“I guess.” Harry cracked his knuckles. “I miss talking with Mom, too. Trying to talk with Dad’s worse than falling into a copperhead’s nest. You know me, I like to talk things out. But Dad starts tapping his hand and says—” Harry cleared his throat for his upper-class Brit voice. “You have already told me that twice.”
Max cracked up. “I know, dude. But you can always talk to me. Want me to drive you home so you can become a latchkey kid like the rest of us?”
“Nah. I’m good. Why are you still here?”
“George asked me to help out this fifth grader. Poor kid is practically math dyslexic.” Max elbowed him. “Oh wait, I get it. You want to go to after-school. Doesn’t Sammie Owen go to after-school?”
“Does she?” Harry looked at his groin.
“When’re you gonna actually talk to her, man? Say, ‘I think you’re super hot. Want to hook up?’”
“Max!” Harry glanced around. “Walls have ears.”
“Dude, it’s not complicated. You like her, I’m pretty sure she likes you. One plus one equals earth-shattering grope session. If you don’t make a move, I will.”
Harry scowled. “What the—”
“On your behalf, dude.” Max punched the air. “Ha! I knew you had the hots for her. Well played, Max. Well played.”
Harry blushed. He and Max talked about everything. Mom always said they were two halves of a whole; the teachers joked they were Siamese twins separated at birth. They didn’t keep secrets from each other, but this was different. The way he felt about Sammie was different. Fragile and private. Not for sharing. But Max had figured it out anyway. That’s what best friends did, figured out life when you couldn’t.
“I really like her,” Harry mouthed.
“Well, duh. Tell me something I don’t know. By the way”—Max leaned closer—“she thinks you’re pretty chill.”
“How do you know?” Harry whispered.
“Can we stop whispering like little girls?” Max pushed back his chair and put his feet up on the table.
“She’s super hot, isn’t she?”
Max shrugged. “I guess. Not dark and twisted enough for me. I bet she’s a virgin.”
“Come on, so are you.”
“Yeah, but let’s be real. We’re the only two people in the eleventh grade who haven’t done the deed. And I, my friend, plan to fix that next weekend.”
“No! She said yes?” With the Mom Situation, he’d forgotten about Max’s date.
“Oh, it gets better, dude.” Max winked. “Her parents are out of town.”
The door banged open a second time, and Mr. George, the math teacher, barged into their tête-a-tête. “What are you boys doing up here? And Max—feet off the table.”
“Harry needed some quiet time, Mr. G.” Max sat up as if he had all the time in the world. “We’re talking about his mom.”
“Of course.” Mr. George held up his hands in surrender and backed out of the door.
Harry tried to hold in the giggle, but it escaped through his nose.
“As I was saying before we were interrupted”—Max frowned at the door—“unlike you, I actually talk to Sammie.”
Max had better luck with girls than Harry, which didn’t mean a whole lot. But Max could catch their interest because he was funny and smart and an awesome lead guitarist in a punk band called The Freaks. Teenage girls, however, seemed to care more about the packaging than the contents. And Max’s features looked, well, to quote Max, “splattered together on a supersized pumpkin.”
But now that he’d dyed his hair black, grown it over his sticky-out ears, and started creating full-sleeve tattoos up his arms with Sharpies to tick off his dad, Maxi-Pad was looking pretty rad. He would definitely get serious girl action soon. Enough to blast his giant-sized math brain into orbit.
“Tell her about your mom,” Max said. “Play the sympathy card. Chicks love that shit.”
Harry squeezed his eyes together in a series of deliberate, exaggerated blinks. An aftershock of pain from his neck snap migrated up into his temple. He imagined a dwarf on a stepladder pounding a mallet into the side of his head. Could he bash out the recurring images of Mom in a hospital bed, too?
“Sorry, dude. That was way off base.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“She’s going to be fine, your mom. She doesn’t take shit from anyone.”
“But this is different. This she can’t control.” Harry rested his face on the table. “I’m scared, and I know Dad is, too, but he won’t talk about it . . .”
