“I do too.”
Dad sat back, crossed his feet at the ankles. A slow smile settled on his face. “Would you make me up a playlist when we get home? Joy Division, ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart,’ some old New Order, ‘Waterfront.’ That Coheed and Cambria song you’re always playing.”
“‘The Afterman’?”
Dad nodded. “And anything else you think I might like.”
Interesting turn of trust. Dad never let anyone choose anything for him. “How do you feel about U2? There’s a song called ‘Sometimes You Can’t Make It on Your Own.’ Bono wrote it about his dad. You do know who Bono is, right?”
“Really?” Dad raised his eyebrows, then glanced toward the departures board.
“The other trick—if you’re getting super anxious—is to avoid checking the departures board. That gets you locked into the cycle of worry, so, you know, everything escalates.”
“You’re quite a professional at dealing with all this, aren’t you?”
Harry watched his right leg kick to the side. He hadn’t been aware he was ticcing. “I don’t think about it, Dad. I mean, I’ve been doing this my whole life.”
Dad looked at his hands. “Do people treat you differently when you have a label?”
“Depends. But some people are asshats no matter what.”
“I’m not good at letting it all hang out. I can’t see myself explaining to someone that I have . . . a handicap.”
“Then don’t.”
“But you do.”
“Dad, Tourette’s isn’t really something I can hide. Most people have me pegged as odd before I’ve opened my mouth. Tell people what you want them to know.” Harry shrugged. “Or don’t. It’s totally up to you.”
“How do you deal, though, when people judge you?”
It was as if the world had melted away to just them and the snowflakes dancing in the black void beyond the airport windows.
“I tell myself I’m not my diagnosis, that I don’t really care what people think, just like I don’t care that I have Tourette’s. It’s far more of an issue for you and Mom than it’s ever been for me. There’ll always be dicks like Steve in my life, but then I have friends like Max. Well, I don’t have another friend like Max, but you know what I mean. I think if you do have this OCPD thing, it just makes us two messed-up guys against the world. I’m good with that. How about you?”
“Acceptance.” Dad fiddled with his glasses. “That’s an interesting concept.”
Dad’s phone pinged with a text. He shuffled around in his seat, pulled out the phone, slid it back into his jeans pocket.
“Everything okay?”
“Robert. No doubt he wants to talk about my job. As in, whether I still have one.” Dad put his phone away.
“You’re not going to answer him?”
“No. I’m having a conversation with my son about things that matter.”
Harry rested his head on Dad’s shoulder. He wouldn’t embarrass him with a hug. Dad had his way of dealing with life; Harry had his. It didn’t make one right or one wrong. It all boiled down to acceptance.
Dad rested his cheek on the crown of Harry’s head.
Harry smiled. Best thing of all? Dad had finally stopped wearing aftershave.
FORTY-TWO
Felix turned off the engine, and Simple Minds stopped playing. What were the chances Harry and Tom would be drawn to the same song three decades apart? Was it merely a quirk of coincidence, or was it a present from the cosmos? Maybe the dead never really left; maybe everything circled round in a big blur, until endings became beginnings and the wheels of life started moving again. Or maybe he just needed sleep.
Extracting himself from Max’s house had led to a new level of exhaustion. Max had insisted on a bear hug, and then Max’s brother and the family dog had wanted in on the action. Apparently, Felix was now something of a star in Max’s world. It was not an unpleasant experience, despite the hugs. Max’s dad, Pete, had even suggested they grab a beer sometime. Felix had thanked him and accepted the invitation—even though he didn’t drink beer, and Pete was definitely one of those backslapping types who favored sports bars.
Felix stared up through the windshield into the clear night. The stars glittered like polished gems; the moon was close to full, with a wisp of cloud streaked across it in the gentlest of paint strokes. Until he’d moved to North Carolina, Felix had never seen nights as bright and clear, nights that looked as if they belonged in a planetarium display. Beyond his sleeping son in the passenger seat and across the bridge, the warm lights of their house beckoned. Felix smiled. He had brought his son home. Nothing had ever felt quite this good.
