“Sorry—I was on the phone with Sammie. You’re home, Mom. You’re home!” He gripped her so tightly that she could hardly breathe. But what did she care? She would never let go.
They clung to each other, and for the first time since he had been born, she had nothing to say to him. Then Harry began to jerk. Not a serious tic, but bad enough to break the hug. Ella pulled back, sniffed, and smiled. Harry sniffed too. He touched her right cheek softly, then her left. He was finding his balance.
“You look—” he said.
“Like three-month-old roadkill?”
“No! I was going to say a helluva lot better than when I saw you in the hospital.”
The contrast between them must be horrific. Photos never captured Harry’s beauty: those huge hazel eyes; those sculpted cheekbones; those full lips; those white teeth that had never needed braces; that thick mop of hair, naturally streaked, that was neither too curly nor too straight. Michelangelo could not have constructed a more perfect man-child. Genetics had been so kind—and so cruel.
Harry grimaced and blinked, grimaced and blinked. “I’m making dinner tonight. Dad said I could.”
“Let me guess—french toast?”
“Mooom.” Harry’s shoulders slumped dramatically. “How did you know?”
“You’ve been practicing. I can smell it.” She breathed through a wave of nausea.
“Yeah, I wanted to get it right, so I did a practice run. But I can do omelets if you’d like, with cheese and peppers and onions.”
“I’m impressed.” She wobbled again, and suddenly Felix was there, his arm around her waist.
“You’ve overdone it,” he said, his voice weary. “Harry, let your mother lie down. Don’t bombard her.”
Harry’s huge smile twitched from side to side.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. I just don’t have my energy back. Not yet, not—” She couldn’t disguise the hitch in her voice.
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Harry glanced to Felix and back again, and started cracking his knuckles. She’d forgotten how the sound grated. She tried not to flinch, but Harry never missed a trick.
“Sorry,” he mumbled again.
Now it was her turn to touch his face, but she held it firmly with both hands, keeping her gaze level as he grimaced and blinked, grimaced and blinked. “French toast would be divine, my amazing son.”
“I love you, Mom. I’m so glad you’re home.”
“Love you too.” She wanted to say more, but words wouldn’t form. Then she kissed his cheek, and with Felix guiding her, shuffled toward their bedroom.
She was asleep the moment she lay down.
Ella awoke sharply, heart pounding, chased by the edges of a dream she couldn’t quite remember. Every waking moment, she was anxious; every sleeping moment, she was afraid. Afraid to live, afraid to die.
Where was she? In the hospital room? No, there was no artificial light glaring at her, and the cloud of pillows and bedding was too soft. She was home in her own bed. This—she tugged the duvet up to her chin—this she had missed.
Banging came from the kitchen, and light suddenly filtered under the door. Someone had turned on the hall lights. Harry started singing, his voice angelic enough to impress even Felix. Ella had no idea where this talent came from—certainly not from his unmusical father. Maybe it was divine compensation.
“Hey, Dad. Did you hear how long I held that note?”
“Indeed.”
Ella screwed up her eyes. Don’t criticize, Felix. Don’t criticize.
“But let’s keep it down so we don’t disturb your mother.”
“How long will she sleep?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can I go see if she’s awake?”
No. Please don’t. What was wrong with her? What the hell was wrong with her? How could she not want to see Harry? Her heart rate picked up. She lay still, on high alert. Had she overdone it? Should she call Felix? Did she need to go back to the hospital?
“No, Harry,” Felix said. “Leave her be until supper is ready.”