The Perfect Son (32 page)

“Ten degrees? That’s all?” She laughed. They left the path and crunched through snow, which seemed like a really, really bad idea. She was wearing boots, but he wasn’t. Would the snow come over the top of his Docs?

“Why do you want to come here?” Annie asked.

“I don’t. But I have good SAT scores.”
Actually, I have perfect scores.
“And a high GPA.”

“Everyone here does.” Annie smiled.

“My dad believes in striving for the best. He thinks anything less than perfect isn’t—”

“Aha. Get it. You’re here because your dad made you visit.”

“Yes and no. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Intriguing.”

“It’s hard to explain. We have an odd relationship.” Harry paused. “But it’s getting better.”

“Closer to your mom?”

“Yeah.” Although maybe that wasn’t quite true. Not anymore. He used to be closer to Mom. These days, he went straight to Dad for pretty much everything from pocket money to advice on Sammie.

They walked through another ornate wrought-iron gate. Lots of gates in this place. To keep people in or out? Two students on bikes pedaled by frantically, heads down. Harry looked up into the blue sky framed by leafless trees. No evergreens. If he were here, he’d miss the pines. The grand building off to their right was a doppelganger for the St. Pancras train station in London.
Freaky.

“Since you bailed on your college tour, I’ll tell you that we are now crossing the plaza, and I’m about to show you the best part of campus. Did you know Winnie-the-Pooh lives here?” She tucked her arm in his.

Harry wasn’t sure how to react. Annie seemed nice enough. Open, his kind of person, but she was being a bit too friendly. Even by his standards. She stopped in front of a tree stump that had been turned into a little house. The wooden shingle roof was held in place with strips of tin, and a small hand-painted sign above the wooden door read “Pooh”—in red.

“It has its own caretaker, but the history of Pooh’s Harvard home is shrouded in mystery. We thought we’d lost it when they cut down the tree in 2012, but it proved impossible to dispossess Pooh Bear. He just had to relocate for a while.”

“Adorable.” Harry flattened his hand across his chest. The cute factor alone was almost enough to make him change his mind about Harvard.

“I was a total Winnie-the-Pooh nut.” Annie giggled.

“Me too,” Harry said. A forgotten memory—reading
Winnie-the-Pooh
, but with Dad, not Mom. Dad reading to him at bedtime in Granny’s house. From a battered old copy. “Tigger was my guy. Had even more energy than me.” Dad had liked Eeyore.

“Definitely time for a hot drink.” Annie shivered.

They entered the Science Center, and she paused to stomp snow off her boots. “Let me treat you. What’ll you have? Coffee? Tea?”

Yuck.
Harry shook his head. “Do they do hot chocolate?”

“I don’t know, let’s find out.”

“Wow,” Harry said when they walked into a towering atrium. Sunlight poured through the glass roof to create a play of light and shade on the brick floor. It reminded him of the Nasher Museum of Art, and Dad trying too hard and Harry not trying hard enough. When he got home, he would try hard enough.

“Imposing, isn’t it?” Annie said.

Harry craned his neck to look up and around, and then down. “Love the red railings.”

Annie smiled. “Come on.”

Ten minutes later, they sat on stools at the counter inside the café, and Harry sent Max another text.

here but you’re not

On my way, dude.

“What are you smiling at?” Annie asked.

“My friend uses perfect grammar in his texts. I don’t.”

“Life’s too short?”

He couldn’t help it; he thought of Mom. “Yeah, I guess. Thanks for the hot chocolate—and for taking the time to hang with me.”

“My pleasure,” she said. “I host visiting students all the time.”

Harry ransacked his backpack to find something to write on. Pulled out all kinds of shit, including his math notebook. He ripped out a few pages from the middle. “Do you mind if I write things down? I get wild squirrelly and forget stuff.” He started to doodle.

“Annie?” A voice came toward them, gaining momentum. Gaining force. “Annie!
Annie!
” The owner of the voice sounded pissed. “Why didn’t you meet me in the room?”

A big guy with a military haircut and a seriously puffy jacket that made him look all torso and no legs bore down on them. He was carrying a Styrofoam cup.
How unenvironmentally friendly.

“Hey.” Annie smiled, but it wasn’t a smile of happiness. Harry knew fear. He could read it, smell it, feel it, taste it from a mile off. Annie was scared of this guy. That wasn’t okay.

The guy frowned.

“Harry, this is Steve.” She said his name quietly, like it could sting.

“Her boyfriend,” the guy said.

“Hi.” Harry jumped up with his hand out, even though Steve seemed more of the hand-breaking than handshaking type. “I’m—” Without warning, his hand shot out in a tic, knocking Steve’s Styrofoam cup into the puffy jacket.

