Center of Gravity by Laura McNeill Page A

absences. The strange thing was, while he disappeared for days at a time, my father meticulously checked in on Mama. I would overhear their phone conversations, Mama explaining that she’d been to the hairdresser or grocery store, tearfully defending herself if she missed one phone call.
    I began to dread my father being home. Mama and I tiptoed around, assessing his demeanor before speaking. If he was happy, Daddy was a joy to be around. I would hope upon hope that he had finally changed; that he’d love me the way other people’s fathers seemed to adore their daughters. But it never lasted. If something or someone annoyed him, his black moods could last for days, like molten lava waiting to bubble to the surface of the earth, exploding all at once in a fiery stream of smoke and ashes.
    Then one phone call during my senior year of high school changed everything. The blur of events played out like a movie—Mama dropping the phone, the police coming to the house, calling hours, Daddy’s funeral. He’d had a heart attack in Montgomery and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. At first I didn’t comprehend that it all had happened in his mistress’s bed.
    The news shook me to the core. My body swirled with shock, grief, and anger. Worst of all, he’d let his life insurance lapse, leaving Mama and me close to destitute.
    Much to my mortification, Mama wasted no time finding Mobile’s most eligible bachelor. She married George a year later in a lavish ceremony on the grounds of the Bragg Mitchell Mansion. From that point on, between shopping trips, spa days, and vacations to Napa, Mama drilled into my head the importance of marrying well. Choosing a mate with money, a man who appreciated me, who didn’t travel fifty weeks out of the year. A man who didn’t cheat.
    I reacted like a typical teenager—I ignored my mother’s advice and ran off to Texas with a boyfriend I thought would love me forever. Instead of happily ever after, I was left alone and humiliated. My mother almost disowned me. My friends ignored me for months. The gossip was brutal and cruel. I couldn’t get to college fast enough.
    It’s a wonder, after Daddy and Dallas, that I ever got married at all.
    Still smarting from my mother’s lecture, I decide to look for the pictures Jack needs for school. I head for the bedroom and step inside the closet. Above my head, on the tallest shelf, I reach a hand and stretch my fingers, nudging the album to the edge. Finally, it teeters and falls. I catch the book in my arms and sink to the floor.
    As I begin to turn the pages, I find a photo or two of Mitchell and discover gaps several pages long. I flip through, faster and faster. The pattern continues. No Jack, no Karen, no family pictures, no house. It’s as if my husband’s past life has been all but erased.
    My chest tight with worry, I turn the album over and shake it. A small rectangle flitters into my lap. With a trembling hand, I pick it up. Jack. The photo is tiny and faded but will have to do.
    From his bedroom, Sam calls out for me. I jump up from the floor, slip the photo in my pocket, and put the album back on the shelf. Which is when I notice that the gun case is gone. The one Mitchell took to the school the night of the senior prank. He put it back up on the shelf the next day. It’s been here since then . . . hasn’t it?
    I stand on my tiptoes, craning my neck to look. A finger, ice cold, trails down my back. I shiver and cross my arms, frustrated. Sam cries out again. As I jog to his bedroom, I block out my confusion. Surely there’s a logical explanation.
    Hours later, after school, Jack grabs at the phone when it rings. While he’s talking to Mitchell, my mother’s impassioned words echo in my mind. “Think. Use caution. Fix it before it gets unfixable.”
    I’m holding Sam in my arms, breathing in his innocent-baby fragrance. Jack hands the