Center of Gravity (6 page)
I break into a smile. “Of course.” I clap my hands together and rub them for warmth. The breeze sneaks down the collar of my jacket, giving me a chill.
Ava turns back to the game, letting out a little squeal when Jack makes an attempt on goal. The ball grazes the keeper's glove and rolls away from the net.
“Next time!” I shout, cupping my hand so that Jack can hear me. I grip my knee. He either won't acknowledge my encouragement or can't hear me, though I choose to go with the latter.
A smart child listens. And learns much from his father, especially. From the simplest tasksâcrossing the street, telling timeâto the most complexâexcelling at sports, developing good study habits, and preparing for a successful career. You can't start too early.
I tilt my head toward Ava. “I tried to give Jack some motivation out there. Told him to get his head in the game and focus.”
My wife raises an eyebrow. “How'd he take that?”
“Aw, he's a trooper,” I say. “Look at him now.” I point out to where Jack is driving down the field, passing back and forth with his teammate.
“It's important for him to know that I care. That I'm watching,” I add. “I'm here at the game, cheering him on.”
Ava nods and gives me a small smile, then hugs Sam to her chest. “Both of your boys love you.”
I reach out, squeeze her fingertips, and lean close. “I won't be like my parents.”
It's a story Ava has heard a million times. In the solar system of all relationships, my mother and father resembled an off-kilter sun and planet, each rotating on its axis, but never in complete alignment. Too close, get burned. Too far, freeze to death.
When the pressure became too great for my mother, she imploded. My father, a great athlete, escaped by lecturing me on sports and conditioning. When on leave from the army, he'd take me to my own games, talking strategy and technique until he dropped me off at the locker rooms.
If I succeeded, I'd get a smile, a slap on the back, or a wink. If I failed, my punishment was silence. Black and deafening. For days. Which is why I challenge Jack, talk to him, motivate him through my words and my presence. I'm here. He matters. We're a team.
I can't become my father. It
has
to be different this time.
FRIDAY, MARCH 26
My nephew scored his first goal tonight. He's elated, and his team's dominating the field. He made striker this year and is clearly a valuable asset to the forward line.
I grin, clap, and whistle, making the shrill pitch sound over two soccer fields.
Truth be told, this soccer game is my first crack at any social life in Mobile, Alabama, outside my nephew's birthday party. I scan the crowd for my brother, but it's halftime and he's buried ten people deep.
It's a warm afternoon, even for March, with the air off the Gulf of Mexico hanging thick and heavy overhead. The sky, painted postcard blue, is punctuated only by the occasional wisp of clouds. I lean against the trunk of a thick oak, my hand gripping the rough bark. My knee throbs from standing so long. For the millionth time, I curse my next-to-useless joint and dig in my jeans for Advil. The concession stand is close, and the sweet, spicy scent of grilled hot dogs fills my nose. Balanced out with a tall, icy cold Coke, it's the closest I'll get to heaven this morning. At least that kind of temptation won't get me in trouble with anyone, except a cardiologist.
And I don't need problems. Of any kind. Yeah, I know. I'm different. A paranoid lawyer with a conscience. If you're asking why, the
long version is complicated, but the quick answer is Vicodin. Those pills could erase Mother Teresa's devotion to Calcutta. Convince a person to sell his soul.
I know, because I did it. Ruined everything, had my law license suspended. Managed to keep my Harley and worked my ass off to regain a shred of self-respect. Thanks to my brother and Narcotics Anonymous, I'm clean two years, three months, and one day.
After a torn ACL playing flag football on spring break from law school, I got hooked on pain pills. Because my grades were stellar, I still managed to land a job at a big downtown Birmingham firm. The salary paid for my habit until the day I showed up to try a case under the influence.
It was only through the grace of God that one of the partners noticed and sent me straight home. His caveat? Check into rehab that week. I was later politely and quietly asked to resign, but didn't lose my license. I could have lost everything. Mobile is my second chance. And I'm not going to screw it up. This time I'm one of the good guys.
I take my place in line, check for my wallet. The baby in front of me catches my eye and starts to babble in my direction. He's adorable and chubby with the sort of blush-pink cheeks grandmothers like to pinch. The woman holding him has long hair, shining gold-red in the fading sunshine.
