The Perfect Son

by Barbara Claypole White

  “College tour?” Mom frowned.

  “Spring break college tour. He’s planning the Northeast Ivy League blitz attack.”

  “He is?”

  “He hasn’t said anything to you about it? Nothing?” This was not good, very not good. If Mom didn’t have his back with this shit, who was going to derail Dad from the Harvard plan?

  “Not that I remember, but I have a hard time staying focused these days.”

  “I know, Mom. I get the whole focus issue better than most people.”

  “Sorry. Of course you do.”

  Harry almost said, Who are you, and what have you done with my mom?

  Somewhere in the house, Katherine laughed.

  “It’s good that Katherine and Dad are becoming friends,” Mom said. “Much easier for me.”

  “Will you talk to Dad about it?”

  “About what, sweetheart?”

  Harry cracked his knuckles, tried not to sound irritated. Irritated fell under the category of stressing out Mom. “The Northeast college tour.”

  “I thought you wanted to stay in state.”

  Harry paced the room. Would Dad accuse him of wearing out the carpet? “I don’t know what I want, Mom, that’s the whole point. But Dad won’t give me space. It’s like my future is something to check off his to-do list, like he has a gun to my temple and he’s saying ‘make a decision or we’re playing Russian roulette.’” He should slow down, but he needed to talk. Needed to get this stuff out. His mouth and his brain were a pair of runaway trains racing over a cliff. “There’s nothing for Dad but forward motion to Harvard, and that’s the one place I know I don’t want to go. Maybe you and I could do college visits in the summer when you’re feeling stronger. But I can’t do it now, not when I’m so worried about you. I’m scared enough about the future and leaving high school and Max and”—and Sammie—“and Dad’s making it a gazillion times worse. Why can’t he see that?”

  “Wait a minute.” Mom held up a hand. “Slow everything down and separate it out, Harry. No more worrying about me. Yes, I’ve had a bit of an upset, but—”

  “A bit of an upset, really? You want me to believe this is a bit of an upset?”

  “I’m making progress. It’s just long, hard, and slow.” Mom stared down at her hands. She’d knotted them into a tight ball and buried them deep in her lap. “And there’s light ahead with the transplant.”

  He might have believed her if she’d made eye contact. But Mom had retreated into a timid shadow. She just wanted to sit in that chair and stare into the forest, and when she did leave this end of the house, which she hadn’t done in five days, she panted like an old person hiking the Appalachian Trail.

  “How can I not worry about you, Mom?”

  “Have we switched roles?” Finally, she looked up. “Harry, sweetheart, I’m tough—you know that.”

  He used to know that. But now? Hell, all bets were off.

  Mom stretched awkwardly, not with her usual grace. “And as for leaving home, everyone’s terrified of going to college, but once you get there and find friends, it’s the experience of a lifetime.”

  “Were you terrified?”

  “Catatonic with fear. But that’s how I met Anson, and if I hadn’t met Anson, I wouldn’t have moved to London, wouldn’t have met your dad, and wouldn’t have this wonderful son called Harry. Once you make friends, everything settles. And you make friends quickly, Harry. You’ll be fine. But I don’t think you should wait till the summer. I think you and Dad need to move forward with your plans for spring break.”

  But he and Dad didn’t have plans. All that existed was Dad’s college-tour manifesto.

  “You need to see the campuses while schools are in session.”

  Harry frowned. “That’s what Dad says.”

  Mom turned to stare through the sliding glass doors. A pair of psycho squirrels was playing tag on the concrete; in Duke Forest, a hawk screeched. Her attention, everything that had anchored her to the conversation, floated away like ectoplasm. He kept waiting for Mom to come back, the old Mom. She was everywhere but nowhere. A bodiless voice repeating public service announcements: “There’s nothing to worry about. Regular programming will be resumed soon.”

  “Dad’s under a lot of stress,” she said.

  “We all are, Mom.”

