“Good.”
Total lie. One look at her, and you’d think she was going through chemo. Everything about Mom had slowed to fragile, even her speech. She was in far worse shape than Sammie’s dad. He was doing pretty well. Had even picked up some freelance work. Sammie wasn’t sure how she felt about that—said it gave the family false hope.
“How was school today?”
“Usual. Tons of homework.” Harry stopped mid–knuckle crack. Dad had been on his case about how annoying it was. Harry was trying to stop; honest, he was. It was just—well, half the time he didn’t realize he was doing it.
Mom tried to pull herself up in the chair.
“Wait!” Harry grabbed a pillow, puffed it up, and stuffed it behind her back.
“Thank you, sweetheart. Something on your mind?”
“Can we talk?”
“I thought that’s what we were doing.” A flash of Mom humor. Most excellent. Unlike the Owen family, the Fitzwilliams had hope. Hope by the truckload!
Harry threw himself down on the bed. “Does Dad ever get mad at you?”
“Only when he thinks I’m wearing a path in the carpet from our bed to the bathroom door.” She raised her eyebrows. “Why? Did you guys have a fight?”
“Nope.” That sounded so lame, but he and Dad had agreed to keep everything stress-free for Mom. No way must she know about their bust-up. He and Dad were sort of okay, but it was hard to shake the specter of Dad hunched over his laptop reading Sammie’s love notes.
Harry’s elbow flapped. Lying to Mom was the worst. “We have a date to talk about college and, you know, I was hoping you could tell me what the magic is for dealing with Dad.”
“Ah.” She smiled, but it looked phony. “There is no magic, Harry.”
“But there must be. You found it.”
“I accept that Dad has certain ways of handling life. He’s a deeply compassionate man who needs everything to be a certain way.”
“Don’t you think it’s darker than that, Mom—like levels of craziness?” Harry started rubbing his palms back and forth along the duvet. Back and forth.
“Your father isn’t crazy. He has control issues, but that’s a small part of who he is. Look at the whole, Harry, otherwise you miss the good stuff.”
Harry sprang up onto the balls of his feet. Either Mom had seen God in the ER or they were giving her too many pills. Where was the person who used to mutter about Dad being self-centered when he was a no-show for dinner because another deadline had preempted family time?
“Dad comes from a deeply dysfunctional family—you know this. What you don’t know is that your grandfather was abusive. Even I’m not familiar with the details, but your father has scars. Physical as well as emotional.”
“I know. I mean, I don’t, not really, but I kinda guessed . . .”
Oh no, was she going to cry? He couldn’t make her cry. Mom never cried. Except for that day he’d visited her in the hospital. And he’d been crying, so it had been monkey see, monkey do. Harry grabbed the tissue box off her nightstand, jumped up, and handed it to her. She waved it away.
“You don’t expect people to judge you by your attention issues, Harry. You can’t judge Dad by his control issues.”
Harry turned one way, then the other. “Has he talked to you about the college tour?”
“College tour?” Mom frowned.
“Spring break college tour. He’s planning the Northeast Ivy League blitz attack.”
“He is?”
“He hasn’t said anything to you about it? Nothing?” This was not good, very not good. If Mom didn’t have his back with this shit, who was going to derail Dad from the Harvard plan?
“Not that I remember, but I have a hard time staying focused these days.”
“I know, Mom. I get the whole focus issue better than most people.”
“Sorry. Of course you do.”
Harry almost said, Who are you, and what have you done with my mom?
Somewhere in the house, Katherine laughed.