The Perfect Son (4 page)

FOUR

Felix pulled onto the freeway off-ramp and headed into Raleigh. Navigating narrow London streets might be a nail-biting exercise, but these grid-planned divided highways with rows of town houses and interchangeable strip malls were so contrived. So falsely happy. He and Harry could have been skirting the center of any city in America—trapped in a suburban prison with Ella beyond the razor wire.

He needed to meet with the cardiologist, investigate the man’s credentials, start the process of transferring Ella to Duke. Or Memorial in Chapel Hill. Or he could look into taking her back to England, to Papworth Hospital in Cambridge. Wasn’t that the best of the best? And phone calls—there were phone calls to be made: to Mother; Ella’s father; Katherine, who always looked at him sideways as if to say,
I know more about your marriage than you do.
And Robert; he should call his partner and say, what—I need a day off? He never took a day off. And what about Harry’s school?

“Could you slow down, Dad? I’m feeling carsick.”

“I thought you outgrew that when you hit double digits.”

“So did I,” Harry said.

Felix eased his foot off the accelerator, and the needle dipped from sixty miles per hour to forty-five. The last thing he needed was vomit inside his clean car. Or a speeding ticket. His right leg began to shake, making it almost impossible to keep pressure on the pedal. Should he be driving? Probably not. He glanced around. Where in God’s name were they? Had he taken the wrong exit? He knew how to get to Raleigh Regional. How could he be so incompetent? How could he fail his wife so abominably?

“You do know where we’re going, right?” Harry said.

Be quiet, Harry. I need to think.

“Want me to figure it out?”

“No.” How had he managed to screw this up and get them lost?

Harry was messing with his phone. “I see what you did.” He bounced in his seat—kinetic energy barely contained by a seat belt. “Easy to fix. Turn right here. Here, Dad. Here!”

“I’m turning round, Harry.”

“No, you don’t have to. We’re so close. Look!”

Harry waved his phone in front of Felix.

“Harry, I’m driving.”

“But we’re super close and we can be there in like two minutes. It’s a shortcut!”

“I don’t want to take a shortcut, Harry. I want to turn round and put us back on the road we’re meant to be on.”

Harry jolted forward, nose almost touching the windshield. “Hospital Drive! Turn right—the next right. Please?” He cleared his throat multiple times. “For once, Dad, can you just trust me?”

But Harry didn’t understand. This wasn’t about trust; this was about making the best decision. Decisions flew out of Harry’s mouth the second they entered his brain. He didn’t agonize, didn’t edit, didn’t weigh pros and cons to reach a responsible, informed course of action. He did whatever his mother suggested he do, which was the real reason Felix had to take control of the college applications.

If he could just read the damn street signs . . . Traffic shot past, cars driven by people who knew where they were going. Felix slowed to thirty miles per hour, and the person behind blared a horn. They should be on their way to Raleigh Regional, and instead they were stuck on some never-ending dual carriageway. Felix glanced in the rearview mirror. The huge pickup truck behind moved up almost to the Mini’s bumper, flashed its lights, and tore past.

Felix felt nothing, not even a flicker of his usual road rage.

“There’s nowhere for a U-turn.” Felix dug around in his pocket and located the Pepto-Bismol. Wait. He’d already taken two, hadn’t he? Focus, he must focus. His stomach gurgled.

“We don’t need to retrace our steps, Dad.” Harry’s voice was quiet and flat. “Take the next right. I can get us there.”

What the hell? It wasn’t as if they had many options right now. Besides, there was a BP gas station up ahead. He could turn around in there. BP, British Petroleum. If he believed in omens, which he most definitely did not, that would mean something.

Felix flicked on the indicator and maneuvered.

“There it is, Dad. On the left—Raleigh Regional!”

Dammit, Harry’d been right.

“Should I spot signs for the ER? Is that where we go? You think Mom’s in the ER?”

“I don’t know, Harry. I swear, I don’t know.”

“I think we need the ER, Dad.”

This time, Felix listened to his son.

A gust of January wind roared in their faces as they trekked across the hospital car park.

“I’m calling Max,” Harry said.

Felix nodded. The rain had turned into hard nuggets of frozen precipitation that battered the tips of his ears. Should he call someone? If Tom were still alive, he would have called Tom. Even when they were children, his brother knew what to say, knew how to comfort.

He could call Saint John, his friend from Eton days.
God, I hate having to explain his name is pronounced Sinjun
.
Will I ever stop feeling like an alien in this country?
Should he call Saint John? No, no, it was nine English time. Far too late to disturb on a Sunday evening. There was no one else.

“’S me.” Harry sniffed into his phone. Felix glanced round to see if anyone was listening. “Mom’s in the hospital. She got sick on the plane.” Harry paused to tic. “They think it’s her heart. Yeah, I’m really scared. Shitting myself. Doesn’t sound good.” Another sniff, this one louder. “Would you? Okay. I’ll call when I know what’s going on. Love you, man.”