  She turned her head back toward him. “I know, baby. That’s why I think it would be good for you and Dad to get away. Do something normal, like a college tour, that has nothing to do with me being an invalid.”

  “You’re not an invalid!” He punched the air, willed her to do the same. Glass half-full, Mom!

  “Harry. I’ve got a long way to go, and we can’t all sit around waiting for the transplant. It’s important to me that you and Dad take your lives off hold. College won’t wait; your future won’t wait. You need to do this.”

  Great, now neither of his parents listened.

  “But I can’t think it through because every time we talk about it, Dad makes me too stressed.”

  “Then just go on the tour to keep him happy, and use it to eliminate colleges you’re not interested in.”

  “But that’s a humongous waste of time and money and energy!”

  “Not it if helps streamline your decision process.”

  “I don’t even want to go to the Northeast, Mom. If I’m going anywhere cold, I want it to be in the Appalachians.”

  “See? You’re already making decisions.” Mom paused. “What if you did your own research on colleges in the Northeast and asked Dad to work them into the tour?”

  “Please, Mom. I can’t do this without you.”

  “You can, sweetheart. You’d be surprised what you can do without me.” She heaved herself up to her feet. “You and Dad need to cut me out of the equation. Handle this yourselves.”

  “You mean in case something happens to you. Why do you have to talk like this? Why?” So much for not upsetting her. His leg jerked up and he touched his heel, a tic that had caused endless problems in kindergarten because of the teacher’s ridiculous mission to create the perfect line of silent, nonmoving five-year-olds. Every freakin’ morning.

  “Shhh, baby. I seem to be handling this badly, but my thought process is less functional than a broken garbage disposal. What I’m trying to say is that my recovery is putting too much strain on the family. You and Dad must stop worrying about me and start moving forward with your lives. This is your junior year—the most important year of high school.” She paused. “And you just released a tic we haven’t seen since kindergarten.”

  He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Don’t use your hand to—”

  “I hate when you talk like you’re giving up, Mom.” Harry raised his voice. “Like you’re stepping away from us.” Mom had never let him give up—even when he’d been in a dark place with the rage attacks, even when he’d felt as if he were the worst person in the world, cursed by God. So why was she curling into a ball, waving a white flag, and staying there?

  “Harry, sweetheart. I’m being a realist.”

  “You’re not. You’re giving up.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

  Someone knocked and the door opened immediately. Dad was right. There were way too many people in the house these days.

  “Gracious, child,” Eudora said. “What’s all the hullabaloo?”

  “Nothing that a trip to Harvard won’t cure,” Harry mumbled. “I have to go do my homework.”

  Mom shuffled toward him, but he couldn’t hug her, didn’t want to feel her bones. “You and Dad need to do this. You need to think about college visits, think about your future—”

  “Why does everyone keep telling me what I need to be doing?” Harry sniffed again.

  “I love you,” Mom said, but already she was moving back to the chair, as if just looking at him was too much effort.

  “I love you too.”

  With a glance at Eudora, he left. That was it. If M
om wasn’t going to take on the college stuff, Harry was officially on his own with Dad. He ran into his room, tore through his bedding, found his phone. Sent Max a text.

  code spongebob

  His phone rang immediately.

  “What’s wrong, dude?” Max said.

  Harry heaved out a sigh. “You and I need a new plan for my life, ’cause this one sucks balls.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “I thought he reserved his door-slamming for me.” Felix loosened his tie and pushed off from the kitchen island. “I should go and make sure he didn’t upset his mother.”

  “Eudora’s got it covered,” Katherine said. “I’m sure she’ll shout for reinforcements if she needs them, and I was hoping to say something to you before I left.”

  Felix dove into the fridge and pulled out a small bottle of Perrier for himself and a bottle of the ginger limeade that he’d started keeping in the house for Katherine.

  “No, I’m good, thanks.” She reached down for her bags.

