The Perfect Son (10 page)

EIGHT

At 5:30 a.m., Felix studied the daily and weekly to-do lists Ella had dictated over the phone the night before. Armed with color-coded guidelines, he felt marginally less like he was starting life over as an amputee.

Robert had not taken the news well. There had been much huffing and puffing on the other end of the phone line and a muttered comment about why Felix couldn’t be a normal dad and give his son a house key, a car, and a credit card, and “let him get on with it” while they went to Charlotte for the weekend. Felix tried to imagine what Harry getting on with it would mean.

He hadn’t expected sympathy from his partner, but tolerance would have been an acceptable response, as would a little faith that someone with such a highly developed work ethic as Felix could still deliver. Felix snapped the elastic band he’d slipped on his wrist the night before. Katherine had suggested it as a stress reliever. Bizarre as it sounded, she’d been right.

And he had to-do lists. To-do lists were good; Ella knew this. It was one of the many reasons that he had never doubted their marriage would work: she was a list maker, too.

He walked to the fridge and took out the required sandwich-making supplies.

Thank God she’d packed away the Christmas ornaments before flying to Florida. He knew only two things about Christmas decorations: they had to be hung by Christmas Eve and taken down by Twelfth Night. Mother had always insisted. Over the years, he had fallen into a habit of moving ornaments around while Harry, their tree decorator, slept. Neither Harry nor Ella had ever commented, but several times Felix had caught Ella staring at the tree with raised eyebrows.

Felix laced his hands together, twisted his palms heavenward, and stretched. Let day one of full-time fatherhood begin. First task: pack Harry’s lunch.

Harry had said he wanted a turkey sandwich, which, according to Ella, involved a smidgeon of mayonnaise spread on one side of the bread (white from that funny little bakery in Chapel Hill), turkey sliced so thin it was almost shaved (Whole Foods in-house roasted turkey), one crunchy—not limp—piece of iceberg lettuce, superthin Swiss cheese, and two rashers of bacon.

He and Harry had done a small shop at Whole Foods on the way home from school. Ridiculously overpriced, but Ella was big on organic fruits and vegetables. They all were, but really, could Harry’s brain chemistry detect the difference between a Pink Lady apple from Whole Foods and one from Harris Teeter? Still, they had picked up supper—barbecue ribs that had been quite tasty. Although a tad too salty.

Felix laid out everything on the counter.

The first sandwich didn’t look right, so he made a second. Then they both went in the bin, after he’d extracted the lettuce for the composter and the turkey for his own lunch. He moved on to sandwich number three.

Handling bread was rather disconcerting—Felix had given up carbs for his fiftieth birthday. He didn’t miss bread, but he did miss potatoes, especially Ella’s potatoes au gratin. He eyeballed the generic fat-free yogurt on the counter. His breakfast. Next to it, the horrifically expensive chocolate croissant for Harry. Surely Harris Teeter pastries were a perfectly acceptable substitute—and cheaper?

The third sandwich was satisfactory. Not overstuffed. Nice layers that worked. Paying attention to the position of the knife, Felix cut the sandwich down the middle, then sliced off one crust, turned it round, and sliced off the other. Repeated. After spearing both halves with toothpicks, he wrapped the sandwich in heavy-duty aluminum foil. Twice—to make sure it was properly secured and therefore able to withstand the abuse Harry heaped on his lunch box. After pausing to double-check Ella’s list, Felix added the organic apple, a bottle of water, a small Tupperware of baby carrots, and an individual bag of salt and vinegar chips that stimulated saliva and nostalgia for pub lunches.

Felix glanced at the clock. In two minutes, he would wake Harry. Perfect. He flicked on the kettle. This stay-at-home parent thing was much easier than he’d suspected.

Ten minutes later, he was standing in Harry’s bedroom, yelling, “Get out of bed! Now!” Harry, the little rotter, had gone back to sleep. Why had Ella not included that—
Make sure he gets up
—on the list?

