Please. I’ll work hard. I’ll get rid of my annoying habit. I will. I don’t mean to be “the big disappointment.”
Take your trousers down, and your underwear. Bend over. Pater’s voice was cold and hard.
No.
Pater stopped and panted as if he were a bull about to charge. And Felix couldn’t help it, he wet himself.
Everything happened fast. He was on the floor, facedown on the stinky old Oriental rug. He screamed, but the house was empty. No one would hear him; no one would rescue him. Mother was away for the weekend; Tom was off with friends.
Pater tugged at Felix’s trousers. The whip cracked.
Pain sliced him in two.
Another crack, another. Would Pater kill him this time?
The door crashed open.
Get off my brother. Get off! You ever touch him again, and I’ll call the police. Right after I tell Mother and Grandmother.
Scuffling and chaos followed, but Felix kept his eyes shut tight. He couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but cry. His legs were cold and wet; his bottom was on fire.
Tom was lifting him up. His hero, his savior.
He would never love anyone the way he loved Tom.
Felix gasped for air.
“You okay, Dad?”
“Yes.” Felix stabbed his left palm with his fingernails. Again and again, until his hand was pockmarked with pain. “I have to go inside. You can come with me, or you can wait in the car.”
“For real, Dad?”
“I can’t baby you through this, Harry. I’m not your mother, I—”
“Why d’you think I called Max?” Harry said, and strode past him through the open door. Then he stopped in the foyer, his body writhing, jerking, contorting, dancing to the weird tempo Harry alone understood.
“I need help,” a woman inside shouted. “Why aren’t you helping me?” She collapsed into the arms of a security guard and screamed in Spanish.
The security guard wore a holstered gun on his hip. Instinctively, Felix moved between him and Harry. He could live in America for another seventeen years and never adapt to the sight of an armed cop. He looked up at a sign banning concealed weapons. This was not a world he could comprehend; this was not England. He didn’t want Ella in a place with armed guards.
Harry stared at the woman and began to shake.
“Go through the metal detector,” Felix said, “and sit in the far corner of the waiting room. Watch the game.” Felix pointed at a huge flat screen TV, which was showing players running around in powder-blue and white basketball uniforms. “The Tar Heels are playing.”
“Now you want me to watch television?”
“I’m doing my best, Harry.”
Behind him, the woman grew hysterical. Voices muttered and she was gone.
“I know, Dad. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be . . . I’m freaking out. Really freaking out.”
“I’ll see if I can get us somewhere private to wait.”
Harry’s head bobbed with short, jerky nods.
Felix turned to the receptionist, a bank teller look-alike behind bulletproof glass. “My wife was brought in earlier from RDU. Suspected heart attack.”
The woman scanned a clipboard. Good God, was she incompetent? How many women could have been brought in from an airplane?
“Name?”
“Felix Fitzwilliam.”
“No, sir,” she said gently. “Your wife’s name.”
“Ella.” Ella Bella, Ella Bella.
“Ella Fitzwilliam?”
“Yes. Is she—?”
“I believe they took her to the cath lab. Let me get some information for you.” She picked up the phone.
“And my son.” Felix swallowed. “My son has Tourette’s and a hospital phobia. He’s quite . . .” Sharing personal information with strangers was not within Felix’s definition of normal social interaction. “My son is quite distressed. Could we wait somewhere private?”
Somewhere with a door. A door meant Felix could contain Harry the way Ella used to during the rage attacks that, on some level, Felix had understood. After all, if you were going to lose yourself in one emotion, anger was the least complicated.
“I’ll go ask,” the woman said. She finished her call and moved away from the glass.
In a private room, they could disappear. “Disappear,” Tom always told him. “Out of sight, out of Mother’s mind. Don’t bother her unless it’s to say good night.” Mother had no interest in the emotional life of her family, only in maintaining appearances. Her life was perfect; her children were perfect. Her husband was not an abusive bully. Her elder son did not appear to be a homosexual. God, he missed Tom—every single day. He couldn’t miss Ella, too.
