Center of Gravity (20 page)

And I finally realize what Ava said. “I love you. No matter what.”

CHAPTER 36

LUCY

TUESDAY, APRIL 20

The door creaks a little as I open it. On purpose, I've given the children time to breathe. If anything it's a small way to dignify and honor their private pain.

When I step into the room, Jack's head snaps up. His eyes, rimmed with red, meet mine. Sam, holding a fistful of his brother's shirt, breathes heavily, an occasional hiccup shaking his small body. I try to smile, but it falters.

It's a battle I fight daily, as I am only human. The emotional side of me, the mothering side, aches to fix the children's pain and lost hope. Yet my objective, clinical side must observe, filter facts, judge, and make recommendations. In the best interest of the children. A heavy burden. Almost too much to carry. Weighted by the responsibility, I settle the latter over my heart. I bend down, putting myself at eye-level with the boys.

“May I?” I glance from Jack to Sam.

Jack nods his permission for me to take his brother. I want him to feel in control, like he's making decisions, protecting his brother in some small way. Sam snuggles into my shoulder, sticky-sweet and chubby. One arm wraps around my neck as he begins to relax. I sit in the small chair across from Jack, pull the seat closer. After a few pats on
the back, Sam is able to relax. Worn out from excitement, confusion, all of the tension and emotion. His first bear cub snore makes Jack smile.

“Babies are funny, aren't they?”

Jack's happy look vanishes like vapor in the atmosphere. He fiddles with his fingers, unsure of what to say. Finally, “Yes, ma'am.”

“How's this week been? Everything okay at school?”

“Sure,” he answers with a quick duck of his chin.

“Don't worry, I won't interrogate you.” I lean to the side and feel for my bag.

Jack watches. “Are we going to play that card game again?” He furrows his brow.

Sam stretches and readjusts in my arms. He yawns and turns his head. Gone again.

“Not today. Maybe next time.” I fish out a few sheets of paper, then a marker or two. I plop them on the table casually and push them across to Jack.

“If it's okay, I'd like you to do a few drawings,” I explain. “How about your house—where you live. And your family.” I reach down into my bag and pull out a few more markers, lay them flat in front of him. “Do you like to draw, Jack?”

He chooses a gray marker. “Sure, sometimes. I mostly like comic books, graphic novels, anything with a lot of action.”

“Great! A future book illustrator in our midst.”

Jack uncaps the marker. “Like my mom. That's what she did.” He stares at the paper intently. Thinking. After the invisible wall he seemed to build when Ava was in the room, the personal admission both startles and pleases me.

I jump ahead with my question before thinking it through. “What kind of art did she do?”

He looks up and blinks, eyes sad and empty. “I don't remember all of it. I guess she was good at drawing animals and kids.” Jack swallows hard. “She died, you know.”

The hurt must eat at his very soul. Instinctively, I reach for his hand but stop myself. If he were mine, I'd fold him in my arms and try my best to hug the pain away.

I remind myself of my role and tread lightly. “I know. I'm so sorry.”

Jack averts his gaze. “Don't be. It's okay.”

The brush-off is quick and deliberate. Practiced. Learned. He hunches over the paper and begins to make lines. His arm moves smoothly across the table, fingers guiding the picture-in-process. In minutes, in immaculate detail, a large bungalow-style house appears, a driveway, swing set. Distinctive black gum trees with red-dark leaves surround the home. He pauses, surveys his work, then adds a man's torso, legs, arms, an unsmiling, dark head. A woman with long brown hair next, then a small boy, which I take to be Jack.
The first family. Mitchell, Karen, Jack.

Before I can interject, he grabs a second piece of paper. There, four people come to life. Again, a man I presume to be Mitchell, whom he places on one side of the page. On the opposite, a strawberry-blond woman, a chubby baby on her hip. A sullen-faced boy is sketched out, his foot on a soccer ball. In the middle of the paper, Jack outlines a house in the background, larger, more regal and foreboding.

