“I suppose.”
“So you didn’t really hide anything from her. Did you?”
Had Harry just outmaneuvered him? “We should leave in ten minutes.”
According to MapQuest, the singing teacher lived 3.4 miles from the Mad Hatter Café, and they needed a few extra minutes to park. How he’d been talked into voice lessons that cost fifty dollars a week was beyond comprehension. According to Ella, singing was another form of therapy, but surely they had spent enough over the years on the neurologist, the child psychologist, the psychiatrist, and the medications. For six months straight, when Harry had been taking a drug that didn’t exist in generic form and had to be ordered from Canada, his prescriptions had cost more than the mortgage. Much of Harry’s care had not been covered by health insurance. Certainly not the acupuncture and the biofeedback. Ella had become something of an expert in alternative medical treatments for Tourette’s. None of them had worked.
Harry jiggled from side to side, then drained his hot chocolate, literally holding the mug upside down for the last drop. Felix drummed his fingers on the table. If only he had emails to answer.
“Dad, did I thank you for my sandwich today?”
“No.”
“It was perfect. Thanks. But you don’t have to cut the crusts off. Really.”
“It wouldn’t be perfect with crusts on.”
“But I like crusts.”
“Then it wasn’t perfect, was it?”
Harry frowned. “Can we just leave this at ‘Thank you, I really appreciate what you did for me today’?”
Felix tried, and failed, to process the idea that a sandwich with crusts left on could be perfect. Mother had always insisted on crustless cucumber sandwiches made with soggy white bread.
“I . . . I also wanted to tell you that I’m canceling my birthday sleepover,” Harry said.
Felix sat up. What sleepover? Ella hadn’t put sleepover on his to-do list, and there had been no talk of a sleepover before the heart attack. Of course, he wasn’t even supposed to be in town this weekend. Had Ella and Harry planned something and not told him?
“It doesn’t seem right with Mom in the hospital, and it doesn’t seem fair to you.”
“What day was this planned for?”
“Friday night.”
Felix glanced at his watch. “How many boys are we talking?”
“Five. Plus me. And Ginny and Stella, who were going to be picked up by eleven. And I would’ve invited Sammie, but I guess it’s irrelevant now.”
Felix nodded and almost said, Too bloody right. Nine teenagers, and he couldn’t cope with one. But what if he could pull this off? Might it tie everything up with a bow? Might Ella accept that he’d fulfilled his promise? And if that happened, might the incessant worry about failure be replaced with a mission-accomplished mindset?
“You should invite Sammie.”
“What?”
“Harry, life has to go on. Mom would want you to do this. You’re only going to turn seventeen once.”
“Seriously?” Harry shot up; heads turned. Felix made the down-boy-down motion with his right hand.
“Okay! You’re the best, Dad. The best!”
“Harry,” Felix dropped his voice. “Please sit down.” People are staring.
“You’ll need to organize cake and pizza and lots and lots of soda!”
Felix regretted it instantly. “How much is lots?”