How We Deal With Gravity(53)
“What did Adam want?” my father asks, not even transitioning. His question jars me—I’m unprepared to answer, so I stammer, which only makes him get anxious. “Did he do something to you Avery? I swear to God, I’ll kill that punk.”
“No, Dad. No…I just wasn’t ready to talk about this with you,” I say, all strength completely draining from me. I sit in the chair next to him and look down, ashamed of what I have to tell him. “Adam’s getting married. He, uh—”
“That little shit!” my dad’s hand comes down hard on the table, and in seconds Mason is behind him at the end of the stairs. I meet his eyes and try to signal to him that this isn’t about him, but I think he knows.
“There’s more, Dad,” I say, keeping my eyes on Mason for strength. He steps down to where my father can see him now, and moves over to join us at the table. When he does, I can see my father instantly tense up. I don’t know if this is the best idea, but I want Mason here. I need him here. “He wants to sever his parental rights—basically disown Max. He’s hiding him from the new girl.”
The beer bottle flies across the kitchen fast, crashing into the back door and shattering into hundreds of wet pieces. It scares me, even though I know my father isn’t angry with me. He’s on his feet fast, tossing the chair to the floor behind him, and going to the counter immediately for his keys.
“That son of a bitch!” he yells, turning and pointing at me. “He can’t do this, Avery. He’s not going to do that to you…to Max!”
He’s out the door, swinging it so hard the deadbolt dents the inside of the wall. I can’t help but cry, and I reach to fold up the picture again, wishing I never came down in the first place.
“I got this,” Mason says, following my father’s footsteps outside. I had almost forgotten he was here for all of that, and I start to protest to stop him, but I think more than me, my dad needs Mason now.
It takes me a while to find the dustpan. We’re not one of those families that clean the house often—other than vacuuming and picking up clutter. I spare a peek out the back window and see Mason talking emphatically with his hands, my father’s hands stuffed in his pockets while his feet kick at the ground and his eyes stare at the dirt. I want Mason to get through to my father, to calm him. More than that, I want my father to trust Mason—like I’ve grown to.
The pain shoots up my arm quickly, and when I look down, there’s blood all over my hand. I move to the sink fast to get the cold water running, grabbing for the dishtowel to wrap it around my hand. I was being stupid, not looking at the glass shards on the floor. The cut is deep, and the pain stings; the blood isn’t really slowing down, but all I can focus on is the conversation happening on the other side of the window.
I take my eyes off for a few minutes to tend to my hand, wrapping the towel tightly and putting my entire body’s pressure on the wound as I lean against the sink.
“Avery! Are you all right?” Mason is next to me within seconds. I didn’t see them come in, but now looking at the floor and the amount of blood spread around, I feel rather faint.
“The glass. I was…cleaning,” I say, my stomach suddenly feeling sick. “Oh, Mason…I’m going to throw up.”
“I got you,” he says, sweeping me effortlessly into his arms and marching me upstairs to the hall bathroom.
“I’ll clean this. You take care of her,” my dad says, his words seeming to cover more than just the broken glass below.
Mason sets me on the toilet and runs a washcloth under the cold water, quickly putting it on my head. Then he starts pulling things out from underneath the sink, sorting through the cleaners and looking desperately for something to use.
“In the back,” I say, my throat a little hoarse when I speak. He follows my lead and finds the alcohol and gauze quickly, ripping the box open and coming over to kneel in front of me.
“Let me see,” he whispers, taking my hand carefully, unwrapping the kitchen towel now soaked completely in my blood. The cut is still gushing, and seeing it makes my forehead break out into a sweat. I lay forward on the counter, trying to force myself to stay with him. “Shit, Avery. It’s deep. I think I can get it to stop though.”
He’s back under the sink, then moves quickly to the medicine cabinet, tossing everything out on the floor until he finds the jar of Vaseline.
“This is how my mom used to stop my bloody noses. You know, like they do for a boxer. Here,” he reaches for my hand again and mushes a giant blob on the cut, slowing the bleeding immediately. He’s wrapping the gauze a second later, pulling it tight and ripping with his teeth before tucking the end near my wrist. It looks like a giant snow mitt, and for some reason, seeing it gives me the giggles.
“What kind of fights did you get in to get bloody noses like that? I look like Mickey Mouse,” I laugh, half waving my bandaged hand at him, until it stings from the movement. “Ow, shit!”
“Stop moving it, you stubborn woman. Go lay down in my room, I’ll be right there,” he says, picking up the various packaging and putting everything back in its place. I’m still giggling when he comes in to his room, and he just shakes his head at me, smiling on one side of his mouth.
“Seriously, Mason. This is, like, the worst bandaging I’ve ever seen!” I’m lying on my side, still a little dizzy, and rolling my near-cast around the air mattress to admire it.