It hits me then. The woman and her baby. From that day in the hospital.
It's her turn at the counter. “Hey, y'all. One Coke, a hot dog, and a small popcorn.”
It's clear she knows everyone. They banter back and forth while she reaches for her purse.
She hesitates, studying my face with wide bottle-green eyes. “Have we met before? You look so familiar.”
“Springhill Medical Center,” I remind her. “I think you crushed my foot.”
Her face lights up and she starts to laugh. “That's right,” she replies. “My son, Jack, was getting stiches that day. Of course he's right back out on the field.”
I watch as she gestures to the soccer field. She's all-American beautiful. Delicate features, long eyelashes, and a sprinkle of freckles. Her son is a mirror image.
“I'm Ava Carson and this is Sam.” The baby lifts his arm in my direction.
I lean forward, catching Sam's fingers. With a soft grip, I move his tiny palm up and down. “Graham Thomas. Nice to meet you, Sam. And your mommy.”
The baby grins and chortles. Ava giggles and nuzzles the baby. “Sam, are you making conversation?”
“You bet,” I joke, wanting, somehow, to keep the conversation going. “He's lamenting about junk food calories and the nation's rising obesity level.”
“Really?” She raises an eyebrow and grins. “You got all that from my son?”
“You should hear what else he tells me,” I joke.
We both laugh as the girl behind the counter calls out Ava's order. I ask for my own Coke, grab her tray and balance it on one hand.
“Let me.” I pay for my drink and follow her to a set of picnic tables.
She pauses on the end of the row and our eyes lock again. Ava looks away quickly, and I catch the flash of a huge diamond on her left hand. Right.
Behave, Graham.
“Want to join us?” she asks, tilting her head and pulling Sam close on her lap. She sweeps a stray strawberry blond hair from her cheek, slips it behind one ear. She wipes her hands on a napkin and unwraps the hot dog. “So, you're new in town?”
“Is it that obvious?” I remember the Advil, pop it in my mouth, and sit. Sliding my drink close, I leave space enough for her husband and Big Foot to settle in.
She flashes an apologetic look. “Sorry. Might as well wear a sign and flashing lights.”
While we make small talk, I notice Ava watching the parking lot. She begins to look worried, and I shift my eyes in that direction. Next to a black Range Rover, a tall, dark-haired man is on the phone, pacing, deep in conversation. He's dressed in an immaculately pressed white shirt, red tie, and dark slacks. I glance down at my beat-up khakis, until I realize Ava's watching me.
She takes a dainty bite of hot dog, closes her eyes blissfully. “This is so amazing,” she murmurs, smothering a big smile. “Nothing like a big juicy hot dog. Don't let anyone see.”
When I move to block her from the crowd, she grins.
“Thanks. It's my tiny bit of rebellion.” She pauses and presses a napkin to her lips. Her voice is soft and musical, with a touch of a honeyed southern accent. “You know, anything this good has to be horrible for me. Ladies should only eat lettuce.”
“That's a rule?” I play along.
“For the last two hundred years,” she teases. “So where do you work?”
“I run my own business. Just getting started.”
She probably hates lawyers.
No need to spoil this. I hand her a card, face down.
“Great. Thanks.” Ava tucks it away. A whistle blows, long and loud. Game time again. Her eyes dart from the ball field to the Range Rover.
She puts a hand to her lips. The next thing I know, the man by the Range Rover opens the door, climbs inside, and guns the engine. The tires dig into the dark red dirt, kicking up small clouds of dust as he drives away.
What the hell?
“You'll have to excuse us.” Pink-cheeked, Ava stands up and hoists Sam to her hip. His tiny foot grazes the popcorn, spilling the contents of the bag. Puffed kernels scatter around her hot dog and Coke as she steps over the bench and hurries away.
I can't help but watch her leave. The sunshine on her hair, the curve of her hip, the way her arms wrap around the baby. She's talking to Sam, tilting her head to look at his face. Then, she steps into the crowd and disappears.
Damn
. My appetite vaporizes. Ava's husband must be out of his mind.
