“This is Dr. Ramirez. Your rather insistent son won’t let me treat your other son until I’ve spoken with you.”
“Felix Fitzwilliam, Harry’s father. Harry is seventeen, has Tourette syndrome, ADHD, and anxiety that includes a phobia of hospitals and everything medical, which can lead to panic attacks. He takes Concerta and Ritalin for his ADHD and Klonopin as needed—up to two a day—for anxiety. How is he?”
“Other than a nasty bump to his head, I would say he’s doing well.”
“What’s his prognosis?”
“We’re assuming he has a concussion, but since he vomited and is having double vision, I would like to run a CT scan to make sure there’s no bleeding around the brain.”
“Is that possible?”
“Anything’s possible with a concussion.”
“I’m not sure how he’ll handle a CT scan. He’s claustrophobic. Can you delay it for three hours until I can get there?”
“No. That would not be wise.”
The airline employee at the gate called first-class boarding. Felix dashed forward, waving his boarding pass. “Can Max, his—um—brother, go in with him? Talk him through?”
“Of course.”
“Can I speak to Harry?” Felix said.
“Of course.” The guy was all business.
Felix walked onto the jet bridge. It seemed to sway as the vibrations of his footsteps filled the narrow space.
“Dad?” Harry’s voice sounded a long way off.
“Hey.” Felix swallowed. “How are you feeling?”
“Killer headache.”
“I’m boarding, so I’ll have to turn off my phone for a few hours. I haven’t figured out where the hospital is yet, but I should be there by nine. The doctor tells me you need a CT scan, but Max can go with you—do a song-and-dance routine to keep you amused.”
“’Kay. I’m really sorry. Is Mom, you know . . . ?”
“She doesn’t know, Harry. One thing at a time, okay?”
“’Kay.”
“Hazza?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“Love you too, Dad.”
Felix hung up. He would not cry, not here in public with two flight attendants welcoming him onto the plane.
He began to cry.
THIRTY-NINE
Flying—definitely on a par with an unmedicated root canal. Silently, Felix cursed the Wright brothers and anyone else involved in the invention of flying. Man was not meant to leave the ground. And flying at night was the worst. Unless it was the overnight flight to England, and you could see dawn streaking out of the blackness, bringing the hope of morning. Felix glanced around the businesswoman in the window seat next to him. There was nothing but solid night outside the window. No city lights below, no lights from the plane. They were suspended in darkness.
He finished his whisky in one gulp, but even the warm buzz couldn’t obliterate the image of an underpaid cop manhandling Harry. Felix sank back into his seat, heart pounding faster than Ella’s defective one.
Could the plane not speed up?
He’d paid to use the Internet, not something he usually did, but he needed to stay connected. If nothing else, he could research the hospital, make sure the staff was competent. He scrolled through his email: one from Robert with no subject. Felix ignored it.
Could the plane not speed up?
What if Harry had brain damage? The British actress Natasha Richardson had barely bumped her head during a skiing lesson, had seemed fine, and then had died of an epidural hematoma. He logged onto the Web and started a Google search: CT scan + brain. Then he closed his laptop and flagged down the flight attendant for a second whisky. First class had its perks, provided you chose not to think about cost.
Felix raked his fingers through his hair, and his neighbor turned toward him. He closed his eyes on her. Don’t even think about asking what’s wrong.