He briefed Curt on the upcoming meeting for Life Plan, the hundred-million-dollar deal that would allow their client to buy a Research Triangle Park company on the cutting edge of medical device invention: 3-D organ printing. Would computers one day be able to create digital hearts? Curt’s final comment, “I’ve got your back, Felix,” was not reassuring. When he’d hired Curt, he’d been attracted to the young man’s ability to schmooze. Felix hated that word and everything it implied, but Curt’s social charm kept people calm during deals. It had worked well for both of them: Felix handled the numbers; Curt handled the people. But an industry filled with money and greed generated its own healthy supply of sniveling weasels, and Felix didn’t trust anyone—including Curt.
Should he go into work and keep an eye on his overly ambitious assistant? Should he go home and fold laundry? Do a food shop? How did one fill a Monday stripped of routine? He had been yanked out of his world and dumped into one with alien vocabulary: MIs, stents, fatherhood.
He pulled onto the road and headed toward the interstate, his mind circling two questions: What was Ella hiding? And why had Dr. Beaubridge been in her room half an hour ahead of schedule?
A signpost sped past and Felix cursed himself out loud. What a twit—he was on I-40 going east, not west. Above, clouds drifted like icebergs floating away from the shore. He was floating away from the shore, without a lifeboat. Without his wife, he couldn’t even find his way home.
Of course. Felix thumped the steering wheel. He would do what he and Tom always did when they needed to escape: drive until the land ran out. Brighton Beach was a straight shot from London; Wrightsville Beach was at the end of I-40 east. No more than two hours away. If he found the ocean, maybe he would find Tom’s wisdom.
“Come on, baby brother,” Tom used to say. “We’re going to drive until we hit the sea. Then it’ll all make sense.”
Life had been so easy for Tom—until the end.
As he drove southeast, Felix left behind the urban sprawl, and the speed limit switched to seventy. Forest stretched out on either side of the empty, straight highway. Tom would have loved this road. He would have played their escape song, “Rebel Rebel” by David Bowie. Tom had songs for everything—a soundtrack for life. Felix lived without melody.
The Mini zoomed past a dead hawk on the verge. One wing was raised, and its tawny feathers ruffled in his backdraft. Briefly, Felix imagined the bird taking flight like a phoenix.
For the next hour, his speed didn’t vary while his mind tumbled through disjointed thoughts. Did Ella want to be cremated or buried near her mother? Someone should rewrite the marriage service, elaborate on till death do us part, because a husband should know his wife’s thoughts about death and the hereafter. He should have asked Ella to explain her final wishes years ago. Why hadn’t he? Was this another failure as a husband? And why was he thinking about death? His wife wasn’t dying. But what she was asking of him was a serious threat to his life. She might as well have said, “Stand still while I practice being a knife thrower.”
The sun cast jagged peaks of shade across the empty lanes. No one was heading to the beach on a blustery January day. Turkey vultures circled random splatters of road kill—unidentifiable chunks of raw meat. And still Felix drove.
When Harry was finally diagnosed, Ella had handed out a pass from fatherhood, and Felix had snatched it up. He had chosen to walk. After all, if you had no hope of doing something well, of being the best, why would you even enter the race? And who could argue with his reasoning? Harry was an expensive child; Felix needed to be an above-average breadwinner. Caught in a web of thoughts, Felix tried to imagine the smell of salt air, tried to rewind his memories to find Tom.
One night, as they had sprawled on the pebbly beach at Brighton, watching stars, Tom handed him a small green bottle of Gordon’s gin. Felix got drunk for the first time—hammered at fifteen. Tom, however, stayed vigilant and sober. Whatever their parents thought, Tom had always been the responsible sort. He’d just hidden it really well.
How different would this current situation with Ella be if Tom had survived? Tom would have jumped on a plane, would have taken charge, would have made Harry laugh. Tom would have been a natural father.