It's here. In Mobile.
The drawings are amazing. Jack's talent is obvious. The intensity on his face pours into the page. Jack caps a green marker, lays it on the table. He spreads out his two creations side by side, then selects a red pen. With a deft motion, Jack puts a hard-lined X through the woman on the first page.

Shock value or true emotion? Whatever the reason for this “message,” he's chosen to share it with me. A huge step for an eight-year-old.

Jack tips back on his chair and sets his jaw, studying the drawings. If I had to guess, I'd take a stab at intense anger and justifiable confusion in equal amounts.

I decide to ignore the red X for now. “Which one is your dad's new place?”

“Neither.” Surprised at the question, Jack brings all four-chair legs back to the carpet.

“Why not?”

“My things aren't there. My bed. Most of my stuff, my books. You know.”

“Okay. Fair enough.” I examine the first picture. “Tell me about this one.”

Jack wrinkles his forehead. “It's the old house. My real mom, Karen, my dad. Me.”

“What was the best thing?”

He closes his eyes for a moment. “The swing set.” He actually smiles and his face goes soft and dreamy. “I used to pretend I was Superman on the swing. I'd lie down on my belly and get a running start then just let go. Stick my arms in front of me, one fist out, like Superman does. My mom—Karen—I think she used to clap for me when I did it. It felt like flying.” He stops abruptly. A cloud steals the air between us.

He thinks he's said too much.

“Thanks for telling me that. That's special.” I lean forward and rebalance Sam. “So tell me about the second picture you did. Who are those people?”

“My dad. Ava. Sam, of course. And me.”

“The house in this picture is a lot bigger. And no swing set,” I comment. “What do you think about that?”

“It's a mansion, I guess.” Jack rolls his eyes. “Even Ava said it was too big when they got married, but my dad said he had to have it.”

My neck tingles. “Wow.”

“So, anyway, my dad wouldn't let me get another swing set. He said it would just rust in the rain. And we'd look like trailer park people.” Jack rubs the knees of his pants. “I just wanted it for Sam, you know.”

I smile. “And then what happened?”

“Ava said she'd work on dad to get a swing set, but I don't know if she tried. Too late now,” Jack says. He tips back on his chair again, looks past me to the wall.

I take the pictures and push them toward Jack. With my index finger I tap the red X on Jack's biological mother, Karen. “Is that why she gets crossed off? Because she's . . . gone?” I remind myself that Jack can't answer one hundred questions at once. I'm a psychologist, not a detective. And I need to listen.

“She was leaving us anyway,” he snaps. “For her boyfriend, some guy she worked with.”

Who told this child that? Did he overhear an argument? See something or someone?

“And you know this for sure?”

Jack hesitates. He rubs his temples. “My dad told me. Why would he lie?”

I don't answer, move my finger to the other drawing, point to Ava. I raise an eyebrow.

“Ava was going to leave too.” Jack crosses his arms, defensive.

“Did you ask her, Jack?”

“I just know.” He shrinks back in his seat. “It's what my real mom did.”

“You might want to give Ava a chance. Talk to her.”

“What for?” He's being cavalier on purpose, testing me. “Why should I?”

Fine. We can play it this way. My serve.

“Think about it this way. If you were accused of, say—robbing a bank—wouldn't you want someone to listen to your side of the story before they threw you in jail?”

Jack is silent. Then he volleys back. “Why wouldn't she just tell me herself?”

Match point.

“I don't know,” I answer. “Sometimes adults don't think they need to. Or maybe she can't find the right words to explain just yet. You'll have to ask her.” He keeps his chin down. “While we're on the subject, can I ask what Ava gave you today?”

Jack twists to the side, reaches into his pocket. He holds up gum, black package with an artsy, glowing green 5 on it. “Want a piece?” He turns the box and looks at it. “We had this deal going. Whenever I'd get mad or upset, she'd give me a stick of gum instead of a lecture. Like, to say, instead of freaking out, wait five minutes, think about things. Whatever's wrong might not seem so bad then. She was there to talk to if I needed it, but she never pushed me.”

