Center of Gravity (34 page)

My body sags. Mitchell seizes the opportunity, grabs my jaw, and forces my mouth open. With a quick jerk, he upends the pills. I gag and retch, writhing underneath him. Mitchell uses his body to hold mine up, his forearm braced against my neck.

I hear the twist of metal and the slosh of liquid. There's the acrid smell of whiskey mixed with something medicinal, just before Mitchell empties the flask into my throat. The whiskey softens the pills and singes my windpipe. I try to cough, but I can't breathe. I swallow what I have to, my need for oxygen overtaking every other instinct.

“Don't fight it,” Mitchell murmurs. He relaxes his grip on my mouth enough to pour more alcohol through my lips. The whiskey hits my belly, then warms every limb. I am dizzy from struggling.

I have to fight, I tell myself. I have to get the children. With a surge of energy, I reach for his face, scraping my nails down his cheek. The marks draw blood, bright red, in three angry streaks. Mitchell's body contracts in pain and he rears back and away, covering the wounds.

I seize the moment of distraction to swipe the remaining pills out of my mouth, tossing the handful as far into the dark edge of the garage as possible.

Mitchell's hands drop from his face and clench into fists. “Dammit, Ava,” he says, clenching his teeth. In a swift motion he yanks open the door to the Jeep and drags me into the driver's seat. He finds my keys easily, slips the large one into the ignition, and turns. The engine purrs, and Mitchell grabs the garage remote, closing the door from the inside.

Oh my God. My brain fast-forwards. My pulse gallops, but I force my body still. “Is this what you did to Karen?” I whisper.

The corners of Mitchell's mouth twist. “She took the wrong medicine, that's all.”

My heart stops. When I speak next, my tongue is thick, trying to trap the words. “Wh-what did you give her?”

He closes his eyes and starts to laugh. When I hear the sound filling the stale air—floating around my body—I know what I must do. When Mitchell catches his breath and looks at me, I tilt my head ever so slightly, jaw slack, and allow my eyelids to almost close. Abruptly, I straighten, as if rousing from a dream.

As if in slow motion, I wipe at my lips and let my hand drop. “Wh-what did you give her?”

Mitchell watches me. “Not these.” He holds up the bottle of pills, shaking them so that the letters vibrate.

I let my chin drop and flutter my eyelashes, pretending not to focus. But I can read the label. Generic. Over the counter. Sleeping tablets. I let my head fall back against the seat and make my words slur. “What med-i-cine?”

Mitchell wipes off the container and tosses it into the Jeep. “She was taking Frank's blood pressure meds. They looked exactly the same as her epilepsy pills. An easy mistake to make. She took them for almost two weeks and never even knew a thing.”

“How could you?” I want to yell. But I say it softly, slumping down in the seat as if battling for consciousness. I only have to half-pretend, though. The world is getting fuzzy.

“It was supposed to make her tired. Make her want to stay home, where she belonged,” Mitchell adds, walking away from me, his footsteps echoing. “It wasn't supposed to kill her.”

Fear stabs my chest and I want to scream, but I close my eyes, feigning sleep. It is the only way I will live. The garage light flicks off, and we are bathed in darkness except for the faint glow from my dashboard. I hear Mitchell open and close the door. And I am alone at last.

CHAPTER 69

JACK

FRIDAY, APRIL 30

No superhero is going to jump in and web-sling my dad to the wall. Or swoop in and carry us off, red cape flying. There isn't a person alive who can break down walls with big green fists. Or wave a wand and make all of this disappear.

I'd love to pretend I'm living—here and now—in the pages of a comic book, but I can't. What's going on is real. I scoop up Sam, hold him close to my chest, and rock him. When he's sleepy enough, I settle him in his crib. Just like me, he's exhausted from the day, from the happiness of seeing Ava and the stress of Dad's car ride here.

It's time for me to step up and face what frightens me most. I unzip my backpack and feel for the grooved metal handle of the gun. I wrap my fingers around it and grip tightly. My dad and Ava have been down there talking for a long time. It's quiet. Too quiet, I think. Maybe everything's okay, but something in my brain scratches at me. Call 9–1–1. Now.

