Center of Gravity by Laura McNeill

winds up her list. “Just dandy, thank you for asking. That awful rheumatoid arthritis is flaring up in my hands, those obstinate squirrels are digging holes around my brand-new trailing verbenas, and all George wants to do is drink coffee with those horrible men who smoke cigars all day and talk about college football.”
    Some things never change.
    My mother clucks her tongue in frustration. “And I’m out the door for a meeting at the country club. Did you need something, dear?”
    â€œSort of.” I hesitate and reach for the small watering can under the sink. After filling it, I move from ivy to fern, African violets to bright pink bromeliads. Mitchell finds all of my plants cluttering, but it’s a point I’ve refused to concede. The greenery soothes me, especially in moments like these.
    I hear her breathing quicken. My mother hates, hates, hates hearing about anything difficult or personal when it comes to family. She doesn’t want the details—won’t spend hours dissecting a relationship’s strengths and quirks. She’s much better at handing out advice. Still, she’s my mother. And I could use some help. A little bit of empathy.
    â€œMitchell and I. We’re having . . . problems.” The confession spills like marbles across pavement. I massage my midsection in an effort to settle my stomach.
    Mother rattles her keys, a signal of her impatience. “With the house? The plumbing again? Call my handyman and get him out there.”
    On cue, the workmen in the foyer burst into laughter. I lower my voice and turn my back. “No, Mother. Personal issues. And I don’t have anyone to talk to,” I say. “In fact, I—”
    My mother coughs violently, enough that I have to hold the phone a foot away from my ear. I’m probably giving her chest pain.
    â€œAva, I’d like to help. I wish I could. But I think you’ve been watching too many movies. Then again, you’ve always had a vivid imagination. You’re simply overreacting.”
    â€œMother—”
    â€œYou listen to me, young lady,” she interrupts with hushed urgency. “Think before you do or say anything irrational. Use caution. Unless the damage has been done already.” She pauses. “It has, hasn’t it? What have you done? Oh, Ava.”
    Guilt, familiar and heavy, rushes through my veins. My mother is an expert at seeing everything as my fault. For a long time, I believed her.
    Gripping the counter’s edge, I watch my knuckles turn white. “We might not—”
    Mama cuts me off a third time. “Let me tell you this: Mitchell adores you. And women, especially in your position, need to support and love their husbands unconditionally. He holds a prestigious place in the community. He has an image to maintain, responsibilities. As I live and breathe, Ava Keyes, I think you’ve done enough to tarnish your reputation over the years. Now go fix everything before it gets . . . unfixable.”
    Judge, jury, verdict decided. Arguing is pointless.
    â€œYes, ma’am.” And I hang up.
    I rake my fingers through my hair and sigh. My biological father did a number on both of us; his behavior, his recklessness, caused lasting scars for both Mama and me. Daddy, an account manager and salesman for an international paper company, was a philanderer of the highest breed. Charming, adept at spinning stories, so earnest and likable that Mama always said he could sell ice to the Eskimos. On the outside their marriage looked perfect, but life with Daddy was far from blissful. Even as a young girl, I remember Mama complaining about him staying late at the Mobile Country Club, having expensive dinners out with clients, or racing off to emergency meetings in Birmingham or Huntsville.
    Any questions I posed were met with silence from Mama, and as I grew into a teenager, I watched her sink further into depression over Daddy’s extended