Harry pocketed his phone. “Max is coming over when we get home.” He continued snuffling as they walked toward the brightly lit “EMERGENCY” sign.

“Would you like a tissue, Harry?”

Harry shook his head, then wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He stopped as the door whooshed open. “I-I don’t know if I can do this.”

I don’t know if I can, either.
Felix hadn’t been inside a hospital since Tom’s last months.

Felix was six; he was standing in Pater’s study with his legs crossed. (He really, really needed the loo.) Pater was grilling him on capital cities, making sure Felix was ready for his school interview, ready to follow in the footsteps of four generations of Fitzwilliam men: Shrewsbury House until he was old enough for Eton. Mother had already bought the tuck box and the trunk with his initials on the top. Failure was not a possibility. He had to succeed—had to—because if he didn’t, he couldn’t be with Tom for his final year before Eton. If only Tom were here now. Tom had magical powers. He always knew when Felix was alone in Pater’s study. Always knew when to burst in. Pater couldn’t get mad at Tom because Tom was Mother’s favorite. And strong. He had big muscles from those weights he lifted.

Who cared that Tom was Mother’s favorite? Not Felix. He was Tom’s favorite, and that was all that mattered. When he was grown up at twelve—double digits!—he was going to be just like Tom. Tom was always laughing about being in detention. Nothing scared Tom. Nothing! Not even Pater. If Tom were here, Felix could be as brave as a World War I soldier in the Battle of the Somme.

He really needed the loo.

The curtains were drawn; it was dim and stuffy. Pater’s green leather chair looked black. Everything looked black. How could Pater work in here with so little light and the gas fire turned up high? The room stank of stale cigars; the overhead light flickered. Felix shivered. The boys in his class were always making up scary stories about hell, but Felix didn’t have to use his imagination. He knew what hell looked like.

He stared at Pater’s blotter, covered in splodges of black ink like dried bloodstains, and backed up into the bookcase. He didn’t want to think about the last time he’d been in here alone.

Pater raised his voice; Felix’s tummy felt all growly. His fingers were slippery, too. He tapped his palm, which he always did when he was anxious. Pater called it his annoying habit, but it always made Felix feel better and reminded him to not suck his thumb, which no one but Tom knew he still did. Sometimes he dug his fingernails into his palm hard. Hurt loads, but it stopped him from raising his thumb to his mouth.

The capital of Finland? Pater slammed his hand down on the blotter.

Felix knew this! Too hard, though, to remember everything: the sequence of his annoying habit, the capital of Finland . . . Too late. Thumb at his mouth. Quick! Think, Felix. Chew nail! Yes, chew nail. See. I’m not a baby!

I’ve told you a thousand times, Felix. Keep those bloody hands still. You’re not some nervous little girl. Or are you? Are you another fairy, like your brother?

What did Pater mean? Tom was a boy, not a fairy.

Take that thumb out of your mouth! Pater’s face was red.

Felix screwed his eyes shut. Capital of Finland, capital of Finland.

Helsinki! he called out, but it was too late. He was always too late. Pater was going into the locked drawer at the bottom of his desk.

No. Daddy, no.

Bend over.

Helsinki, Daddy, Helsinki!

You know the routine.

He was crying and tapping his palm and all he wanted was to suck his thumb. He couldn’t run away. He was jammed up against the bookcase. Trapped.

Pater moved out from behind the desk. He tightened his grip on the riding crop.

Please. I’ll work hard. I’ll get rid of my annoying habit. I will. I don’t mean to be “the big disappointment.”

Take your trousers down, and your underwear. Bend over. Pater’s voice was cold and hard.

No.

Pater stopped and panted as if he were a bull about to charge. And Felix couldn’t help it, he wet himself.

Everything happened fast. He was on the floor, facedown on the stinky old Oriental rug. He screamed, but the house was empty. No one would hear him; no one would rescue him. Mother was away for the weekend; Tom was off with friends.

Pater tugged at Felix’s trousers. The whip cracked.

Pain sliced him in two.

Another crack, another. Would Pater kill him this time?

The door crashed open.

Get off my brother. Get off! You ever touch him again, and I’ll call the police. Right after I tell Mother and Grandmother.

Scuffling and chaos followed, but Felix kept his eyes shut tight. He couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but cry. His legs were cold and wet; his bottom was on fire.

Tom was lifting him up. His hero, his savior.

He would never love anyone the way he loved Tom.

Felix gasped for air.

“You okay, Dad?”

“Yes.” Felix stabbed his left palm with his fingernails. Again and again, until his hand was pockmarked with pain. “I have to go inside. You can come with me, or you can wait in the car.”

“For real, Dad?”

“I can’t baby you through this, Harry. I’m not your mother, I—”

“Why d’you think I called Max?” Harry said, and strode past him through the open door. Then he stopped in the foyer, his body writhing, jerking, contorting, dancing to the weird tempo Harry alone understood.