The phone's in my parents' room. I step into the hallway, holding the gun behind my back, just as my father's coming up the new staircase. His hand brushes over the smooth railing. The wood, glossed to perfection, shines in the light of the chandelier.

“Where's Ava?” I ask, heart racing. I walk toward him quickly, getting as far away from Sam as possible.

My father pauses. “Why, son, she's gone.” His expression doesn't give anything away, but his shirt's dirty. He smells like sweat. His pants are wrinkled. And there's a fresh scratch on his face like a cat clawed him. The blood, smeared and dried, looks like war paint.

“Why?” I swallow back the bile in my throat. What did my father do? Did Ava run? Is she really gone?

Dad narrows his eyes at me and takes the last few steps. “I told you,” he replies, looming over me. “She is not a part of our life anymore.”

One hand under the other, I point the pistol, hold it steady, aim at my dad's chest.

Dad takes a step back, looking from me to the gun. “Put that down, son. Someone's going to get hurt.”

My body quakes. “Did you hurt
her
?”

Dad shakes his head and reaches out a hand, his fingers beckoning me. “Jack, she wasn't happy.”

Inside my head I scream. My eyes blind with tears. The words come out before I can stop them, tumbling end over end. “You killed her, didn't you? And you killed my mom.” One tear escapes and trickles down my cheek.

My father inches toward me and I lift the pistol higher.

“Jack, forget about Ava. She doesn't matter.” Dad spreads out his arms and shrugs, like we're talking about a glass of spilled milk. “We're all leaving tonight. One big, happy family.”

“No.”

Dad walks closer. “Right now.”

My chest heaves. The muscles in my shoulder cry out. My brain aches, pounds. I raise the gun a little higher. And aim.

“You're not going to fire that thing,” my father says. “You're a coward. Hand it over, Jack.” His face mocks me, smug and sure.

“I'm not a coward,” I hear myself say.
Not now. Not ever.

There's a creak downstairs. My father and I both jump. From the corner of my eye, I see a figure in the foyer. Like an apparition, Ava moves closer, until she is standing at the bottom of the staircase. Her shirt's torn, and her hair is a mess. She's pale, like the color of a marble statue, and one of her hands is clutching the banister for all she's worth. My father, rooted to the floor, just stares through narrowed eyes.

“He's not a coward, Mitchell,” she says, taking the first step. Her voice is surprisingly strong. “And neither am I.” She locks her eyes on me and gives me the faintest smile.

A faint siren wails in the distance.

Ava takes another step. “You're not leaving with the boys, Mitchell,” she says, moving her eyes to him.

My father's hands curl into fists. I can see the muscles in his neck tighten. He's getting ready to pounce, and this time he will kill her.

“Wait,” I yell and toss the gun sideways, releasing it into the air.

Dad lurches back in surprise and reaches for the pistol, which is tumbling end over end. It falls through his fingertips, hits the floor, and explodes, sending the scent of gunpowder into the air. My heart thuds like fists beating on the front door. There's a yell from outside. That's when I launch myself like a linebacker. Head tucked, shoulder forward. I collide with my father, sending him back against the staircase, over the balcony.

Then we're both tumbling.

Crashing.

Falling for what feels like forever.

EPILOGUE

JACK

Three Years Later

The return address says Holman Correctional Facility. I grip the envelope in one hand. A page, maybe two. As always, I consider ripping it open and reading it, or just shredding it into a million pieces. After all, it's what he did to our family.

The door slams. Sam races in to meet me, carrying his soccer ball. Mom trails behind toting a few canvas shopping bags. She raises an eyebrow when she notices the mail. I shrug.

“Jack!” Sam jumps into my arms and almost knocks me over.

“How's my best bud?” I ask and give him a big squeeze. He's grown so much that I do a double take every time he walks into a room.

“Can we practice penalty kicks?” Sam begs and sets the ball on the floor. “You promised.”

“Just a sec, honey.” Mom walks over and hoists the bags onto the counter. “Can you be a big boy and put these away?” She hands Sam two tissue boxes and sends him trotting off to the back bedroom.

“Be right back,” he yells, thundering down the hall.