The future flashed before him. A kaleidoscope of unlived memories without Ella. A future in which he had sole responsibility for Harry. A future in which he had to prove that, unlike the two role models he’d grown up with, he could be a decent parent.
Felix glanced over his shoulder. Harry was rocking back and forth, one hand digging into his hair, the other clutching his iPod. Of course—music.
“Harry,” Felix said loudly. “Plug in.”
When Harry stared, uncomprehending, Felix mimed putting in earbuds.
He turned back. A second woman had appeared behind the glass, and she was watching Harry as if he were a curiosity in a zoo.
Felix had to be clear; he had to take charge. “My son has several neurological disorders and a phobia about hospitals. I need to get him somewhere secluded right now. If I don’t, he’ll create a distressing scene, and you will wish you had listened to me.” Too much information?
The woman continued to stare at him. Did she need sign language?
“It will create a huge disruption in your waiting room,” Felix said slowly.
The woman nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled. A smile laced with pity, a smile he’d seen when Tom was in hospital.
Felix signaled Harry over. He shot out of his chair, grimaced and blinked, grimaced and blinked, and hurtled toward Felix like a heat-seeking missile. Harry grabbed the edge of Felix’s jacket and tugged. Felix tried to wrap an arm around Harry’s shoulder, but Harry was taller than he was, and Felix couldn’t reach. He had missed the huggable years. He settled for Harry’s waist, and they both went rigid. A pair of robots with shared DNA.
The two receptionists slid back into their stations, and a nurse appeared through a door. “Fitzwilliam family?” Her voice boomed, a surprisingly powerful voice for a petite woman with a bouncy ponytail and a bright smile. “We’re preparing a room in the CCU for your wife. It’s not quite ready, but I can take you up there.”
“Thank you,” Felix said.
They followed her through endless corridors rank with the stench of disinfectant, and up three floors in an elevator. How would they ever find their way out?
Finally, they stood in a vast, macabre version of an anonymous hotel room. One wall had a built-in media center with cabinets, shelves, and a large television. The recliner in the corner was covered in Tar Heels–blue vinyl. Harry glanced at it and moved to the opposite side of the room. The nurse fiddled with the venetian blinds. Not yet four o’clock and the day was fading.
“When can I see my wife?”
“It’s going to be a while,” the nurse said. “But once she’s done in the cath lab, they’ll bring her up here.”
“What in God’s name is a cath lab?”
“It’s where they take pictures of a patient’s coronary arteries and open up any blockages they find. It’s not nearly as scary as it sounds.” The nurse smiled at Harry. “And by the time patients arrive here, in the CCU, they’re pretty stable.”
“What’s her prognosis?”
“You’ll have to ask the cardiologist, sir. But I can tell you that people who get to the cath lab quickly enough often have nearly full recovery of their heart function.”
Often, nearly. Th
ose were empty words. “When can I meet with the cardiologist?”
“He’ll be by after the procedure.”
“What procedure?”
“Angioplasty. That’s how they open up the blockage. I’ll find you a pamphlet that explains everything.”
No, he didn’t want a pamphlet, and he didn’t want reassurance from Florence Nightingale. Felix needed information and statistics; he needed facts and figures; he needed a plan of action. Maybe he should start making a list while they were waiting: questions to ask the doctor, people to call, things to be arranged. First and foremost: see the doctor.
“I really need to see the doctor.”
“The cardiologist is still with your wife, sir.”
“Will you at least tell me if she’s . . .” He lowered his voice. “Conscious.”
“Oh, yes, she is.”
Harry paced around the room like a caged gerbil without a running wheel. “Is my mom going to die?”
“Good heavens, no,” the nurse said. “She’s very lucky, you know—to end up here. Raleigh Regional has the best heart center in the state. We see more heart patients than any other hospital in North Carolina.”
Really. Well, this sure as hell wasn’t Duke.
“When you see her, your mom will be groggy from the sedative and antianxiety meds.” The nurse kept smiling at Harry. “‘Quietly happy’ is the phrase we use. Can I get either of you anything while you wait?”