“What the fuck!” Steve jumped back. Coffee dripped down his front. Annie went pale; the café went quiet; you could hear people listening.

Annie was on her feet, too, rushing at Steve with a ton of paper napkins. She looked terrified. A girl should never be frightened of her boyfriend. Harry stood up straight. If only Max were here. Max would know what to do; Max would defuse this.

“It was an accident,” Annie said quickly. “Harry has—”

“Harry.” Steve snarled his name and lowered his face inches from Harry’s. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw the campus cop from the yard. Was it a coincidence, or was the guy stalking him? He really, really wished Max were here.

“What’s your problem? You a spaz or something?”

A spaz? A spaz!

“No, you moron.” It had been a long time since Harry had felt rage. Burning, I-will-kill-you rage. It came from nowhere. A sea of red; a wall of fire. “I am not a spaz. I have a neurological condition.”

Steve sneered. He
sneered
.

Harry lunged at Steve; Annie screamed. A blurred movement, a smashing sound, a gasp, voices. Rough hands grabbed him, pinned his arms behind his back.

“Take your hands off me!” Harry yelled. “Get your hands off me!”

“Calm down, son,” a deep voice said.

Harry’s leg shot backward in some weird, contorted tic and made contact with bone. It was like someone pushed a remote control button and all he could do was flail. His limbs began swinging to their own rhythm.

He was on the floor. Facedown on a dirty floor. Someone heavy was on top of him. Harry couldn’t stop ticcing. His shoulder was going to pop out of its socket.

“We have a kid out of control. Violent,” a man said, and a reply crackled through a walkie-talkie.
The cop?
“Yeah. Kicked me. Call 911.”

“No,” Harry screamed as loud as he could.

“He’s a fucking psycho,” said Steve.

“He is not,” Annie said. “He’s a visiting high school student.”

“He tried to kill me. He’s crazy.”

“He isn’t, he didn’t.” Annie started to cry. He’d made a girl cry. And he couldn’t stop ticcing. His head did the violent sideways tic and smashed against the floor.

“Calm down now, son. It’s a serious offense to hit a cop. Show’s over, everyone.” The cop leaned into Harry’s ear. “You’re coming with me.” His breath was rank with stale coffee; his body stank of sweat and cheap cologne. Harry nearly gagged.

Handcuffs clicked.

He was hauled to his feet. Everyone stared as if he were naked. He was used to people staring, but not like this, not like this. Voices blurred and the world turned slowly—images at the end of a kaleidoscope. He tried to open his mouth, tried to say,
I have Tourette syndrome.
Where were those cards he’d made up for the plane? His feet didn’t want to move. His legs gave way.

Again he was hauled up. The cop’s arm kept him upright. Without it, he would’ve fallen over. Tumbled to the floor like a piece of trash. Unwanted, thrown away. All he could think about was his bag. Dad had said not to leave things behind.

“My b-bag,” he stuttered.

“You might want to be quiet now. Let’s just get you out of here, and everyone can calm down.”

Annie picked up his backpack.

“What’s in the bag?” A second cop? Where did he come from?

Harry tried to speak, but it was too hard.
Woozy, so woozy . . .

“I’m pressing charges,” Steve called out.

“Steve, please let it go.”

“Let me handle this, babe. He’s a fucking psycho.”

“No,” Annie said. “I’m a witness. It was an accident.”

“Why don’t we take this somewhere quiet?” the cop said.

He was being hustled out. Max! Max was there in front of the Starbucks.

“What the fuck?” Max ran over. “What are you doing with my friend?”

“He assaulted a student and a cop.”

“He has Tourette syndrome. He sometimes lashes out involuntarily.”

“First time I’ve heard that one,” the cop said.

Legs felt all wobbly. Turned back to Max. “Get Dad.” The wall behind him was painted lime green. Bilious lime green . . .

“I feel—” Vomit spewed. Over the cop. Splat! Onto the brick floor. Splat! So much vomit. Like he was losing his insides.

“What the hell?” the cop said, jumping back.

And Harry went down.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Felix rifled through the mounds of papers on his desk, temper rising. Curt had been in here. The file he needed for his meeting with Robert was missing, and someone had rearranged his papers. This was not acceptable. No one touched his desk—including the complete wanker who was supposedly taking over his job. In the last week, he had discovered that Curt’s ambition did not match his ability. He had no patience for the details of a deal; he was not partnership material. Staying with the company would mean fixing Curt’s screwups seven days a week.

His mobile started ringing. Not a number he recognized.

“Felix Fitzwilliam,” he snapped and, balancing the phone between his head and shoulder, sifted through another pile of papers.