“Five more minutes, Dad.”

“No.” Felix yanked back the duvet and slipped an ice cube down Harry’s T-shirt.

“What the fuck!” Harry shot out of bed.

“Your language is appalling.”

Harry grabbed at his back as if he were on fire. Then he stopped and threw the ice cube onto the carpet. “But you were torturing me.”

Felix’s head jerked up; he took a breath. Had he—had he tortured his son?

“It was just an ice cube, Hazza.” Was his voice shaking? Did Harry remember? Did Harry hate him? On the day Harry was born, Felix had sworn he’d never raise a finger against his son. But he had crossed that threshold once, just once. He must never do so again.

Harry scratched through his hair and yawned. He didn’t look traumatized, but then, as Felix knew only too well, it was hard to tell. Felix’s heartbeat returned to normal—for now.

“We’re leaving in twenty minutes. If you’re not dressed, I’ll take you in your pajamas. Do you have the folder for your voice lesson?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“And your bag is packed?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“And you printed out your English essay?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Breakfast in five. And please pick up that ice cube before it melts all over the carpet.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Harry said only two more words before they left: “Thank you.” And the moment they got in the car, he folded himself in half and went back to sleep.

Once they arrived at school, Felix had the pleasure of waking Harry in front of an audience of other parents. Competent parents who slid through the carpool lane like pros and deposited vanloads of little people plus backpacks, lunch boxes, and musical instrument cases in thirty seconds, tops. Parents who didn’t have to abandon their cars to leg it up the school steps after discovering their child’s lunch box sitting on the back seat. Tomorrow he’d forgo humiliation and the carpool lane, and park in one of the designated parking spots.

Felix was about to pull out of the parking lot when his mobile rang.

“Hey, it’s me,” Katherine said.

They were now well enough acquainted to identify themselves as
me
?

“What time are you going to the hospital today? I thought we could coordinate so we don’t overlap. Nothing personal, but with this killer deadline, I want to visit, chat with Ella, and get out.”

Interesting. He would never have pegged Katherine for someone with a professional work ethic. After all, she wrote bodice rippers. How much self-discipline could that involve? Felix tried not to imagine Katherine typing sex scenes. Did she plot them out or just let them happen? Maybe she got high first. Maybe that was why she smoked pot with Ella. Once, he’d caught them smoking inside the house. He’d never trusted Katherine after that.

“I thought I’d visit Ella now,” Felix said. “Then run errands before school pickup.”

“Excellent. I’ll work till four and go over there before dinner. So, Felix . . .”

Felix ground his teeth.

“You do know Ella’s friends are calling me incessantly, asking how they can help? Have you listened to any of the messages on your landline?”

“No and no.” Really, how did she expect him to know what Ella’s friends were up to? Ella was always reminding him of their names and how their lives intersected, but he’d never been interested.

“We need to come up with a system so people can help out.”

Yes—systems are good. No—people helping out is bad.

“I don’t need help, Katherine. I’ve got this covered.”

“You know that Ella is supermom on steroids, right?”

“Yes, I do know this about my wife.”

“And you know her life is all about Harry, twenty-four seven?”

“Yes, I am fully aware that my wife is a miracle worker. However, I have taken a leave of absence from the office and am confident that I’m more than capable of handling her job.” He glanced in his rearview mirror. “Katherine, I really need to hang up and drive.”

She gave a smoky laugh. Coming from anyone else, it would have been sexy. “How are your cooking skills?”

With a sigh, Felix turned left, drove back into the school parking lot, and parked.

“A bit rusty, but I was a bachelor for over a decade. I can cook.” Scrambled eggs on toast and English trifle counted, right? Tom had taught him the latter one Christmas as they drank an entire bottle of sherry, minus the healthy serving added to the trifle. And he’d just mastered crustless turkey sandwiches. “I’m sure cooking is like riding a bike.” Although he’d never learned how to do that, even at Oxford. Another secret no one knew.