Harry shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“No, thank you,” Felix said. What he meant was “Yes, I want my wife.” I want her to walk through that door, smile, and say, “Let’s go home.”
An hour passed. Harry listened to music and played Angry Birds. There had been several phone conversations with Mad Max, which was hardly surprising. The boys seemed incapable of navigating a day without multiple phone conversations. Some of their daily chats shared asinine observations—“Dude, the camping episode of SpongeBob is on!” Others led to laughter and clipped sentences in Harry-Max language. This afternoon, Harry had told his best friend over and over, “Still no news.” Felix was prepared to smash the phone if he heard that phrase one more time.
When squeaking wheels in the corridor moved closer and closer, Felix leaped to attention. Harry glanced at him and bounced up to stand by his side, rolling on the balls of his feet. Two orderlies pushed in a gurney; a nurse followed alongside. No one spoke.
Felix retreated into a corner, and Harry followed his lead.
The white mannequin lying rigid on the gurney with a tube taped to her wrist, a plastic cone hooked over her finger, a tube jabbed into the pale skin under her neck, pads taped to her chest, and what appeared to be a sandbag on her groin, was his wife. And her mouth was covered with an oxygen mask.
A memory flickered: Ella in Jackie O sunglasses, laughing at a shared, private joke. Felix stared at the oxygen tank and tasted bile.
Ella raised a palm and waved her fingertips. Harry jumped forward, but Felix put out an arm to restrain him. “Let the nurses get Mom settled,” he said.
Harry grimaced and blinked, grimaced and blinked.
People swarmed as orderlies grabbed the gurney’s sheet and, in one swift tug, slid Ella onto the bed along with a startling amount of paraphernalia. Felix recognized most of it from Tom’s last weeks: the monitor, IV fluid bag, catheter bag, and blood pressure cuff. The orderlies disappeared with the gurney; the nurse transferred Ella’s oxygen tank and began messing with leads, hooking up everything to the large monitor on the wall. Felix stared up at the words until he’d memorized them: heart rhythm, MAP, and O2 saturation.
“Are you having any chest pain, dear?” the nurse asked Ella.
Ella shook her head so slowly it barely moved. The nurse took Ella’s vital signs, listened to her lungs, and then checked the sandbag on the groin.
“What’s she doing?” Harry whispered.
“This is the arterial insertion site,” the nurse said. “It’s where they inserted the catheter that went into your mother’s heart. We keep the sandbag in place for a few hours to apply pressure and prevent a hematoma from forming. You must be Harry.” She turned with a smile. “Your mother told us all about you.”
Harry glanced at Felix, his lips almost as pale as his cheeks.
“Are you comfortable, dear?” The nurse turned back to Ella.
Ella nodded, grabbed at her oxygen mask, and missed.
“You can talk to your family for a minute.” The nurse slid the mask off. “Then we need to put this back on.”
“Hey, baby.” Ella smiled a lazy smile and reached for Harry. He shot toward her, rubbing his left eye with the heel of his hand. “Don’t be scared. Everything’s fine. I’ll be home soon. So proud of you for coming to the hospital.”
They threaded their fingers together, and Felix stood frozen in place. An outsider watching through an invisible window.
Finally, her eyes settled on Felix; she squinted as if staring directly into the sun. “Take Harry home. Doesn’t need to see this.”
“I had to come.” Harry tugged on his shirt—hard enough to rip it. “I had to. What did they say? Are you going to be okay? Are you, Mom?”
Harry’s breath sped up; he pounded his chest. Any minute now he could explode into a tornado of tics. Ella gave another punch-drunk smile. How much sedative had they given her? Was she too looped to calm Harry?
“Shhh. I’m fine. No pain.” She gave an odd laugh. “Treat this as an excuse to skip school. Stay home tomorrow, play video games.”
“No.” Harry clucked. Again and again. “I have a calculus test. And I don’t want to stay home.” Harry glanced at Felix. His look clearly said, With you.
