Center of Gravity

by Laura McNeill

  With baby Sam on my hip, I maneuver down the clean, gleaming aisles of Fresh Market, chatting on the phone with our contractor.

  “Heart Pine?” I echo, leaning over to pick up fresh broccoli florets. “Isn’t that . . . really expensive?” I pause and wince when he tells me the cost.

  At Mitchell’s request, our contractor is building us an amazing staircase in the foyer of our hundred-twenty-year-old home. Crafted to mirror late eighteen-hundreds décor, it will be quite the showpiece. Lovely and very, very expensive.

  “So the down payment? You’ll need it this afternoon?” I ask, selecting a ripe, ruby-red tomato and holding it up to the light like a jewel.

  The contactor confirms that he will, in fact, need quite a large sum. I almost drop the fruit but manage to set it carefully in the buggy. Mitchell hasn’t left me the cash or a check. To withdraw it from my household account would take every last penny. The pennies I’ve been saving, in secret, for the boys’ swing set. The swing set I haven’t told Mitchell about yet. Mama always says it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, after all.

  I stop wheeling the shopping cart to rub the back of my neck. “And if we miss you today?”

  His answer is clear. He’ll be gone, out of the country, for a week. We’ll be behind schedule, and Mitchell will be less than pleased.

  “I’ll meet you at the house in thirty minutes.”

  Throat tight, I hang up and check the time on my phone. Sam breaks the tension with a giggle and presses his cheek to my chest. He’s flirting with the produce clerk, a cute redhead with big blue eyes. Sam’s the most sweet-natured child, and his blond curls, pink cheeks, and dimples draw a bevy of admirers. Of course, as his mother, I’m unduly biased. He’s always had my heart.

  As I lean to press my lips to his head, my cell buzzes again. It can’t be the contractor again. With a small sigh, I answer and press the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  Urgent and clipped, the voice on the phone stops my world. A comet screaming toward Earth, bent on near destruction.

  It’s about Jack. My third grader. There’s been an accident.

  I leave the groceries, stammering out an apology to whoever can hear me. My shopping cart, filled with organic chocolate ice cream, soymilk, and Mitchell’s favorite whole grain bread, sits behind us, forgotten. On my budget, it was wishful thinking anyway.

  I dash for the automatic doors, which open with a hiss and a jolt. Luckily the parking lot’s not crazy, and I make it to my Jeep in a matter of steps.

  As I buckle him in, Sam gurgles and bats at my face, wanting to play. With a shaking hand, I rub and kiss the top of his sweet head, move his very necessary fuzzy brown bear close, and shut the door. I sprint to the other side of the Jeep, jump in, and almost lose my shoe.

  My Jeep’s old engine cranks on the first try. Thank you. I give the dashboard an affectionate pat. This is no time to be temperamental.

  The wheels groan and grab gravel, throwing it like confetti as I drive out of the parking lot. Sam claps his hands at the clatter of stones and pebbles. My cell phone slides to the floor, out of reach. The slip from the dry cleaners falls between the seats.

  Around a curve, the folded pink heart I keep tucked in the visor flutters to the seat beside me. Jack and Sam’s homemade valentine. Construction paper, glue, and crayon—more precious than any gift. Two small stick figures, a taller one in the middle with a hair bow. I press two fingers to the soft paper and say a prayer.

  The road rushes under the wheels. I rearrange snippets of the frantic conversation. Gash. Some blood. Breathing fine. Emergency room. A few more miles to the hospital.

  I flash back to this morning. Packed sack lunch, flop of dark hair across his bare forehead, navy backpack slung over one shoulder. A surge of pure love courses through my heart. A stab of worry steals my breath. I force myself to focus.

  The traffic light ahead flashes green to yellow. Intersection’s clear. I push the accelerator to the floor, glance in the rearview mirror. Air from the open window catches Sam’s wisps of hair. He smiles, showing off his first few baby teeth, and reaches a chubby hand at the rays of sunshine streaking by, trying to catch the light.

  Thump. Thump. The Jeep jerks to the left. I guide the wheel, hold it steady, and take my foot off the gas. When I pull over and brake, the abrupt stop sends up a dust cloud.

  “Uh-oh,” Sam says.

  I unbuckle, jump out, and survey the damage. A glance at the tire confirms it. Flat. Dead.