“Mr. FW, it’s me. Max. I got your number from Harry’s cell phone.”

“Max?” Felix stopped moving. “Is there a problem?”

“Harry’s on his way to the hospital with a concussion.”

“What!”

“Some fuckbag thought Harry’s tic was a punch, and some rent-a-cop came on heavy and he bashed his head—Harry, I mean, Harry bashed his head, and—” Max gulped. “He was out cold, Mr. FW. He’s in an ambulance and they won’t let me ride with him, but the other campus cop, the nice one, said he’d drive me over and that Harry probably has a concussion and he’ll be fine, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do, I—”

“Max. Take a deep breath. Is Harry conscious?”

“Yeah, yes!”

“Did he talk to you or anyone else after he came to?”

“I don’t think so. He puked like a geyser, and then he collapsed. Wait! I saw him talking to a medic when they put the stretcher in the ambulance.”

“Good, that’s good. How long ago did this happen?”

Sirens wailed at the other end of the phone.

“Minutes, Mr. FW. Minutes.”

“So he wasn’t out for long?”

“I guess not. It felt like ages, though. I’m just waiting for the nice cop to come back and drive me over. Harry threw up
everywhere
. And the fucking fuckbag asshole is mouthing off about pressing charges, and there’s this really cute girl involved, and they wouldn’t listen to me about the Tourette’s.” Max yelled the last bit. “Ella, I mean Mrs. FW, always said that if—”

“I can’t possibly get Ella on a plane, Max.” Felix slumped into his office chair.

“No, no! You don’t have to. Harry needs
you
, Mr. FW. That’s why I’m calling. The only thing he said before blacking out was ‘Get Dad.’”

Felix shot out of his chair and grabbed his car keys.

“When you know which hospital they’re taking him to, text me.”

Max sniffed.

“Can you do that, Max?” Felix slowed his voice down.

“Yeah.” Max sounded like a little boy. “What are you going to do, Mr. FW?”

“I’ll be on the first flight to Boston.” He glanced up at his clock. “When I was making your reservations, I saw a JetBlue flight at six. Assuming I can get a seat, I’ll be on that one. I should land around eight.”

Felix opened the office door and waved in Nora Mae. “I need you to be my eyes and ears until I can get there, Max. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good. Good lad. Now, when you get to the hospital and Harry is assigned a doctor, you’re going to call me again—on this number—and let me talk to the doctor.”

Nora Mae gave a small gasp.

“Okay,” Max said.

“Harry’s a minor. They need to talk with me about insurance, and I need to give them a list of his medications. I also need to tell them he has Tourette’s. I don’t want anyone thinking he’s an epileptic or trying to give him drugs without my permission.”

“Wait.” Max’s voice brightened. “I told the medic about the TS.”

“Brilliant. You did brilliantly. Now all you have to do is sit with him until I get there. Tell the doctors you’re his brother. I doubt they’ll question it. But do not leave his side.”

“Harry doesn’t like hospitals.”

“I know, but he has you. What is it he calls you? Max the Overlord? I officially dub you Max the Overlord, protector of Harry, until I can get there. You up for the challenge?”

“I’m on it, Mr. FW!”

“And Max?”

“Yo.”

“Not a word about this to your parents. I don’t want them to call the house and talk with Ella until I’ve figured everything out. Got it?”

“Got it.”

The burning rage came from nowhere. A sea of red; a wall of fire. Felix stared out of his sloping glass window into the deserted downtown street below. He needed to chain the monster until he could get to Boston. Then he would kill the person or persons responsible. Beat them to death with his bare hands.

Nora Mae touched his shoulder. “Harry?”

“Has a concussion.” Felix turned. “Book me on the next flight to Boston. Use the corporate credit card. If the only seat is in first class, book the ruddy thing. Check JetBlue first. I think there’s a flight at six. Tell Robert—”

“Tell Robert what?” Robert appeared in the doorway. He was jacketless with pinstripe shirtsleeves rolled back tightly. Never a good sign.

“Harry’s been in an accident.” Felix tossed files into his leather briefcase and then slotted in his laptop. “I’m going to Boston to get him. We’ll have to do this via conference call tonight.”

“You cannot be serious. Curt is completely out of his depth on this deal. Someone else will have to go to Boston.”

“And who do you suggest—my critically ill wife?”

At least Robert had the decency to blush.

Nora Mae scowled and said loudly, “I’ll go book that flight.”

“Thank you,” Felix called after her, and tugged on his coat.

“Seventeen-year-old boys get into accidents all the time. I’m sure he’s fine. You don’t have to rush off like some superhero.” Robert fiddled with his suspenders, and in that one second, Felix hated him in a way he had never hated anyone except Pater. Then Robert stood tall. “You can’t leave. It’s that simple.”