Felix released his seat belt and leaned toward Harry. “Come on, Hazza. Let’s go see Mom.” Should he not have let Harry sleep in the car? Felix had run every worst-case scenario with the doctors before leaving Cambridge. How long, though, before he stopped obsessing over the chance of traumatic brain injury?
For once, Harry woke with a stretch and a yawn, not a jolt. “I’ll get the bags.”
“Be careful on the bridge,” Felix said.
The tree limb that had fallen in the ice storm had taken out part of the railing. Next weekend he would start work on a new bridge using red cedar, and coat it in polyurethane like the rails in Duke Gardens to achieve that rich color. And he would encourage the ivy to wind up the bridge in the same way it wound round the tree trunks. To represent survival.
“Wow, Dad. What a night! Twinkle, twinkle, big galaxy. Or galaxies. Did you see that? Something orange streaked across the sky. What d’ya think? Meteorite or a comet?”
“Good question. Meteorite?”
“Yeah, that’s what I think.”
Harry gave him a knuckle touch, and they crossed the bridge as Ella’s voice called them home. She was framed in the light of the open front door. Katherine was with her, but she withdrew as Harry rushed forward to hug his mother.
“Gently,” Felix called out before he joined them and closed his arms around his family.
“I love you both so much,” Ella said, and pulled back to ruffle Harry’s hair. “There’s someone inside desperate to see you.”
“Sammie!” Harry squealed, and disappeared.
“Eudora’s here too,” Ella said. “Everyone’s been so worried.” Ella touched his face, her hand freezing. It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but she looked pale.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed. Let’s get you inside.”
“I haven’t had a breath of fresh air in days.” Ella craned her neck to see the stars through the trees. “March first, and it feels as if spring is finally on its way. And the camellias are in bloom. Would you cut me a flower, and then I’ll go back to bed? I promise. Katherine left the kitchen scissors by the door.”
Felix grabbed the scissors and walked toward the biggest camellia, smothered in red blooms, its glossy dark-green leaves lit by the moon.
“That day on the Tube”—Ella’s voice drifted through the night behind him—“I knew you’d be a good dad. And you are, my love. You’re the best.”
“Just one bloom?” He turned with a smile, but Ella’s expression had changed. She looked bewildered. Confused.
“Felix . . . ?” she said, and crumpled.
This time, he couldn’t catch her.
Ella was floating. Below her, Felix was standing over someone stretched out on their sofa. Katherine placed her hand on his shoulder. Harry flew into his father’s arms.
A baby cried.
An organ played the wedding march.
A beautiful man with an English accent asked how he could help, and she thought, Be mine.
Her mother sang a lullaby.
Ahead, a column of white light emerged, as pure as the sunlight that broke through the trees and fell across her bed mid-morning.
A shadow stepped forward. Are you ready?
I’ll never be ready, Mom.
The white light disappeared; the world went black.
FIVE YEARS LAT
ER
Unseasonable May heat shimmered above the sidewalk and carried the scent of wild honeysuckle through the pines. Two cardinals whistled a duet; a mockingbird joined in. Ella watched, seeing but unseen: a whisper of light, a memory glimpsed from the corner of the eye.
It’s almost time.
Gown flying behind him, Harry rushed from Kenan Stadium towing a petite blonde, a southern belle with a beautiful smile.
“Grad school, here I come!” he called to Max.
Harry stopped and rubbed his arm. He had sensed her echo as he had done many times in the last five years. Today was especially hard for him. Mother’s Day always was.
Max understood. “Missing her, dude?”
“Yeah,” Harry said. “But I’m good. Wow!” He looked up into the Carolina-blue sky. “A stunning day to start the rest of my life!”
It’s almost time.
A girl tapped Max on the arm. “Can I get your autograph?” She giggled.
Even with the dark glasses, Max couldn’t disguise his fame—the full sleeves of song lyric tattoos were such giveaways. The girl blushed and ran off, clutching a signed scrap of paper.
Sammie, Max’s guest at the commencement ceremony, stepped forward to shake hands with Harry’s girlfriend. Max watched, protective as ever.