We share a grin at Sam's enthusiasm, and then I hand over the envelope. As she's done a dozen times, Mom walks over to her desk, opens the top drawer, and slides the letter inside.

“Whenever you're ready,” she says.

I want to answer but stay silent.
Not today or tomorrow. Maybe not ever. Would Superman go looking for trouble?
Dad's letters are Kryptonite.

As Mom slides the drawer closed, she turns and smiles. There's lots she's filed away, up in her bedroom, where she thinks I won't find it. Mom's not that great at hiding things. There's Judge Crane's divorce decree, an award of full custody for my mom, and the property settlement. There's a Final Protection from Abuse order for her, Sam, and me. And Dr. Bennett's custody evaluation. I've looked at it so much, reading and rereading the sentences.

No evidence that the mother of the minor children is unfit. No evidence of alcoholism, risky behavior, or abuse of the minor children. In observing the father of the minor children, his behavior indicates that he suffers from acute anxiety and paranoia. His characteristics appear in line with sociopathic personality disorder, as described in the DSM-IV. In order to avoid further trauma to the minor children and mother, it is recommended that the father undergo a full psychiatric evaluation.

Until such time that the evaluation is completed and submitted to the court's satisfaction, it is further recommended that the father be restricted from having any contact with said minor children.

I don't know what the judge decided, really, or if the letters my dad sends count as “contact.” I haven't asked.

When I close my eyes, I relive that night. The fury in Dad's face, his outrage. Mom—braver than I've ever seen—willing to die to protect Sam and me.

We landed at the bottom of the staircase. Dad's body, crumpled and twisted, cushioned my fall. I walked away with a broken arm and wrist, some bruised ribs. For several minutes I couldn't breathe or move or talk. I honestly thought I was dead. Ava was crying and stroking my head. The paramedics said I was in shock.

Dad wasn't as lucky. He cushioned my fall and cracked his head on the marble floor of the foyer. Blood, dark and sticky, pumped out of his skull. The smell of it, coppery and sweet, haunts my thoughts.

And yeah, I didn't think first. It was a gut reaction. Panic. I had to get him out of the way, away from Sam and Ava. Away from me. Now the thought of it—what I did—what happened, still seems like a bad dream.

Everyone said it was self-defense. I wasn't charged with any crime, though my father spent weeks recovering. He was locked down in a private hospital room, making small but steady improvements. As soon as he was stable, the moment he was discharged, the police arrested him for Dr. Bennett's and my mom's attempted murders.

Attempts to plea-bargain the charges down to assault didn't work. I've lost track of the number of appeals he's filed. Dad's finished more than two years of his sentence. Almost eighteen more years to go. Meanwhile, Officer Mike Kennedy has pressed hard to reopen the investigation into my biological mom's death. He's sure it was no accident. The district attorney wants a charge of reckless homicide, which could mean another two to twelve years tacked on to Dad's sentence. My father could be eighty years old when he gets out of prison.

It's all surreal. Dad in Atmore, Alabama, another trial going on. There's always a news crew or someone lurking at the bottom of the driveway. We keep the TV and radio turned off.

Still, you hear things. At school, at the grocery store, at the soccer field. Things like Dad went insane, that he and Mom had a shoot-out in the house, and that Dad was going to poison all of us.

That last story came from my friend Mo. He overhead some cops tell his dad one of the detectives discovered a stash of sleeping tablets in the apartment, half a bottle of hard liquor hidden under the counter, and some medicine for epilepsy. I don't even want to think about it.

When I talk to Dr. Bennett about it, she says stopping the pain
when you lose someone you love is difficult. Practically impossible, like trying to keep water in a sieve. You plug a few openings, but you can't close them all. There are too many memories, too many holes, and the emotions just keep seeping out. Eventually you have to let go.

I've done the best I can. Put all of my energy into doing well in school and on the soccer field. Spending time with Mo. With my mom and Sam. And really good things have happened.

After my arm and wrist healed up, Will Harris called and asked if he could release
The Adventures of Jack Carson: Super Kid
series. As it turns out, four stories were written. He found an illustrator to finish the drawings, which turned out better than I ever expected. Watch out, Stan Lee and Marvel Comics.