Max patted his back and then leaned over him. “Man hug.”
“Guys? Am I interrupting?” Sammie entered the room.
Harry shot to his feet, rubbing his eyes. Suddenly, he just wanted to be alone.
“His mom’s in the hospital. He needs a little TLC, you know?”
“Omigod.” Sammie put her head to one side.
“Yup. Heart attack,” Max said in a slow, exaggerated way.
Harry turned in circles. Needed out. Couldn’t breathe. “She—she’s going to be fine.”
“She sure is, buddy,” Max said. “You should meet Harry’s mom. She’s great. You know, for a mom. She likes me way better than my own mom.” Max stood, straightened his messenger bag, picked at his nail polish. “Well, kids, gotta run. You look after him for me, Sammie.”
The fucker! Was Max smirking? He was. He was smirking.
And then they were alone. Him on track to graduate as the most fucked-up kid, and Sammie Owen, hands down the most beautiful girl in the school. In the town of Durham. In the state of North Carolina. On the planet.
Sammie stood in front of him and placed one hand on his shoulder, and then pulled it back. He wanted to grasp her wrist, shove her palm into his face, inhale the essence of Sammie Owen.
“How can I help?” she said.
A simple question that told him she was the one. The one and only. His first true love. Random acts of kindness—his favorite thing in the world.
“I-I don’t know.”
“Maybe we can be there for each other.” She paused. “My dad has lung cancer. Stage four. Incurable.”
Harry stood still. “I didn’t know.”
“No one does. I wanted it that way, so I could have a normal life.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d understand. Even without—”
“Yeah,” Harry said, and his head did the sideways tic again. Her gaze didn’t falter.
“We moved down here so he could go to Duke hospital. They don’t know how long he has. He responded pretty well to the chemo and radiation. They think he could have as long as three years. Or he could be gone before spring break. But I don’t want to think about that. I want to be a normal teenager, you know, thinking about this beautiful junior”—she paused and her cheeks glowed—“called Harry.” She twisted her feet. “Can we sit together at lunch tomorrow?”
He was a lot to handle. More energy than a whole power plant when the meds ran out. That was a turnoff for most girls, at least the ones who’d been classmates since third grade. No one had asked him for a lunch date before. (It was a date, right?) No one had ever called him beautiful, either. Except for Mom. She always said, “You’re going to grow up to be such a heartbreaker, Harry.” But moms had to say that crap, didn’t they? And his wasn’t exactly impartial, since she overcompensated for the fact that he was, well, Harry. She never judged him, never criticized. But then again, Dad did enough of that for both of them. Why was he thinking about his parents? He didn’t want to think about anything except Sammie Owen. He moved toward her slowly, focusing on her lips. Shutting out the world.
“Stop right there!”
They jumped apart and Mr. George waved a heavy-duty stapler at them. “No PDA. Time to come downstairs. Both of you. Now.” And then he held the door open and shepherded them through, still waving the stapler.
Sammie looked at Harry and they both giggled. And in that shared moment, noth
ing mattered beyond the school rule about personal displays of affection. And his almost first kiss.
When could he try again?
EIGHT
At 5:30 a.m., Felix studied the daily and weekly to-do lists Ella had dictated over the phone the night before. Armed with color-coded guidelines, he felt marginally less like he was starting life over as an amputee.
Robert had not taken the news well. There had been much huffing and puffing on the other end of the phone line and a muttered comment about why Felix couldn’t be a normal dad and give his son a house key, a car, and a credit card, and “let him get on with it” while they went to Charlotte for the weekend. Felix tried to imagine what Harry getting on with it would mean.
He hadn’t expected sympathy from his partner, but tolerance would have been an acceptable response, as would a little faith that someone with such a highly developed work ethic as Felix could still deliver. Felix snapped the elastic band he’d slipped on his wrist the night before. Katherine had suggested it as a stress reliever. Bizarre as it sounded, she’d been right.