FRIDAY, MARCH 26
Sam, rag-doll tired and fussy, finally plops his head on my shoulder. A dull ache travels down the small of my back. It's growing dark, and the cicadas greet the evening with a loud, chirping chorus. The final glow of tonight's brilliant sunset, dark reds and purple, fades into the night through the branches of giant oak trees high above us.
I'd turned down several rides home, thinking my husband would be back any minute. It's been almost two hours. Dinnertime, and the thought of grilled steak sets my stomach rumbling. I'm afraid to even ask Jack if he's hungry, as I have nothing to feed him or Sam. I'm stuck at a dusty soccer field with a baby, an eight-year-old, and no vehicle.
I am baffled, hurt, and a little scared. For a moment, I think about how easy life used to be before I was a wife and mother of two. People tell you that marriage and motherhood are the hardest job in the world. Naive me, I didn't believe it.
As if he can read my thoughts, Sam whimpers, reaches for a handful of my hair, and pulls. I take it as a reminder to be thankful for my blessings despite the mess I'm in. Message delivered. Gently, I untangle the strands from his chubby fingers, rubbing my nose with his and making him laugh. “Love you,” I murmur.
It's then I notice that Jack has edged at least three feet away.
Shoulders hunched, he's scuffing the dirt with the toe of his cleat. Biting my lip, I step closer and rub his damp head.
“Good game today, honey,” I say. “You really tried hard.”
Jack shrugs and doesn't answer. The loss was devastating, and his silence pierces my heart.
I try again. “You're sure your dad didn't say where he was going?” I ask.
He frowns and continues poking the dirt. “Nope.”
An invisible wall shoots up between us. This is the old Jack. Lonely, lost, and wounded.
As the school counselor at Mobile Prep, it was my job to know about the kids who needed extra attention, the students who were failing, the teenagers having trouble at home. In Jack's case, it was simpleâhe was new to the schoolâand didn't quite fit in yet.
The week school started that year was insane. Over the course of five days, a pregnant teen from a devout Catholic family confessed she'd made an appointment for an abortion. Our salutatorianâwith at least a dozen full-ride college scholarshipsâjoined the Marines but couldn't figure out how to break it to his parents. Worst of all, someone stuffed peanuts into the sandwich of a highly allergic kid. Guess who wielded the EpiPen? That's right. Yours truly.
Jack Carson wasn't nearly as overt. He didn't draw any attention to himself, walled off the world, and didn't make friends. He wasn't adjusting. He wasn't happy. It was time to check in with his father about my concerns. When I contacted Dr. Mitchell Carson, his cheerful assistant answered on the first ring and put me through.
“I'm so glad you called,” he said, his deep voice resonating in my ear after listening to a brief explanation. When I asked if he'd like to come by the school and discuss any issues in more detail, Mitchell didn't hesitate.
“I'm between meetings,” he replied. “Give me ten minutes.”
Good as his word, Dr. Carson arrived with time to spare. He filled the doorway with his broad shoulders and an air of confidence that commanded attention.
“Jack is a wonderful child. I love him dearly.” Mitchell sat down and smoothed his tie. His dark eyes were steady. “What I'm about to share should help explain some of his behavior.”
I listened, intent on absorbing every detail. Jack's mother died in a tragic car crash. They were college sweethearts. Mitchell's own father passed away soon afterâanother huge loss almost too much to bear.
“When the position at Springport came open, the timing couldn't have been better,” Mitchell told me, the sparkle returning to his eyes. It was exactly what he'd been searching for. He and Jack moved to Mobile. Since then he'd been valiantly attempting to juggle the new job, a new home, and getting to know staff, students, and community leaders. And of course, taking care of Jack.
“Life as a single dad,” Mitchell told me, “is more difficult than running a college.” He sat back in the chair and shook his head, rueful.
Mitchell did say Jack had signed up for soccer, which was encouraging. They had gone hiking and fishing just last weekend. Anything to help, he explained. Anything to get his mind off his mother and grandfather.
“It sounds like you're doing all of the right things,” I told him. “Giving Jack your time and attention means a lot, especially after such losses.”