“No, I’ll tell you what’s simple,” Felix said with a calm he didn’t know he possessed. “My son needs me, and you are in my way. That gives you two choices. Either you step aside, or I will break your jaw.”

“But—but . . .” Robert flushed scarlet from the collar of his shirt up to his receding hairline.

“And now I’m going to ask you very politely to leave my office.” Felix selected Katherine’s number on his mobile. “While I make arrangements concerning my critically ill wife.”

“You’re going to reimburse me for that flight with interest,” Robert said as he marched out.

“Fine,” Felix said, and slammed the door.

Katherine answered on the first ring. “Hey.”

“Are you sitting with Ella?”

“I certainly am,” she said. “Do you want to speak to her?”

“No. Just listen and don’t react. Harry’s had an accident. He has a concussion, and I need to fly up to Boston.”

“Uh-huh.”

Good, Katherine understood.

“Tell Ella I have to pull an all-nighter at the office. She won’t be suspicious.”

“Uh-huh.” Katherine varied the pitch of her voice slightly.

“When I know what’s going on, I’ll call you, and we can decide what to tell Ella.”

“Excellent plan,” Katherine said cheerfully.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to put you in the middle again, but I don’t how she’s going to take this news, and there’s no point upsetting her when I don’t have the information.”

“Oh, don’t worry about us. We’ll rack up your bill on pay-per-view. Don’t work too hard.”

And she hung up.

He typed a text.

Thank you.

Bring our boy home safe. Don’t worry about Ella. I’ve got it covered.

Felix opened his door. “Nora Mae?”

She was tapping away on her computer. “No seats on the JetBlue flight, but I’m working on something else. Go to the airport. I’ll text you the flight details.”

Then she shooed him away without raising her head from the screen.

As he ran to the car, he called Ella’s friends in Boston and explained he would come by tomorrow to pick up the boys’ belongings. Then he broke every speed limit between his office and the airport.

Felix paced the overlit, overheated terminal that was strangely devoid of people. Not a peep from Max since a two-word text with the hospital name: Mount Auburn. Felix had never heard of it.

A little boy with a metal airplane that was not even remotely age-appropriate toddled up to join him at the window, and Felix glanced around the gate. Was the child unaccompanied?

“Look, Mommy!” A pudgy finger pointed at a jet landing on a distant runway.

“I see,” a young woman said, and resumed her phone conversation. How could she not be on high alert in a public place? How could she be so careless with her son’s safety? Felix watched over the child until he returned to his mother’s side, but even so, glanced back periodically to make sure he’d stayed put.

His mobile finally rang. “What have you got for me, Max?”

“Hang on, Dad,” Max said with heavy emphasis on
Dad
.

There was some mumbling and scuffling.

“This is Dr. Ramirez. Your rather insistent son won’t let me treat your other son until I’ve spoken with you.”

“Felix Fitzwilliam, Harry’s father. Harry is seventeen, has Tourette syndrome, ADHD, and anxiety that includes a phobia of hospitals and everything medical, which can lead to panic attacks. He takes Concerta and Ritalin for his ADHD and Klonopin as needed—up to two a day—for anxiety. How is he?”

“Other than a nasty bump to his head, I would say he’s doing well.”

“What’s his prognosis?”

“We’re assuming he has a concussion, but since he vomited and is having double vision, I would like to run a CT scan to make sure there’s no bleeding around the brain.”

“Is that possible?”

“Anything’s possible with a concussion.”

“I’m not sure how he’ll handle a CT scan. He’s claustrophobic. Can you delay it for three hours until I can get there?”

“No. That would not be wise.”

The airline employee at the gate called first-class boarding. Felix dashed forward, waving his boarding pass. “Can Max, his—um—brother, go in with him? Talk him through?”

“Of course.”

“Can I speak to Harry?” Felix said.

“Of course.” The guy was all business.

Felix walked onto the jet bridge. It seemed to sway as the vibrations of his footsteps filled the narrow space.

“Dad?” Harry’s voice sounded a long way off.

“Hey.” Felix swallowed. “How are you feeling?”

“Killer headache.”

“I’m boarding, so I’ll have to turn off my phone for a few hours. I haven’t figured out where the hospital is yet, but I should be there by nine. The doctor tells me you need a CT scan, but Max can go with you—do a song-and-dance routine to keep you amused.”

“’Kay. I’m really sorry. Is Mom, you know . . . ?”

“She doesn’t know, Harry. One thing at a time, okay?”

“’Kay.”

“Hazza?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

Felix hung up. He would not cry, not here in public with two flight attendants welcoming him onto the plane.

He began to cry.