And he had to-do lists. To-do lists were good; Ella knew this. It was one of the many reasons that he had never doubted their marriage would work: she was a list maker, too.
He walked to the fridge and took out the required sandwich-making supplies.
Thank God she’d packed away the Christmas ornaments before flying to Florida. He knew only two things about Christmas decorations: they had to be hung by Christmas Eve and taken down by Twelfth Night. Mother had always insisted. Over the years, he had fallen into a habit of moving ornaments around while Harry, their tree decorator, slept. Neither Harry nor Ella had ever commented, but several times Felix had caught Ella staring at the tree with raised eyebrows.
Felix laced his hands together, twisted his palms heavenward, and stretched. Let day one of full-time fatherhood begin. First task: pack Harry’s lunch.
Harry had said he wanted a turkey sandwich, which, according to Ella, involved a smidgeon of mayonnaise spread on one side of the bread (white from that funny little bakery in Chapel Hill), turkey sliced so thin it was almost shaved (Whole Foods in-house roasted turkey), one crunchy—not limp—piece of iceberg lettuce, superthin Swiss cheese, and two rashers of bacon.
He and Harry had done a small shop at Whole Foods on the way home from school. Ridiculously overpriced, but Ella was big on organic fruits and vegetables. They all were, but really, could Harry’s brain chemistry detect the difference between a Pink Lady apple from Whole Foods and one from Harris Teeter? Still, they had picked up supper—barbecue ribs that had been quite tasty. Although a tad too salty.
Felix laid out everything on the counter.
The first sandwich didn’t look right, so he made a second. Then they both went in the bin, after he’d extracted the lettuce for the composter and the turkey for his own lunch. He moved on to sandwich number three.
Handling bread was rather disconcerting—Felix had given up carbs for his fiftieth birthday. He didn’t miss bread, but he did miss potatoes, especially Ella’s potatoes au gratin. He eyeballed the generic fat-free yogurt on the counter. His breakfast. Next to it, the horrifically expensive chocolate croissant for Harry. Surely Harris Teeter pastries were a perfectly acceptable substitute—and cheaper?
The third sandwich was satisfactory. Not overstuffed. Nice layers that worked. Paying attention to the position of the knife, Felix cut the sandwich down the middle, then sliced off one crust, turned it round, and sliced off the other. Repeated. After spearing both halves with toothpicks, he wrapped the sandwich in heavy-duty aluminum foil. Twice—to make sure it was properly secured and therefore able to withstand the abuse Harry heaped on his lunch box. After pausing to double-check Ella’s list, Felix added the organic apple, a bottle of water, a small Tupperware of baby carrots, and an individual bag of salt and vinegar chips that stimulated saliva and nostalgia for pub lunches.
Felix glanced at the clock. In two minutes, he would wake Harry. Perfect. He flicked on the kettle. This stay-at-home parent thing was much easier than he’d suspected.
Ten minutes later, he was standing in Harry’s bedroom, yelling, “Get out of bed! Now!” Harry, the little rotter, had gone back to sleep. Why had Ella not included that—Make sure he gets up—on the list?
“Five more minutes, Dad.”
“No.” Felix yanked back the duvet and slipped an ice cube down Harry’s T-shirt.
“What the fuck!” Harry shot out of bed.
“Your language is appalling.”
Harry grabbed at his back as if he were on fire. Then he stopped and threw the ice cube onto the carpet. “But you were torturing me.”
Felix’s head jerked up; he took a breath. Had he—had he tortured his son?
“It was just an ice cube, Hazza.” Was his voice shaking? Did Harry remember? Did Harry hate him? On the day Harry was born, Felix had sworn he’d never raise a finger against his son. But he had crossed that threshold once, just once. He must never do so again.
Harry scratched through his hair and yawned. He didn’t look traumatized, but then, as Felix knew only too well, it was hard to tell. Felix’s heartbeat returned to normal—for now.
“We’re leaving in twenty minutes. If you’re not dressed, I’ll take you in your pajamas. Do you have the folder for your voice lesson?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“And your bag is packed?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“And you printed out your English essay?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Breakfast in five. And please pick up that ice cube before it melts all over the carpet.”