  Hands on my hips, I bite my lip.

  Tentatively, I grab the jack from the back of the Jeep, the weight of it solid and heavy in my hands. I can fix this. After all, in my former life, as a school counselor at Mobile Prep, I was the problem-solver, crisis manager, and shoulder to cry on. I always handled situations. And I didn’t need help.

  Then my eyes fall on Sam as he babbles and blows bubbles in the backseat. I hesitate, gripping the metal between my palms. As the sun beats down on us, heating my skin, my pulse begins to race. Maybe I was fearless because I didn’t know any better. I wasn’t a mom then. I didn’t have two children depending on me. Trusting me to do the right thing, be on time, and not screw up.

  I catch a whiff of gasoline and hear the faint rumble of an engine behind me as I open the red Jeep door and stretch for the cell phone. I dial quickly, hoping that my husband answers.

  “You’ve reached Mitchell Carson . . .”

  A heavy footstep crunches on the pebbled pavement behind me. I hang up and whirl around, nerves already frayed.

  “Ava?”

  Disbelief hits me. I take in the broad shoulders and smartly pressed uniform and erupt with emotion at the pure, dumb luck of finding Officer Mike Kennedy next to my broken-down Jeep. Between sobs, I squeeze out an explanation. “Jack . . . the school . . . accident.”

  Mike holds up a calloused hand to stop me. He’s rescued me more than once. “Whoa! Slow down, Ava.” His forehead wrinkles. “He’s at Springhill Medical Center?”

  Throat tight, I nod, trying to process what to do, what to say. Fingers trembling, I reach for the pink heart. Something to hold on to. A piece of Jack.

  “I’ll take you.” Mike opens my door. In no time, he transfers Sam and his baby seat to the patrol car, straps us in, and gets back on the road.

  The scenery whips by, a blur of trees and signs. I clutch my phone tight and try Mitchell again. Voice mail.

  “Can’t get through?” Mike asks.

  I drop the phone into my lap and shake my head.

  Mitchell’s job pulls him in ninety different directions at once. My husband’s a newly minted college vice president of advancement and somehow balances all of his responsibilities with finesse. My heart still stops when I see him. My husband has the voice, the look, and the irresistible charm of a George Clooney twin.

  It’s not all roses, though. With baby Sam, our marriage is more difficult than I ever expected. Life’s busier, more exhausting, juggling diapers and soccer games. We’re both getting less sleep. But that’s normal, right? Our date nights, which used to be weekly, are nonexistent. Making love during stolen lunch hours doesn’t happen anymore. And instead of talking about the symphony or the latest bestseller, we discuss schedules.

  I push the thoughts away. Everyone goes through a rough patch. I glance over at Mike instead and study the scar below his hairline. Ten stitches from a nasty tumble near the creek bank when we were just children. He never cried.

  “Jack will be okay, Ava. He’s a tough kid,” Mike assures me, eyes on the road. His thick-knuckled hands rest on the wheel. Protect and serve. His mantra as long as I’ve known him. Even as a child, he knew he wanted to be a police officer. Mike has always been reliable, predictable, steady. A rock. Even on the worst days.

  We pull up to the ER doors. Mike slams the cruiser into park. Police scanner static fills the air with letters and codes. “Hey, duty calls,” Mike says. “I’ll get a tow truck over shortly. Go in there and find your boy.”

/>   I scoop up Sam, unbuckle his seat.

  Hold on, Jack.

  CHAPTER 3

  JACK

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 24

  EMTs put me on a stretcher, shove me into an ambulance, and slam the thick, metal doors shut. The engine cranks up, spewing a cloud of exhaust, and we scream out of the parking lot, sirens going, all of the lights flashing.

  If I were The Flash, we’d be there already, since he thinks and moves at superhuman speeds. No stopping for red lights or sticking to roads or speed limits. I’d never have to do this crazy roller-coaster ride to the hospital. I grip the sides of the stretcher as the driver turns like he’s on two wheels. Everything, including me, leans to the right. We speed up, swerve to the left, and stop suddenly in front of the emergency room.

  I squint at the bright sunshine as the back doors fly open. The EMTs pull me out of the ambulance, push me down a painfully bright hallway, and park me in the ER. The Flash would have just jetted through the walls using vibration. Problem solved. But since I’m in the ER, and not a science lab that’ll be hit by lightning, the chances of me turning into the new Flash today aren’t great. There’s always next time, right?

