The Center of the World (28 page)

1.
After the massacre takes place, Kate Malloy reacts instantly to protect Sofia. What influences from her past may have made her respond so dramatically?

2.
Kate is a scientist and a graduate student who has little experience with children. How does she evolve in responding to Sofia as a mother while they are in Antigua?

3.
Did Kate make the right decision to take Sofia out of Guatemala? Was she justified in pulling the child out of her Mayan community? Was there any other choice that Kate could have made?

4.
Times of war, disaster, and the constant state of heightened senses can throw people together in the illusion of love. Is this what happened to Kate and Will? Or would they have fallen in love so deeply regardless of time?

5.
How does Will's initial excitement about his job opportunity as a Language Specialist blind him to the military forces at work in Guatemala?

6.
What is Jenkins's final revenge with Will? Why would a lifetime of war lead some people to cruelty, as with Jenkins, and others to kindness and bravery, as in the case of Fernando?

7.
What price does Kate pay for lying about Sofia's heritage and the circumstances of her adoption? How does the lie affect Sofia, Sam, Martin, and Kate?

8.
How is it possible for Kate to remain in love with Will, and yet find another man to love and marry?

9.
Kate is haunted by dreams about and visitations from Manuela, Sofia's mother. Sofia has a deep inner knowledge that she has a twin brother. How does the Mayan belief of ancestors relate to this story? Who are the ancestors who influence these characters?

10.
Sam, Kate's father, is a steady anchor for her, but he has also been scarred by war. How does the experience of traveling to Guatemala change him?

11.
Sofia is a soccer star at her Massachusetts high school. How does soccer bind Sofia to her homeland?

12.
Discuss how your perception of Martin may have changed over the course of the book.

CHAPTER 1

C
laire and Richard had dinner at the seafood place over in South Portland that their daughter raved about all the time. And it was as good as expected. She'd had the lobster roll and Rich had a mountain of fish and chips. It was the sort of place where you go in and order, pay, and then they give you a number, like Hannigan's grocery store when the deli crew takes your order.

The best part was the picnic table behind the seafood shack overlooking the ocean. Claire imagined how the meal would have gone if they were twenty-five years younger and still had the relentless yearning for each other, or if Rich could think of anything to say at all, even that. They ate mostly in silence. Claire liked it better when they were in the active years of parenting, working as a team, laughing so much.

When they were done eating, they each slid into the truck and buckled up. Rich turned to her and said, “Let's take the long way home, over where they're selling off the big Johnson farm.” Okay, that felt good. She slipped in a CD of early Bruce Springsteen and grew a little younger, rolled her window down and tapped her fingers along the side-view mirror. They sailed past sea grass and redwing blackbirds perched on top of cattails. The houses grew smaller, more like the old days, less monstrously rich. Claire nudged her sandals off and wiggled her toes.

It was the end of August and the hint of lengthening nights had announced itself already at eight o'clock.

“Look up there,” said Rich, already taking his foot off the gas and turning down Bruce Springsteen.

A cloud slid over the low-hanging sun. Up ahead, there was a small child in the road, thumb in mouth. The road turned to gravel a few miles back and they crept along, the large truck wheels crunching the gravel like Styrofoam balls.

The child wore white shorts. There wasn't another car parked along the road, no houses, just a bulldozer that had torn into the earth, making way for a new foundation.

Claire pulled her hand into the truck, getting ready for something. She slipped her sandals back on. The truck would be terrifyingly large to a child.

They pulled up close to the child, who was sucking her thumb. Claire was a small woman and she knew how to talk to kids and she wouldn't be as frightening as a man or a truck.

The child was a girl with soft brown hair. The white shorts were underwear; she had on white underpants and a T-shirt with a faded Disney princess. Claire wasn't sure which princess it was.

She tried to think of something nonthreatening to say that wouldn't alarm the child. The girl looked to be about five.

“Hey there,” said Claire, five feet away. The child was barefoot. “My name is Claire. Can you show me where your Mommy and Daddy are?”

Claire took two more steps to the child and pointed back at the truck. “That's my husband, Rich.” She stopped in front of the child and squatted down to be eye level with her.

The girl had been crying; her face was covered with dust and the tears had left two stripes along her cheeks.

“I'd like to help you find your family,” said Claire. What was that along the kid's arm and neck? Claire stopped breathing. It was blood.

“Sweetie, are you hurt?”

The thumb stayed firmly in the girl's mouth. Claire forced a smile.

“Everything is going to be okay. You wait right here.”

