“A fabulous age.” Three-year-old Harry had been all boy, all energy, all the time. Admittedly he’d been more energetic than anybody else’s kid, and there hadn’t been many repeat playdates. And yes, the president of the preschool PTA had publicly denounced Ella’s parenting skills after Harry had charged into the table at the annual ice-cream social and destroyed all the ice cream. But at three, Harry hadn’t been branded or bullied; he hadn’t become the Tourette’s Kid, also known as “Jerky” to less sympathetic classmates.
“My son’s a junior in high school,” she said. Although if six-foot Harry were with them, he would be squirming worse than a kindergartner trapped inside on a rainy day. Plastic seats triggered his sensory issues. The ones on short-haul flights such as these were the worst. And then—because how could she not share?—she leaned toward her seatmate.
“He just scored two eight hundreds on the SATs. Perfect scores in critical reading and writing.”
“Impressive.”
Doubly impressive given the neurological disorder that doesn’t play nice with stress and the ADHD thrown in for shits and giggles. Plus the quirks that come from a patchwork of other diagnoses.
The guy fiddled with his wedding ring. “I’m dreading the teenage years.”
“Don’t. They’re loads of fun. I have the best conversations with Harry—that’s my son—but he still has a little kid’s sense of wonder. I can’t wait to see him at the airport.”
She and Harry? Their lives had been soldered together by the rainbow of special needs. Five whole days they’d been apart! They’d never been separated that long before.
“He sounds like a very special guy.”
“He is.” The two years of rage attacks that had destroyed furniture and left holes in drywall didn’t count. The à la carte menu of Tourette syndrome could offer up anything except choice.
The plane held a steady path, and people fidgeted in collective relief. Her neighbor, the good father, retrieved a Tom Clancy novel from the seat pocket and began to read. Soon they would start their descent into Raleigh-Durham, and when they landed, Harry would rush toward her with arms akimbo and deliver a Harry hug. He was the best hugger.
Ella sank back into her seat. Maybe she just needed a break from family stress. The last week had brought such guilt—juggling her dad’s need for a postsurgical dose of daughter love with abandoning Harry to Felix. Although technically Felix had been the parent in charge for less than twenty-four hours, since Harry had been staying with his friend Max while Felix bashed out the prospectus for some bond issue. According to Felix’s business partner, Felix was “a friggin’ rock star at bringing together a syndicate of underwriters.” A syndicate. Amazing how the world of corporate finance co-opted the language of organized crime.
The muscles in her chest clenched as if squeezing through a contraction; she gasped.
“Heartburn getting worse?” her neighbor said.
Pain shot between her shoulder blades, scorching a path along her bra line. “Uh-huh.”
She was sweating now. Not heartburn, then. Did she have a fever? She felt her forehead. Clammy. Had she picked up the flu?
She never got sick. Not since she’d quit smoking and started exercising daily. She watched her salt intake, kept an eye on her blood pressure . . . and she’d had her cholesterol checked only last month. Given her family history, she had no choice but to be vigilant. Maybe it was just menopausal crap. The last few days in Fort Lauderdale, she’d been sweating enough for a whole mob of middle-aged women.
I am not sick, I am not sick, I am not sick.
She couldn’t get sick. Not right before Harry’s birthday and the weekend college trip she’d planned to Asheville. And what if she’d passed on germs to her dad’s caregiver? Or to her dad? He was still going to physical therapy to build up his muscles, to break through the scar tissue, to get the new knee working. He couldn’t get sick. She couldn’t get sick.