How We Deal With Gravity(77)

It’s completely the opposite of what I expected to see in his mother’s home. I never visited their house when I was a kid—Mason was always at ours. And his mom moved so many times later in life, there was just never really an opportunity. “She seems proud of you,” I say, dialing in on one photo in particular, a young Mason with his mom bending down in a garden to smell flowers.

“Yeah, I guess…” he says, his gaze somewhat lost and his mood melancholy as he takes in the full line of photos on the wall. “They just don’t seem real. I mean, I’m smiling in these pictures, but…I don’t remember having these memories.”

Mason’s memories are wrapped up in my home, with my dad, and while I’m glad he has those, I’m sad he doesn’t have them with Barb.

“Ehhhh, I’m just being crazy. Ignore me,” he shrugs, shaking his head and forcing a renewed smile on his face. He’s putting on a good act—for his mother and me.

Barb is busy putting the final touches on the table when we walk into the kitchen, and I smile when I see the small sheet cake she made. It’s almost like she’s trying to make up for a dozen missed birthdays with this one dinner.

“Avery, oh honey, thanks for coming!” she says, giving me a hug. Barb has always been nice to me. When I first started waitressing at Dusty’s, she would handle the rough customers for me, sometimes throwing them out all on her own.

“Thanks for having us,” I say, pulling the lid from Max’s dinner of fruits, veggies and crackers. “I hope you don’t mind, but he’s sort of picky.”

“Of course not,” she says, pulling out a plate for me to set up for Max.

We all get situated around the table, and Barb scoops large heaps of pasta into each of our bowls. Her sauce, on the potholder on the table, is still bubbling; when I put my spoon in to pour some on my plate, the sauce snaps, and a drop burns my arm. Without a word, Mason dips the corner of his napkin in his ice water and presses it to my arm.

“Better?” he whispers, and I just nod.

“So, Avery…did Mason tell you the news?” Barb says, her face beaming. She should be proud—Mason deserves this. In fact, he should be headlining, not just opening for bands. But his time will come; I know it will.

“He did. It’s very exciting,” I say, and I notice that Max is swinging his legs under the table while I talk. I reach next to me and stop them with my hand. “Max, Mason is going to perform some concerts in some other states. Isn’t that neat?”

Max takes a big bite of one of his crackers, chewing with his mouth open, not quite finishing his bite when he finally speaks. “I think he should just stay at Grandpa’s,” he says, and I hear the air escape Mason’s nose in one swift exhale.

“I know, we all are going to miss him, but we want other people to get to hear his songs, too,” I say, knowing that for Max, missing Mason is partly about not wanting to see something he’s grown comfortable with change. But I also think that somewhere, in the midst of things, Mason has become his friend.

“You should play our song for people,” he says, going right back to his crackers.

Mason laughs a little under his breath at first. “I will, Max. I’ll make sure they know who my writer is,” he says, his eyes meeting mine and holding on. Every look twists my stomach a little tighter, just as does every minute passing—every second closer to the time when he’ll be gone.

Mason ends up telling us stories about his first tour, about places they played and how much smaller they are from the places they’re about to go. He does most of the talking; I can tell he’s trying to fill the silence because his mom doesn’t really have much to say.

We all manage to save room for a small piece of cake, and, after some teasing, Mason gets away with not having to blow out any candles. I help Barb clear the table when we’re done, and Max takes care of putting his container away. I know he’s going to get antsy soon, so I pull the iPad from my bag, and set him up on the sofa with it for a few minutes, so I can help with dishes. Barb is packing up a few to-go boxes for me to take some leftovers home to Ray when an old Otis Redding song comes on the radio.

Mason smiles when he hears it, and walks to the corner of the kitchen to turn it up. “May I?” he says, reaching for his mother’s hands.

She doesn’t answer, wiping the small tear in the corner of her eye with the neckline of her blouse, and smiles at him, her lips tight, holding in her emotions. I watch as she gives her son her hand, and he moves her the few steps to the middle of the kitchen floor and pulls her in for a dance. I almost feel like I’m intruding, but I’m so grateful to bear witness to this moment. Mason is giving his mother a gift, for nothing in return, just because he wants to. I pull my phone out when they aren’t looking and snap a photo, then message it to him instantly—Mason will finally have a memory attached to one of those images of him with his mom.

We listen to a few more songs while Barb brews a pot of coffee, but Max’s patience starts to wear. He’s no longer staying in his seat very long, instead pacing around the room on his toes while playing his game on the iPad. We usually go to the store in the afternoons on Mondays, and I know Max will want to make sure we have everything we need for his lunch bag next week.

Maybe I’m inventing a reason to leave, or maybe Max is about to have a meltdown. Either way, the longer I hesitate, the more my body fills with anxiety, until I can’t handle it anymore.