Tell her, Max; tell Harry. Tell both of them how you’ve felt since the first day you saw Sammie Owen, the prettiest girl in tenth grade—moments after your best friend noticed her.
Max had given up so much for Harry, and no one knew.
Eudora appeared, wearing a huge hat covered in fake flowers. She pushed Ella’s dad in a wheelchair. It hadn’t been easy for him to make the journey from Florida, but he had been determined. Harry, a Morehead-Cain Scholar, had graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill summa cum laude. Harry’s granddad told anyone who would listen it was the happiest day of his life.
Finally, Felix and Katherine joined the group. They ambled, hands entwined, the Carolina sun sparkling off the new diamond on her fourth finger. Of all of them, Katherine’s journey through grief had been the hardest. In the end, it had been Felix who’d kept her safe. Felix and his savior complex. There had been a small rift between them when Katherine started writing the memoir of her friendship with Ella, but after it catapulted to the bestseller lists, the celebration dinner had led to something else.
Everything was as it should be; a new story was about to begin.
Ella blew a breath of air at Harry’s cheek; he reached up and touched his face. Smiled.
It’s time.
The column of white light opened ahead.
I’m ready to let go.
Ella walked into her mother’s embrace.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Nothing about my third novel was easy, and without my agent, Nalini Akolekar, it might have become homeless. Nalini believed in me from day one, even though our first interaction came after I screwed up an email attachment. I will be forever grateful that she didn’t say, “Take you on as a client? You can’t even format a Word document.” Four years later, she still has my techno-challenged back—and a knack for bringing calm to any situation with the potential to make my head do the Exorcist spin. Extended thanks to everyone at Spencerhill Associates.
Huge thanks to Jodi Warshaw and the team at Lake Union Publishing for welcoming the Fitzwilliams with open arms and being drawn to my “dark quirkiness.” (I’m quite partial to it myself.) Extra-special thanks to Clete Barrett Smith, whose insightful edits gave me new love for The Perfect Son.
A shout-out to Emily Ohanjanians, who helped shape the first draft and was my editor for The In-Between Hour. I firmly believe Emily’s brilliance is the reason my second novel was chosen by the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance (SIBA) as a Winter 2014 Okra Pick. Endless gratitude to SIBA and to all the indie booksellers who were so supportive of The In-Between Hour, especially Jamie Fiocco at Flyleaf Books and Sharon Wheeler at Purple Crow Books. My commitment to indie bookstores continues.
Group hug with my writing comrades at Book Pregnant/The Novel Factory, who cheer, cry, and vent with me every day. I’m raising my glass to the future bicoastal drunk fest.
Thank you to everyone who took the time to answer annoying research questions, and apologies for any facts I’ve garbled. Mega thanks to my medical consultant on call, Karen Perrizolo. For helping me understand issues of the heart—thank you to Dr. Andrew Greganti, Sherry Gorman, Becky Williams, and Dr. Marschall Runge, executive dean of the UNC School of Medicine at Chapel Hill. Dean Runge happily replied to more emails than anyone should ever have to answer. (You, sir, are a saint.) Special thanks to Stephanie Mahin at the UNC Medical Center news office for not giving up on my search for a cardiologist! Thank you to Daniel Kim and Kelly Hartog for offering fresh perspectives on OCPD—when I was beginning to fear there was nothing but gloom and doom. Thank you to Nancy Siebens and Densie Webb for the parents’ point of view on Tourette syndrome. Air kisses to Julie Smith for sharing firsthand experience of concussions. And, as always, heartfelt appreciation for Dr. Pat Gammon, guru of all things anxiety related.
For attempting to explain the world of finance to a woman who can’t balance her checkbook, thank you to Scott Cooper, Stephen Piercy, and Rob Rose. (Guys, I’m a lost cause. Sorry!)
Flight attendants—you rock. Thank you to Mike Wilson, Tricia Homan, Michael Tongko, and James Prentice. (Extra thanks to Buzzy Porter, Scott Wilbanks, Marci Nault, and Beth Lundberg for the intros—gotta love Facebook!)