“Then I’m going to organize a list of people to drop off meals every night this week.”

“Katherine, I don’t want—”

“This will give you one less thing to deal with and stop everyone from calling me.”

Ah, so it was really about Katherine. He might have guessed.

“I’ll make sure they know to leave the food in a thermal bag on the doorstep by six and to not ring the bell or otherwise engage with you,” she continued. “How about that? And I made a lasagna for you last night. I’ll drop it off after my hospital run.”

“I don’t eat pasta anymore.”

“Then pick out the pasta. Problem solved.”

“Are you taking the piss?”
Wow.
Where did that come from? He was reverting to Britishisms he hadn’t used in nearly two decades.

“Am I what?” Her voice hardened.

“English expression. To make fun of someone,” Felix spoke slowly.

“No. I’m not making fun of you. I’m presenting a solution that might enable you to enjoy a home-cooked meal that
you
didn’t have to prepare. And yes, I know Harry doesn’t eat mushrooms, so it’s fungus free. It’s a gift, Felix. Take it.”

Then she hung up before he could say, “What time shall we expect you?”

Crawling through traffic in the Brightleaf District, Felix stared at the giant Liggett & Myers Tobacco Company sign. The early lunch crowd, muffled up against the day’s windchill factor, drifted in and out of historic tobacco warehouses now filled with trendy shops and restaurants. The century-old red brick buildings always pulled him back into the past, into life before Ella. Not unlike London’s docklands, downtown Durham smelled of rejuvenation and reinvention. And survival.

Felix took a deep breath and turned right. When he’d left the hospital, he’d told himself he was going to run errands until school pickup, but that wasn’t true. Neither was he avoiding an empty house that resonated with Ella’s absence. Although that was partially true. No, he was navigating city streets that would lead him back to Harry. Even while listening to Dr. America explain that Ella was making slow, steady progress, Felix had been worrying about Harry. Quite simply, Felix could not move through his day, could not progress down his to-do list, until he’d reassured himself that he had not traumatized their son.

“You were torturing me.”

Felix turned onto the tree-lined residential street behind Harry’s school and formulated a plan. He would ring the doorbell, tell the school secretary he needed to give Harry an update on Ella, and take it from there.

He was pulling into the car park when sounds of recess assaulted him—the wild screams and explosive energy of children out of control. This changed everything. Suppose Harry was on the playground? Would he embarrass his son if he strolled across the gravel and said, “A word, Harry?” Felix reversed into a space under the spreading branches of a gnarled old oak, turned off the engine, and watched. It began spitting with rain. How very brutal to make children go outside when it was cold and drizzling. How very British.

Spotting Harry was easy. Other kids were in motion—chasing, jumping, shooting hoops—but there was something about Harry’s bobbing head that singled him out, that screamed,
I am not normal.
Felix tapped his palm. Was there a new, more complex element to Harry’s head tic that meant his son was indeed traumatized?

Wow.
Felix’s hand dropped to the steering wheel and he leaned forward for a better look.
Wait a minute.

A blond girl sitting next to Harry at the wooden trestle table edged sideways to whisper into his ear. She was extremely pretty. In fact, she and Harry made a handsome couple. At least his son was good-looking. Think how hard life would be if you had a face like Max’s. The girl touched Harry’s shoulder, and he turned toward her with a lovesick puppy grin. Felix felt his mouth flop open as if his jaw had magically unhinged. Why hadn’t Ella told him their son was besotted? What other secrets had she kept from him? Was Harry failing calculus, too?

Were Harry and this girl sexually active? Did he and Harry need a man-to-man talk about sexual responsibility? Felix tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

Harry dangled his arm behind his back and reached for the girl’s hand. They linked fingers in a way that suggested they were attempting to avoid detection. Being the product of a single-sex boarding school education, Felix had no point of reference for dating behavior on school grounds, but he could only assume this sort of activity was banned. Which probably explained why Max sat on the wall behind them, watching.