  I press my neck against the pillow, shifting to look around. Everything’s white, shiny clean, and new. It’s almost like a fancy hotel, except for the machines and little buttons making robotic beeps. There’s a gross antiseptic smell, too, but I decide it isn’t so bad after a while. My jaw hurts a lot, though, and there’s thick tape and a big bandage on my chin. A tall, silver IV pole and tubes sit next to the bed, but luckily no one’s come in to stick me in the arm yet.

  A few seconds later, a burly man in scrubs walks in and throws a salute my way.

  “How’s our favorite stunt man?” he booms. The floor almost shakes. His hand clasps my shoulder and squeezes. Make him golden orange and built from stone, he’d be exactly like Ben Grimm, The Thing of Fantastic Four.

  “Hey, Dr. Max.”

  Behind his thick glasses, one huge gray eye winks. He bends closer to get a better look at my chin. Dr. Max peels back the gauze and whistles out loud at the gash.

  “Good job. Part of our frequent-flyer program now?”

  “Frequent-what?” I tilt my head, and the paper behind my neck crackles.

  “Never mind,” he laughs. “What’s the latest count?”

  I rattle off my list: “Um, one broken leg—tree house; two sprained ankles—soccer; three bruised ribs—swing set; a fractured wrist—monkey bars; sixteen stitches in my left arm—chain-link fence; seven more on my right hand—glass window.” I pause. “Did I miss anything?”

  “I think you’ve got it covered.” Dr. Max glances at my chart and smiles at me. “Any more visits and we’ll have to put a plaque on the wall with your name on it.”

  The idea kind of makes my stomach churn. “Uh.” I think of when my mom died. It rained and everything smelled like dirt. Everyone was crying, except me. I made myself into a rock so I didn’t have to feel anything.

  I rub at my eyes, hard, and try to forget it. It doesn’t work.

  “Don’t you do plaques like that for dead people?” I ask.

  Dr. Max raises his eyebrow. “Ah, Jack.” He winks. “Don’t worry about that. Your plaque would be of an honorary nature—a special award.”

  “Oh.” I consider this and lean back against the fluffy pillow. “That sounds okay.”

  Dr. Max scribbles something on a chart. “Keep that gauze on there now, the lidocaine will help numb the area. We’ll give it a few more minutes to work.”

  Dr. Max and I both look up as an office lady from my school pulls back the nubby curtain and steps inside. She smells like roses and baby powder, even from a few feet away.

  “Anne dear, is someone from Jack’s family on the way?” Dr. Max asks.

  My memory snaps back. Of course. Miss Anne from school and Dr. Max are married.

  She bobs her head and tugs at a thick rope of pearls. “Any moment now.” She looks worried and small, standing nearby in her navy blue dress.

  My stomach lurches. “Who’s coming?” I ask, pressing against the bed to sit up taller. “Please tell me you called my dad. It’s kind of a rule. He likes to know everything first, even if he can’t make it.”

  “Um, sweetie,” she says. “The principal had some trouble getting in touch with your dad. But your mom will be right here.” Miss Anne stumbles. “Ava . . . I mean your stepmom.”

  I grin. “Ava adopted me,” I say. “Well, we adopted each other. That’s what she says. It was final and all last week. Dad took us out for a big dinner to celebrate.”

  “Jack, I knew Ava when she was just a little girl in pigtails. She’s a keeper.” The overhead pager crackles. “Listen, champ, I’ll be back in a few minutes to put in those stitches.” Dr. Max salutes again and disappears into the hallway.

  “I’m so happy for you all.” Miss Anne claps her hands. “Now, if she’d just come back to school . . .”

  I roll my eyes. “Not gonna happen. My dad won’t let—” I stop. A warning sign flashes bright red—TMI—too much information. “She’s staying home with Sam.”

  “Of course.” Miss Anne, who’s staring at me, coughs into her hand. “Yes. Right. I’m sure your father knows what’s best for her and the baby. We just miss her.”

  I gulp and grip the sheet. For a second, I think about life without Ava.

  “Yeah, I would too.”