Thank you to Annabel Garrett for the guided tour of Duke Gardens and for explaining the true wonders of the Blomquist Garden; thank you to Marcy Cohen for helping me research the Nasher Museum of Art scene and for riding shotgun on the great hunt for the Fitzwilliam house. Thank you, Josh Stallings and Diane Ritchie, for bringing the Harvard campus to life. Cheers to pals Lynn and John Pickles and Carolyn Wilson for answering pesky questions about all things British.
Phew. It really does take a village. Speaking of which . . . thanks to my entire transatlantic tribe: old and new buddies who answered random cries for help on Facebook; the Grossberg clan; the Rose family; Anne Claypole White; and—never forgotten—Reverend Douglas Eric Claypole White. Unending gratitude for Susan Rose, who caught my whopper of a mistake and saved the day. (And yes, her English bone china mugs full of history are fabulous.)
Much love to fellow writers Elizabeth Brown and Sheryl Cornett, who bravely waded through my second draft—on a tight turnaround—to provide ideas that shaped the story and my characters; and a wave to Laura Spinella for tackling my rubbish synopsis. To Barbara Davis, please move back south so we can continue our author support group of two.
A million thanks to my beta reader, Leslie Gildersleeve, who went above and beyond time and time again, and realized—before I did—that the manuscript needed a flashback scene with Felix and his father. You, my friend, are the best.
Mother-son hug for Oberlin sophomore Zachariah Claypole White: for answering every text that screamed “word choice emergency,” for staying up half the night to read the third draft, and for providing a brilliant critique with a decorative note that read, “Never say this manuscript is crap again or I’ll put a spider in your bed.” (Nice try—you’re more terrified of arachnids than I am.) And thank you to Zachariah and Danlee Gildersleeve, a.k.a. The Arcadian Project, for creating music that allows me to tune out the world and tune into my characters. Please remember your parents when you’re rich and famous. (We expect the rock ’n’ roll rest home.)
Biggest thank-you is reserved for my one and only—my emotional anchor, Lawrence Grossberg. Thank you for suffering through my craziness and for endless brainstorming that produced such genius comments as “What if Harry went to Harvard, Barbara?” Thank you for embracing domestic chaos and taking over huge chunks of our lives so that I could be a penniless dreamer. Most of all, thank you for believing that I could actually do this—again.
The following books were extremely h
elpful:
Too Perfect: When Being in Control Gets Out of Control, by Allan E. Mallinger, MD, and Jeanette Dewyze
Passing for Normal: A Memoir of Compulsion, by Amy S. Wilensky
Twitch and Shout: A Touretter’s Tale, by Lowell Handler
A Family’s Quest for Rhythm: Living with Tourette, ADD, OCD, and Challenging Behaviors, by Kathy Giordano and Matt Giordano
BOOK CLUB DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
No one in the novel is quite as he or she seems at first. Ella, for example, appears to be the perfect mother, but is filled with hidden doubts and insecurities; Felix appears to be a rigid control freak, and yet every decision he makes for the family pushes him beyond his comfort zone. As the story unfolds, did any of the other characters surprise you, and if so, in what ways? Do you agree that we are often too quick to pigeonhole a person based on one aspect of his or her personality?
Felix is a dark, unlikely hero. Even as Katherine warms to him, she calls him an antihero. How do you feel about Felix, and did those feelings change while you were reading the novel? Is Felix his own worst critic?
Were you shocked by Felix’s flashback scene? Do you think we ever truly know what goes on in a family?
Harry does not have coprolalia—the involuntary and repetitive use of obscene language. Coprolalia is, however, the most common popular image of Tourette’s, even though it affects only a small percentage of people with Tourette syndrome. Do you agree that fictional characters struggling with neurological or mental disorders are often depicted using stereotypes? Do any of your family members battle an invisible disability, and if so, what have you found to be the most challenging part of explaining quirky behavior to the outside world?
When parenting a high-maintenance child, do the lines blur between being a helicopter parent and being a child advocate? Does Ella’s health crisis speed up the natural process of separation and boundary setting that she and Harry must experience?
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