Felix fixed his attention on the top line of the monitor, the heart rhythm line. “Why don’t all the heartbeats look the same?” he asked the nurse. “Is that something bad?”
Harry started twitching. His left elbow flapped in several short, sharp bursts.
“Certainly not, sir,” the nurse said as she slid the oxygen mask back into place. “You’re seeing skipped beats, or what we call premature ventricular contractions. They look a bit different than normal beats, but I can assure you they’re very common in this setting. Nothing to worry about.” She fussed with Ella’s sheets.
“What does MAP mean?” Felix said, still staring at the monitor.
“Mean arterial pressure.” The nurse puffed up a pillow. “And the bottom one is oxygen saturation.”
“Yes. I figured that out.” Felix paused. “What do you know about the cardiologist, Ella? Do we need to get a second opinion?”
Ella closed her eyes briefly. She loosened the oxygen mask. “Take Harry home. I’m fine.”
No. For once, could she need him as much as he needed her?
“Not until I’ve talked with the doctor.” Felix turned to the nurse. “Why isn’t he here? Where is he? Is he the best? What are his credentials?”
The nurse’s head jerked back, creating a stack of double chins. “You need to be patient.” She spoke as if addressing a non-English speaker. “He’ll be in shortly.”
Felix clenched his fist. Shortly was not good enough; shortly was not a call to action. “I’ll phone your father while we’re waiting for the cardiologist.”
Ella shook her head.
“No? But what should I do if he calls the house and asks how your flight was?”
More violent head shaking, and then Ella pushed up the mask.
“I’ll call Dad tomorrow. Phone Katherine,” Ella said. “Tell her to come here. You guys leave. Katherine will . . .”
“Mom?” Harry became a spinning top wound too tight.
Felix ignored him. “I’m not leaving until I’ve talked with the doctor.” He walked to the bed and rested his hand on Ella’s leg. “Nurse, why did the oxygen saturation just drop from ninety-eight to ninety-six percent? What does that mean?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“It means something, otherwise—”
Harry
grabbed his neck as if trying to strangle himself. His head did the weird sideways tic he’d released at the airport. A new tic.
“Our son has Tourette’s,” Felix said to the nurse.
“Shhh.” Ella reached for Harry, but her hand swam through air. “Felix, please. Harry needs to leave. Call Katherine. She’ll stay with me.”
“I’m not leaving. Not until someone tells me what’s going on. I will not trust your life to people I don’t know. Suppose they’ve been sued for malpractice.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” the nurse muttered.
“Felix, I’m in good hands. One of Harry’s teachers”—Ella closed her eyes—“had heart surgery here. I know you’re trying to protect me, Felix. But I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
Could she please stop staying that? Every corner of his being told him things were not fine. They were far from fine.
“Call Katherine. Go home. She’ll tell you everything. Later.” Ella’s chest rose and fell. Her mother had died of a heart attack at forty-seven; Ella was forty-seven. Had nature’s bullet hit the genetic bull’s-eye painted on her chest? He tapped his palm with ferocious speed.
“I need to talk with the doctor.” His voice split. “I need to . . .”
“I know you do,” she said quietly. “I understand.”
Ella always understood—just as Tom had.
“But we have to . . . think about Harry. Take him . . . home . . . before this becomes . . . too much.”
Too late.
Harry’s elbow flapped, then his right arm shot out, nearly catching on one of Ella’s tubes. Felix and the nurse rushed forward. Harry’s arm flung out a second time, and Felix jumped back before he got walloped.
“Maybe you should listen to your wife, sir,” the nurse said.
“Maybe you should get the cardiologist so I can find out whether my wife is going to die.”
“Felix!” Ella tried to sit up, suddenly massively alert for someone shot with what had to be horse tranquilizers. He couldn’t imagine anything else keeping her down when Harry was in this level of distress.
The nurse eased her back. “Ella, you need to lie flat. You”—she glared at Felix—“are upsetting your wife, and I cannot allow that.”
The Perfect Son Page 4