  CHAPTER 4

  AVA

  WEDNESDAY, MARCH 24

  The Springhill ER lobby swarms with people, a busy hive of activity, with nurses buzzing from station to station and at least two dozen people waiting in the lobby. When I give my name to the woman behind the front desk, there’s a swell of chatter from a family in the corner and a blare of music announcing the latest CNN headlines on the flat screen above our heads.

  Sam begins to fuss, emitting the baby whimpers that immediately tell me he’s overstimulated and exhausted. I hug him to my chest, bouncing him up and down, and begin humming “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider” in his ear.

  Poor little guy. I get it. The noise and confusion, mixed with the scent of day-old coffee and sweat, is enough to push me over the edge.

  I step back, trying to ease my way into a quieter corner, and promptly crush someone’s toe with my shoe. “I’m so sorry.”

  The man behind me flashes a brilliant smile. “My fault,” the stranger apologizes. “It’s a zoo in here and I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  Our gaze locks and I find myself temporarily mesmerized. His eyes are the most intense silver-gray I’ve ever seen, like a sliver of moonlight.

  “Mrs. Carson?” The receptionist announces.

  “Oh!” My body floods with relief, and I hug Sam and rush toward the exam rooms. As one of the ER workers leads us down a hallway, I glance over my shoulder to say good-bye, but the man with the silver eyes has disappeared.

  We step into a bustling ER, maneuvering around nurses and doctors.

  “Ava! Sam!” Jack calls out the moment he sees us.

  I paste on a brave smile, taking in the streak of blood on his shirt, the purple bruise staining the side of his cheek, and the dirt in his hair. None of it matters. He’s all right.

  “Hey.” I kiss his forehead, inhaling the scent of fresh grass and earth. I bend my head to get a better look at Jack’s chin. The skin gapes at the corners of the gash. “Oh my.”

  I glance down at Sam, who’s lodged a finger between his gums and is staring intently at his older brother. “Ja,” he says.

  Dr. Max laughs and holds up his blue-gloved hands. “That’s what I thought. You’re just in time for the big show.”

  I step back from the bed, casually, so as not to embarrass Jack, but inside I quiver with relief. I can’t imagine a day, a minute, without Sam and Jack. Everything that defined my “before kids” life somehow seems irrelevant.

  I stroke Sam’s downy-soft head and drink in the scent of baby lotion. Before he was born, othe
r moms always shared stories about the fierce love that surges in a woman the moment she gazes on her newborn’s face. How childbirth pain disappears, replaced by an intense need to care for and protect this amazing creature at all costs. It’s so true, but the remarkable thing is this: no one mentioned it could happen the other way around. The same bond can form—just as deeply, just as strongly—when a child without a mother finds you first. It happened with Jack, which makes me doubly blessed. A precious baby and an adorable son. How lucky can one woman get? They’re my world. Which is probably why Mitchell teases me relentlessly that he’s neglected.

  In fairness, I’ve pointed out several times that a spouse has to be home to get attention. His reply? He wasn’t quite ready for baby number two. A fact he divulged right about the time morning sickness hit me full force.

  A little. Too. Late.

  I hold Sam a little tighter, melding his body to mine. I’m positive Mitchell will come around. Sam is his legacy. Just like Jack.

  The sound of an ambulance siren reverberates outside the building. A ruckus of crash carts and moving bodies erupts in the hallway.

  “Ready, champ?” Dr. Max nods at Jack while he leans him back on the table, then looks up at me. “He reminds me of you, Ava, back in high school. A little bit of a free spirit, eh?” He begins suturing Jack’s chin.

  “What happened?” Jack shifts his eyes to me. “Tell me!”

  “Hold still, babe,” I mock-threaten, wagging a finger. “And Dr. Max, you’re under a gag order. No spilling any secrets. It’s been one of those days.”

  Dr. Max raises an eyebrow as he stitches. “What happened?”

  My neck prickles as I shrug. “Flat tire,” I say, curving my lips into a smile to hide the worry. “Thank goodness for Mike Kennedy.”

  Dr. Max grins, snipping a piece of thread. “Police escort, eh? Nice. Not everyone gets one.”

  “Ha-ha.” I wink as Jack smirks and rolls his eyes at me from the table.

  “You made it here, didn’t you?” Dr. Max looks at me, then back down, as he finishes another suture.