing the box. Sam wailing. His tear-streaked face. Dr. Bennett patting my hand. It had been a perfect afternoon. Until . . . I press my forehead on the glass and run a finger down the pane, streaking it.
The house feels so hollow without the boys; the emptiness reverberates. I don't have the heart to sweep up the bits of dirt and grass, the crumble of cookies on the counter. I want to encase them in glass. Bottle the baby shampoo smell of Sam's hair, capture the brilliance of Jack's smile, uncorking it only to remember.
If I could, I'd photograph every sign that the boys were here. The forgotten fleece jacket in the corner, the footprints in the sandbox, and the damp white washcloth I used to wipe Sam's face. I'd line the hallways with pictures, framed neatly in rows, and memorize the images, imprinting them on my soul.
This would make it real, if only to me. It would serve as proof. Evidence that I am a flesh-and-blood mother for more than one hour a week. I let my eyelids fall shut and summon strength from the deepest crevices of my heart. Today I have to fight harder than ever against the negativity spinning in my head. Jack's reaction, after all, was normal. He will work through it.
I stand up, open the back door, and walk outside, determined to recall Dr. Bennett's advice about this afternoon. After buckling the boys into the car, she'd walked over and gripped my hand.
“Look at it like this,” she said, her voice low. “Everyone has a center of gravity. Every family too. It's the intangible things that make us feel grounded and whole. And it's different for everyoneâa good job, a strong marriage, or a close friendship.”
I nodded.
“Often when that center of gravity tilts with trouble or disappointment, everything becomes a little unstable, a bit rocky,” Dr. Bennett continued. “When you have a greater rift, like a divorce, it's more like an earthquake. And it takes time and work to achieve that equilibrium and peace again.”
She hugged me then, and I clung to her, holding back tears. As I waved good-bye, watching the car until it disappeared, I thought of the one thing Dr. Bennett hadn't addressed. Would life ever get back to normal? If so, what would that normal look like?
FRIDAY, APRIL 30
Dr. Bennett's driving us back to her office to meet Dad. Sam's asleep and I'm staring out the window at nothing, listening to the wheels roll underneath us, carrying us away from Ava. Dr. Bennett coughs. She doesn't look so hot, and asks me to check the glove compartment.
“Do you see an extra inhaler?” she asks and keeps her eyes on the road. “Maybe hidden under those papers?”
“No, ma'am,” I reply. “Just a few maps, some gum.” I rustle around, move things.
We pull up to the office. Dr. Bennett unbuckles Sam from his seat, hoists him onto her hip, and dials her phone. She tells me to get the car seat out and leave it by the steps for my dad. I think she wants to distract me, so I do as I'm told, but I can still hear her talking.
“Hi, Dr. Lucy Bennett here. I need a refill on my Albuterol.” Another cough. “I know this is last minute. I'm so sorry. How late are you open tonight?”
She waits and rocks Sam.
“Yes, thanks. Twenty minutes is super. Could you leave it in a bag outside the door? I'm still with clients.”
The person she's talking to checks on this.
“Fabulous. That's great.” Dr. Bennett gasps in relief. “Charge it to my account, will you please?”
She hands me the key, gestures for me to unlock the door and go inside.
“Thank you.” Dr. Bennett hangs up the phone. She hands me Sam and tells me she'll be right with us; she has to check her messages. I duck into the tiny kitchen, swipe a Sprite from her mini-fridge, and open it.
In the two minutes it takes Dr. Bennett to go to her office, I flick on the lights, dump out the huge bucket of stuffed animals, and decide to turn the playroom into a WWE smack down, complete with body slams, flying sidekicks, and paw punches. Sam watches, finger in his mouth, while I pummel each toy in turn. Sam laughs as I leapfrog the rabbit with his duck.
“Hold it right there, mister,” Dr. Bennett says. I didn't even know she was standing there. “This is not ultimate fighting.”
I don't look at her face. Instead, I take a swig of Sprite and act mad that she's spoiled our fun. Dr. Bennett reaches for the yellow boa constrictor in my other hand. She pulls it away and the soda splashes my legs, my shirt, and most ends up on the carpet. The spray misses Sam, whoâof courseânow crawls directly toward the spill.
“Whoa, cowboy,” Dr. Bennett exclaims and picks him up. “The office has paper towels. A few clean shirts. Why don't you check in my officeâbottom drawer on the right?”
I dig through her drawer of Salvation Army finds and come up with a faded Grateful Dead T-shirt circa 1973. Cool. I grab it and pull my wet shirt over my head.
Dr. Bennett pokes her head in to see if I've found anything. “Jack, how's it comingâ” She stops short and sucks in a lot of air.
I know what she's looking at. My arm and an ugly tattoo of purplish-red and yellow blotches.
“Wait,” she says.
I hastily pull on the skeleton-adorned top.
“What in the world? What happened to you?” Dr. Bennett looks pissed. And like she might cry. “Let's go back to the playroom. We can talk there.”
It's not a question. It's an order. I clamp my mouth shut while we walk and promise myself I won't squeal on Dad. He'll kill me if I tell. Sam wrestles himself to the floor, eager to toss the stuffed animals around. He lets a giraffe fly a few inches off the ground as Dr. Bennett and I do a stare down.
“Um. I fell. The other day.” I smooth the shirt, peer at the wall, at nothing.
“Jack. Come on. Did someone at school do that?”
I shake my head.
“Someone at the apartment complex? A neighbor?”
Another no.
“Jack, did your father do this?” Dr. Bennett tries to look at my face and sinks to her knees. “The shape of the bruises, those are fingermarks.”
Now I'm angry. I want her to stop, so I raise my voice loud. “I told you I fell.” Even Sam stops moving. I swallow and nod, push myself into a chair.
Dr. Bennett watches me. “Say I believe you, Jack. That what you're telling me is the truth.”
My insides somersault. I can't look up. “Yeah.”
“Can I ask you something else? If I believe you about falling?” She waits a beat. “It's not about you.”