The Perfect Son (34 page)

Oh dear, a fresh round of tears. Dad gave her the whole box of tissues this time. Then he looked at Harry as if to say,
No fucking clue, you?

“And I tried to come in earlier,” Annie continued through her sniffs. “But they wouldn’t let me, and then I bumped into your friend Max in the cafeteria. He brought me back here. I’m so sorry, Harry.”

Someone appeared in the doorway. Dad stood up; Harry gasped.

He might not be in uniform, but the old dude with really bad hair and a beer gut leaning in the doorway looked horribly familiar. “I was worried about you, kid. I wanted to see how you were faring.” He puffed out his chest and spoke to Annie. “Thank you, miss, for setting the record straight. I’ve written up the incident as a jealous boyfriend overreacting. And apologies to you, son, for not believing your friend when he told us you had Tourette’s. I can assure you I won’t be making that mistake twice.”

“Thank you,” Harry said.

“And I brought someone with me.” The cop reached back into the corridor. “Figured I’m not the only one who owes you an apology.”

“Steve,” Annie said, and held the tissue box to her chest like it was a bunch of garlic and her boyfriend was Dracula.

“What are you doing here?” Steve looked angry as fuck.

“So.” Dad made a strange smacking noise with his lips. “You’re Steve.”

Steve didn’t look so big and scary anymore. Definitely not Dracula. In fact, barely a cartoon bat from
Scooby-Doo
. He seemed to cower next to Dad, and almost lost his balance completely when Max pushed past him, saying, “Did I miss something?”

“Ah, welcome back.” Dad’s voice had lightened considerably. “No, you’re just in time to hear this young man apologize to Harry. I believe he called him a rather insulting name.”

Oh God.

“I’ll wait outside,” the cop said. “So I can take Steve back to campus when he’s done.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.” Dad smiled. “I’m going to keep him for quite a while.”

The cop shrugged and left.

“And you, young lady,” Dad continued, “need a boyfriend who isn’t a bully.”

“I’m not—” Steve said.

Dad held up his hand. “I believe it’s rude to interrupt, Steve, and I haven’t finished. Oh no, I have a great deal more to say. You see, I have no tolerance for bullies. First off, let me tell you what’s about to happen here. You are going to explain that you misread an innocent situation and, acting out of jealousy, made false accusations against Harry. Then you will apologize to him, and I will record the entire episode on my phone.” Dad’s grin was strangely malevolent. “This will be my proof of your wrongdoing. I’ll keep it somewhere safe, and if Harry should hear one squeak out of you again, if you track him down on social media, if you make another ridiculous false claim against him, I will post this on YouTube, right before I create a hugely embarrassing scandal about how Harvard treats kids with Tourette’s, with you at the center of my publicity campaign. Do we understand each other?”

“You tell him, Mr. FW.” Max nodded in the background.

“And when you have finished your apology, you will sit outside in the corridor—with me—and read an online article of my choosing about Tourette’s. Hopefully, this will penetrate your thick skull so that next time you encounter someone with Tourette syndrome, you can offer understanding, not dickish behavior.”

Steve’s face burned scarlet, but at least he had the sense to keep his mouth shut.

“Annie?”

“Yes.” She turned big cow eyes on Dad.

Please be nice, Dad.

“Thank you for all you did to help my son.”

She relaxed her shoulders. “You’re welcome.” Then she looked at Steve. “You know what? We’re done.”

“You’re dumping me,” Steve said, “because of a high school kid?”

Sirens wailed outside the window. More emergencies, and Harry longed for this one to just be over and done.

“I’m dumping you”—Annie looked at Dad—“because of your dickish behavior.”

“Dude, this just gets better and better,” Max said, rubbing his hands together.

“Annie, you can’t—” Steve said.

“Yes, I can. I should have done it a long time ago.” She kissed Harry’s cheek. “Thank you for showing me that I deserve better.”