She turned at the sound of the truck door closing. “I've already made the call,” Rich said, sliding a cell phone into the front pocket of his jeans.

He had a windbreaker in his hands. “Here, put this on her.”

CHAPTER 2

“I
t's not that they live forever, but they should,” said Delia. “Instead, dogs live in an accelerated universe, parallel to ours.”

She was helping Sam, the local vet, at his annual Spay & Neuter clinic. He had called her when one of his volunteers quit. They started at six in the morning and wouldn't end until seven or eight that night. Sam made tiny stitches along the nether parts of a female terrier mix.

“You don't usually talk about parallel universes. I suspect it's the atmosphere of anesthesia talking. But in general, I know what you mean.” Sam wore his special glasses, the same as reading glasses, but larger, the kind that old people wore in the eighties, large and round, circling their eyebrows and the tops of their cheeks. Thick black frames.

Delia wasn't a vet tech, but she had known Sam since junior high. He was a good friend of her father's. His last remaining friend. The best thing about Sam was that he knew the worst parts of her and she didn't have to explain anything.

Sam straightened up, rolling his shoulders back with a groan. “This girl is ready to go back to the recovery room.”

This was the part that Delia liked above anything else at the S&N clinic. It was her job to carry the still-anesthetized animals in her arms. She didn't have kids of her own, never had the feel of a babe pressed against her chest, and she wouldn't claim that hoisting freshly neutered dogs and cats was the same as carrying a baby, but there was something about it that stirred her. She protected the animals when they were vulnerable and unable to care for themselves in the postsurgical moments. Sort of like her job as a caseworker with foster kids.

She slid her arms under the small dog, careful to hold up the wobbly head, and walked into the back room where other dogs in various stages of consciousness were placed in wire crates. The techs had put old towels on the bottom of the crates. Delia knelt down and edged the terrier onto the towel. She placed her hand on the warm belly and felt the strum of the heartbeat.

She retraced her steps and returned to the surgery room. Sam stretched his arms overhead, then placed both palms on his lower back and pushed his hips forward.

“My wife tells me that my posture is terrible. She says my profile looks like a question mark. She wants me to go to yoga or tai chi. I don't think that I'm old enough for tai chi. I only ever see old people moving in slow motion doing something called qi gong. Please tell me that I'm not there yet.”

Sam was in his fifties, and Delia knew age had nothing to do with his reluctance to exercise. He'd been an athlete as a young man but never made the transition to sports that an older man could enjoy, not tennis or biking, never mind the more esoteric areas of tai chi. His old days as a high school football player resulted in a recent knee surgery. He was six months post knee surgery.

The next dog, a female mixed breed somewhere between beagle and boxer, was brought in and quickly anesthetized. Sam picked up the scalpel, leaned over the spread eagle patient. The scalpel clattered to the floor. He picked up another scalpel from a stainless steel tray. “Clumsy today,” he said.

Delia reeled between two things that pulled at her attention. What was different about Sam? He was a stellar vet. Animals loved him. His staff, almost all young women who were vet techs, liked working with him. The staff at the animal shelters said he was their best vet, always willing to work with them on injured animals even when no owner could be found to pay for the expenses.

She didn't hesitate when he called her for help. How could she? He had been there for her and her sister, Juniper, when their parents died. She would do anything for Sam, including assisting him so that fewer animals might end up abandoned at the shelters, terrified and bewildered at the turn in their lives.

But something was different, so slight that if she hadn't known him well, it might not have registered at all. Delia, cursed with a powerful sense of smell, had sniffed an acrid overlay from his usual older man scent, as if a new chemical had been added to his molecular mix. And the way he reached for his scalpel, a premature surge of his wrist, faster than his slow, deliberate pace. Then dropping the surgical instrument. The movement lost something in the jerkiness, a bit of connection with the dog that lay anesthetized, her lower belly ready for the slice that would take away all future puppies. No, it must have been Delia's lack of sleep, her newfound restlessness since she had actually handed her resignation to Ira, with three months' notice, which was too long for Delia but not nearly long enough for Ira. She had five weeks left.

Jill, the receptionist, opened the door. “There's a phone call for you, Delia, from the foster care place over in Portland.”

How could Ira possibly know that she was working at the S&N clinic? She had turned off her phone when surgery started. He must have called her sister. This was going to be bad.

Delia followed Jill back to the reception desk and picked up the phone.

“Hi, Ira,” she said.

“Sorry to pull you out of the clinic,” he said, “but we've just had a request for an emergency placement. We're going to need you.”