“Yes, Dad.”
Harry said only two more words before they left: “Thank you.” And the moment they got in the car, he folded himself in half and went back to sleep.
Once they arrived at school, Felix had the pleasure of waking Harry in front of an audience of other parents. Competent parents who slid through the carpool lane like pros and deposited vanloads of little people plus backpacks, lunch boxes, and musical instrument cases in thirty seconds, tops. Parents who didn’t have to abandon their cars to leg it up the school steps after discovering their child’s lunch box sitting on the back seat. Tomorrow he’d forgo humiliation and the carpool lane, and park in one of the designated parking spots.
Felix was about to pull out of the parking lot when his mobile rang.
“Hey, it’s me,” Katherine said.
They were now well enough acquainted to identify themselves as me?
“What time are you going to the hospital today? I thought we could coordinate so we don’t overlap. Nothing personal, but with this killer deadline, I want to visit, chat with Ella, and get out.”
Interesting. He would never have pegged Katherine for someone with a professional work ethic. After all, she wrote bodice rippers. How much self-discipline could that involve? Felix tried not to imagine Katherine typing sex scenes. Did she plot them out or just let them happen? Maybe she got high first. Maybe that was why she smoked pot with Ella. Once, he’d caught them smoking inside the house. He’d never trusted Katherine after that.
“I thought I’d visit Ella now,” Felix said. “Then run errands before school pickup.”
“Excellent. I’ll work till four and go over there before dinner. So, Felix . . .”
Felix ground his teeth.
“You do know Ella’s friends are calling me incessantly, asking how they can help? Have you listened to any of the messages on your landline?”
“No and no.” Really, how did she expect him to know what Ella’s friends were up to? Ella was always reminding him of their names and how their lives intersected, but he’d never been interested.
“We need to come up with a system so people can help out.”
Yes—systems are good. No—people helping out is bad.
“I don’t need help, Katherine. I’ve got this covered.”
“You know that Ella is supermom on steroids, right?”
“And you know her life is all about Harry, twenty-four seven?”
“Yes, I am fully aware that my wife is a miracle worker. However, I have taken a leave of absence from the office and am confident that I’m more than capable of handling her job.” He glanced in his rearview mirror. “Katherine, I really need to hang up and drive.”
She gave a smoky laugh. Coming from anyone else, it would have been sexy. “How are your cooking skills?”
With a sigh, Felix turned left, drove back into the school parking lot, and parked.
“A bit rusty, but I was a bachelor for over a decade. I can cook.” Scrambled eggs on toast and English trifle counted, right? Tom had taught him the latter one Christmas as they drank an entire bottle of sherry, minus the healthy serving added to the trifle. And he’d just mastered crustless turkey sandwiches. “I’m sure cooking is like riding a bike.” Although he’d never learned how to do that, even at Oxford. Another secret no one knew.
“Then I’m going to organize a list of people to drop off meals every night this week.”
“Katherine, I don’t want—”
“This will give you one less thing to deal with and stop everyone from calling me.”
Ah, so it was really about Katherine. He might have guessed.
“I’ll make sure they know to leave the food in a thermal bag on the doorstep by six and to not ring the bell or otherwise engage with you,” she continued. “How about that? And I made a lasagna for you last night. I’ll drop it off after my hospital run.”
“I don’t eat pasta anymore.”
“Then pick out the pasta. Problem solved.”
“Are you taking the piss?” Wow. Where did that come from? He was reverting to Britishisms he hadn’t used in nearly two decades.
“Am I what?” Her voice hardened.
“English expression. To make fun of someone,” Felix spoke slowly.
“No. I’m not making fun of you. I’m presenting a solution that might enable you to enjoy a home-cooked meal that you didn’t have to prepare. And yes, I know Harry doesn’t eat mushrooms, so it’s fungus free. It’s a gift, Felix. Take it.”
The Perfect Son Page 8