Smart. Very smart
.

A knock at the door startles both of us. “I think that's your dad. Time to go.” I slide the pictures in a folder, out of sight. “And Jack? Thanks for the tip,” I say. “I think everyone could use some of that gum.”

CHAPTER 37

AVA

THURSDAY, APRIL 22

The mediation debacle and Mitchell's crazy behavior propel me to work harder on my plan of attack. I pace back and forth in front of Graham's beat-up wooden desk, one hand locked on my hip, the wide planks of the hardwood floor protesting under my heels.

It's a gorgeous April day. Outside the window, azaleas bloom in pink and purple glory, raising their faces to soak up the bright sun and azure sky.

Adjusting the sunglasses on my head, I check the GPS on my phone one last time. “I'm going to find Will Harris, Karen's literary agent,” I say, announcing my plan to Graham as though I'm embarking on an archaeological dig. “I called yesterday to check his schedule. His assistant said he's in most of today and tomorrow.”

Graham leans back in his chair, propping his legs on the desk. “I like it. Not making an appointment is a risk, but you don't want to scare him off on the phone. If he'll talk, get some insight into Mitchell and Karen's relationship, their marriage.”

I shiver and hug my arms close. “All right.”

“I know it'll be weird for you.” Graham looks down and taps his pen on a notepad. “But it could make all the difference in getting your kids back.”

“If Harris isn't there, I can go talk to neighbors.” I run a finger along my lip, trying to imagine Mitchell's former world.

“Definitely. Mitchell and Karen had to have some social life. They didn't live in a bubble.” He cups his chin in one hand. “You'd be surprised how much people love to gossip. Remember—Karen was big news, even though it's been a few years. And if anyone's going to get people to talk, it's going to be you, not me.”

My heartbeat quickens. “Thanks.”

He gestures to a stack of paper on his desk. “I've got lots of work to do while you're gone. Mitchell's attorney's lighting fires faster than I can put them out. We have to turn that around. Put them on the defensive for a change.”

“Definitely,” I agree.

Point made, Graham grabs his mug, takes a drink, and makes a sour face. “Ava, now my coffee's cold.”

“Sorry.” I smile and gather my bag.

“Get out of here,” Graham barks, feigning annoyance. “I've got at least one other client who needs me.” He pauses. “And for the love of God, find something.”

The roads are clear and dry, so I make it to the outskirts of Birmingham in just over three hours. As I navigate along I-65, I click on the radio—no Baroque—and admire the long, green mountain ridges rising on either side of the blacktop.

Birmingham itself sits in the Jones Valley, just over the prominent ridge of Red Mountain, named for the ribbons of iron ore discovered on the layers of shale and sandstone. At the highest point, the sprawl of the cityscape comes into view, a stretch of tall, mirrored buildings rising in unison to greet the midday sunlight.

I exit the interstate, taking Palisades Drive to Oxmoor Road,
where I pass the bricked edges of the Homewood Library, nestled in a grove of thick pines and towering magnolias. Several miles later, I reach my destination and park on the street near Will Harris's office. At the curb, I cut the Jeep's engine, confirm the address, and sit for a moment, summoning the courage to feign nonchalance with his office staff.

The area is clean and well-landscaped, with careful signage to blend in with the white lace of flowering dogwoods, the deep greenery of southern sugar maples, and budding camellias.

The building itself is funky, dressed in rustic clapboard siding. There's a Caribbean restaurant downstairs, accounting for the Bermuda-blue shutters and yellow door. Bougainvillea, lipstick-pink, spills from hanging baskets. Below them, jaunty daisies beckon from ivy-filled window boxes. Upstairs, two wrought-iron chairs and a patio table rest up against a small balcony outside the office doors.