“Am I what?” Her voice hardened.
“English expression. To make fun of someone,” Felix spoke slowly.
“No. I’m not making fun of you. I’m presenting a solution that might enable you to enjoy a home-cooked meal that you didn’t have to prepare. And yes, I know Harry doesn’t eat mushrooms, so it’s fungus free. It’s a gift, Felix. Take it.”
Then she hung up before he could say, “What time shall we expect you?”
Crawling through traffic in the Brightleaf District, Felix stared at the giant Liggett & Myers Tobacco Company sign. The early lunch crowd, muffled up against the day’s windchill factor, drifted in and out of historic tobacco warehouses now filled with trendy shops and restaurants. The century-old red brick buildings always pulled him back into the past, into life before Ella. Not unlike London’s docklands, downtown Durham smelled of rejuvenation and reinvention. And survival.
Felix took a deep breath and turned right. When he’d left the hospital, he’d told himself he was going to run errands until school pickup, but that wasn’t true. Neither was he avoiding an empty house that resonated with Ella’s absence. Although that was partially true. No, he was navigating city streets that would lead him back to Harry. Even while listening to Dr. America explain that Ella was making slow, steady progress, Felix had been worrying about Harry. Quite simply, Felix could not move through his day, could not progress down his to-do list, until he’d reassured himself that he had not traumatized their son.
“You were torturing me.”
Felix turned onto the tree-lined residential street behind Harry’s school and formulated a plan. He would ring the doorbell, tell the school secretary he needed to give Harry an update on Ella, and take it from there.
He was pulling into the car park when sounds of recess assaulted him—the wild screams and explosive energy of children out of control. This changed everything. Suppose Harry was on the playground? Would he embarrass his son if he strolled across the gravel and said, “A word, Harry?” Felix reversed into a space under the spreading branches of a gnarled old oak, turned off the engine, and watched. It began spitting with rain. How very brutal to make children go outside when it was cold and drizzling. How very British.
Spotting Harry was easy. Other kids were in motion—chasing, jumping, shooting hoops—but there was something about Harry’s bobbing head that singled him out, that screamed, I am not normal. Felix tapped his palm. Was there a new, more complex element to Harry’s head tic that meant his son was indeed traumatized?
Wow. Felix’s hand dropped to the steering wheel and he leaned forward for a better look. Wait a minute.
A blond girl sitting next to Harry at the wooden trestle table edged sideways to whisper into his ear. She was extremely pretty. In fact, she and Harry made a handsome couple. At least his son was good-looking. Think how hard life would be if you had a face like Max’s. The girl touched Harry’s shoulder, and he turned toward her with a lovesick puppy grin. Felix felt his mouth flop open as if his jaw had magically unhinged. Why hadn’t Ella told him their son was besotted? What other secrets had she kept from him? Was Harry failing calculus, too?
Were Harry and this girl sexually active? Did he and Harry need a man-to-man talk about sexual responsibility? Felix tightened his grip on the steering wheel.