  He put the limeade back, twisted the cap off his bottle of carbonated water, and guzzled. No alcohol today, not when he was contemplating an all-nighter. Thank God he could still make sound decisions about alcohol. He’d never realized before how exhausting the role of caregiver could be. Having a caregiver buddy—or in his case, two—might be the reason he was still drinking for pleasure, not need.

  Katherine wound her hair into a knot and then released it. “I spend a lot of time reading people,” she said, “and apart from the husband fail, I thought I was a decent judge of character. But I have to admit I was wrong about you. I’d like to offer a carte blanche apology for every snide comment and evil glare. And I’d like to start over.” She hoisted her bags up onto her shoulder. “Felix Fitzwilliam, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  She held out her hand and he shook it. “Does this mean I’m no longer the antihero?”

  “Well, let’s not go that far.” Her crooked smile was almost endearing. “How are things between you and Harry?”

  He and Katherine updated each other daily on the basics of Ella’s progress: she ate X today, her energy level was down, she slept for an hour this afternoon. The spikiness had disappeared from their conversations, but they didn’t discuss anything personal. Katherine seemed ready to change that.

  “Unlike you, Harry does not think he’s misjudged me. I’m pretty sure he hates me.”

  “Aren’t sons meant to hate their fathers and lust after their mothers? Oedipus and all that.”

  “Oedipus didn’t hate his father. And he didn’t know the identity of either of his biological parents when he married the queen.”

  “Right. Thanks for the potted history lesson.” She smirked and he relaxed. Sarcasm from Katherine he could handle. “Look, Harry’s a good kid; he’ll be fine. He and Ella are just so close, and this has to be turning his world on its head.”

  “I don’t know what he wants from me.”

  “Well, if my brothers’ interactions with my dad were anything to go by, I’d say that’s standard for a father-son relationship. My dad spent his life complaining that he didn’t understand his sons.”

  “Your father’s dead?”

  “Both my parents are.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “Ella’s the only real family I have. Brothers are useless, you know.”

  He nearly contradicted her, but he wasn’t ready to open up their relationship to include Tom. “How’s the deadline coming?”

  “Inspired by you, I asked for an extension.”

  “Did you get it?” Felix stretched out yet another crick in his neck. Working at the dining room table was killing his back, his neck, probably even his eyesight.

  She nodded. “How’s the deal?”

  “D-day is looming. Which means enough pleasantries, woman.” He smiled. “As we say in England, bugger off. I need to check on my wife and get back to the grind.”

  He started walking toward the bedroom, and then—pandemonium. Eudora screamed, Katherine dropped her bags—Oh God, was that her computer smashing?—Harry’s door flew open, and Felix’s gut said Run.

  Ella and Eudora were huddled on the bedroom floor. Ashen, Ella clutched her chest. “Can’t breathe . . .”

  “Katherine, call 911,” Felix shouted, tugging Ella into his arms.

  Harry sank to his knees beside them. “Mom. I’m sorry! It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault!”

  “No,” Ella wheezed. “No . . .”

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Here, child.” Eudora handed him one of Dad’s fancy cut-glass tumblers. The reddish-brown liquid in the bottom stank of rubbing alcohol. “Moonshine from my medicine cabinet.”

  “As part of our intervention.” Katherine smiled.

  Harry’s jaw popped and his head jerked sideways as if in some death spasm. Again and again. He looked at the rug in front of the black, empty fireplace. Everyone waited; no one spoke. They huddled around him like a blanket.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “I do,” Max said. Max had arrived within minutes of the ambulance. Probably broke the sound barrier along the way.

  “Best not say that out loud, child. The ding-a-ling in that yellow house across the way is a bit”—Eudora tapped her head—“cray-cray, bless her heart. She’d turn you in for underage drinking faster than I can reload Daddy’s shotgun.” Eudora nodded at Harry. “Sip it so you don’t get tore up.”

  “Tore up?” Max laughed.

  “Redneck for sozzled. My car mechanic’s expression of the week.”

  “Man, that’s disgusting!” Harry gagged.