Harry smiled and hoped he didn’t blush too much. She really was hot. Not as hot as Sammie, mind. He had so much to tell Sammie, but probably not this bit. Or the part about upchucking all over the Harvard Science Center.

Annie left and Steve seemed to shrink into himself. Harry stared down at his hands while Steve squirmed through a brief apology that ended with a dismissive sniff. Even Harry felt sorry for him—until Steve glanced at him with pure hatred. Dad had read the situation well.

“Now—” Dad put a hand on Steve’s shoulder and guided him to the door. “If you’ll step outside with me, we can begin your enlightenment.”

Max gave Dad a high five and then plopped down in the chair. As the door closed, he shoved his feet up on the bed. “That was a beautiful moment, man. And your dad? Fucking awesome.”

“Yeah.” Harry smiled. This time, his head didn’t hurt when he nodded. “He was, wasn’t he?”

FORTY-ONE

“Mom, I’m still fine.”
Just like I was still fine when you called half an hour ago.
“Better than fine, really. Dad’s been amazing. Yeah, I wish you could have seen him, too. Love you lots.” Harry hung up and watched Max slouch off to the restroom.

Beyond the huge glass panes, snow had begun to fall sideways. Blowing horizontally at the airport windows, firing like a spray of bullets from a giant Gatling gun. Dad continued to pace, his expression set in a scowl.

Their flight had just been delayed by another half hour. And Dad had become distant, shut down. Impossible to reach. Anxious, if Harry had to guess.

Bored. Harry was bored. Which was fan-fucking-tastic. He’d never been bored at a departure gate before. Tense, frightened, ready to puke, yes. But bored? Was this a glimpse into the world of normal? Shudder at the thought!

Dad didn’t look like he wanted conversation, but how Dad looked on the outside rarely reflected what was happening on the inside. One plus one didn’t always equal two. Math was not the answer to the problems of the universe. Max would disagree, of course, but Harry had always found math too logical. Too cold; too right versus wrong.

He should say something. Say anything. Act like a Brit and discuss the weather. He tugged out one of his earbuds. “Weather’s been total crap this year. Worst ever. I mean—a polar vortex? Isn’t that something from a disaster movie? And a Valentine’s Day ice storm?”

“I’m ready for spring. Snow in March?”

“Well, this is Boston, Dad.”

Dad came over and plonked down in the seat next to him. “Maybe you should stick with a college down south. Better winters.”

Harry smiled. That was a very Mom-ish comment. Totally un-Dad. Was Dad trying so hard to be like Mom that he had finally become her? Harry didn’t know, didn’t care. He liked this new Dad who could be scary as shit when he defended Harry’s honor, but also vulnerable. Harry liked vulnerable. Vulnerable, he could do.

Dad crossed his legs, but one of them kept moving back and forth in a quick metronome beat.

Harry put his hand on Dad’s leg. “You doing okay? You seem, you know, wound a bit tight.”

Dad leaned in toward Harry. “I hate delays.” He paused. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good.”

Actually, he was good. And strangely calm. Just as well, since the ER doc had said no Klonopin. Or maybe he’d been through so much in the last few days that there was nothing left to worry about. He’d done a college trip without Mom or Dad. He’d been on a plane and he’d been admitted to the hospital—all without his parents. Okay, so the whole thing had been a disaster of near-biblical proportions and he’d almost gotten arrested for assault and battery, but he’d done all those things and survived. And now he was going home. He’d practically lived a whole decade in the last two days. Best of all—he was proud of himself. Maybe he really was ready for the scary stage of life labeled “College.”

“I used to hate delays,” Harry said.

“How did you cope?”

“Music.” He pulled out his right earbud, put it in Dad’s ear, hit “Play.”

“‘Waterfront’ by Simple Minds.” Dad cocked his head. “It came out the year your grandfather died. After the funeral, Uncle Tom and I took a road trip down to Brighton Beach. We listened to that song over and over on the drive. Tom loved it.”

“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.