  “You’ll develop a taste for it when you’re older. I reckon this might ease those tics, though. That last one looked mighty painful.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Harry held his nose and drank. Fire burned his throat, but he deserved it. And then warmth filled his insides, and his elbow stopped flapping.

  “Good job. And one more,” Eudora said.

  He still felt like shit, but at least he felt loved. A loved piece of shit.

  “When the ambulance turned up, I thought she was dying,” Harry said. “I thought it was my fault.”

  Max draped his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “So not true, dude.” He took Harry’s glass and had a gulp.

  “Child, my mama used to have panic attacks all the time. Of course, they weren’t called panic attacks in those days. I think they were called a case of female nerves. The medical profession has not been kind to women.”

  “Amen, sista.” Katherine leaned forward and took the glass away from Max. “I’ve had them too, Harry. Given the stress everyone’s been under, I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier. To any of us.”

  Dad appeared from the bedroom. He was still in his suit and carrying an overnight bag. He looked like an unloved piece of shit.

  Harry jumped up, threw his arms around him. “Dad, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. It’s all my fault.”

  Dad stiffened, patted Harry’s back, and then clutched at him like they were both drowning. “Hazza,” he said quietly. “You did nothing wrong. Katherine and I both believed your mother needed help managing—managing . . .”

  “Her emotional stress,” Katherine said. “Harry, this is a good thing. They’ll keep her for a few days’ observation and probably send her home with an antidepressant. Felix, did you call Robert?”

  Dad eased himself free of their hug. “I’m meeting him at the office in an hour—after I take this bag to the hospital.” He grabbed the photo of toddler Harry sitting on his plastic dump truck and slid it into the bag’s outside pocket.

  “Dang. At this time of night?” Eudora said.

  “Sadly, yes. Katherine, can I leave you in charge?”

  Katherine nodded. “Stay in the office until you’ve met the deadline,” she said. “I’ll take over here.”

  Max raised his hand like an overeager preschooler. “I’ll take Harry to school tomorrow. And drive him home.”

 
“I’ll make the best southern breakfast y’all have ever tasted,” Eudora said.

  “With biscuits and gravy?” Max said.

  “And fried eggs, country ham, fried okra, and grits.”

  Max squealed.

  “Now, you give me the number of that school, Felix, and I’ll call first thing in the morning and tell the director that these two delightful young men will be in my charge until I’m done feeding them.”

  “I think I love you,” Max said to Eudora.

  “I’m mighty flattered, hon, but I’m a lesbian.”

  “Sick. Now I really love you.”

  Dad pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, scribbled down the phone number for Eudora. “I have to go into work. Boys—Katherine is the parent in charge. Whatever she says goes. Katherine, you’ll need to put clean sheets on the spare bed. I’ve been sleeping there so as to not disturb Ella.”

  Katherine gave Dad a long, hard stare. Mom hadn’t shared news of the family sleeping arrangements? Funny, he’d always assumed Mom told Katherine everything, the way he’d always done with Max—until Sammie.

  A yawn slipped out. Harry couldn’t help it. The room seemed a little fuzzy, and suddenly all he wanted was sleep.

  Dad squeezed his arm. “Go to bed, Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. No guilt, alright?”

  “I’m on it, Mr. FW,” Max said. “If he starts acting all melodramatic and contrite, I’ll beat him over the head with his Darth Vader cushion.”

  Did Dad smile—at Max?

  “Dad!”

  Halfway to the front door, Dad swung around. “Yes?”

  “Drive carefully. Be safe.” Harry bit into his bottom lip.

  “Always, Hazza.”

  “Heavens to Betsy,” Eudora said, then swallowed the leftover moonshine in one gulp. “I’m such a Star Wars fan. If it weren’t a school night, boys, I would suggest a movie marathon.”

  Max pointed at Eudora. “So much love for this woman.”

  THIRTY

  Felix sat in a chair by the nurses’ station to answer his phone. Why was Mother calling his mobile and costing both of them a fortune? She knew it was an emergencies-only number.