“He’s not worth remembering.”
The room seemed to shrink. Felix wasn’t sure he could breathe. Would Harry have the identical conversation with his own son one day? My father’s not worth remembering.
“I need to tell you something.” Felix sat on the foot of the bed, his back to Harry. “On the day you were born, I vowed I would never raise a hand against you. But when you were a toddler, I broke that vow. I smacked you across the back of the knees. It only happened once, but that’s not an excuse. I’ve never forgiven myself.”
“I probably deserved it,” Harry said, the tone of his voice suggesting a smile. “I was a lot to deal with, even then.”
“Never say that. No one deserves to be hit. It was wrong and I knew better. But sometimes anger is the only emotion I understand.”
“I nearly hit Mom once.” Harry crackled his knuckles, and Felix turned sharply. “I mean, I don’t think she realized. It was during the rage attacks, and I had my softball bat in my hand. The rage was burning me up. And I-I nearly took a swing at her.”
Felix put his hands on the bed for support; they sank into the duvet. “But you didn’t.”
“No, and the rage attacks stopped soon after. But the knowledge of what I might have done was terrifying. I was this close to complete loss of control.” Harry sat up and pinched his thumb and index finger together.
“Those rage attacks,” Felix said. “I always thought they came from me, from my DNA.”
“A lot of Tourette’s kids have them, Dad.”
“Do you remember much from back then?”
Harry hugged his knees. “Bits. It was like a different me. I was angry all the time, and when I wasn’t angry, I was a hot mess of guilt. I would hear Mom crying and think I was the worst kid. You never cried, though. That made me feel better.”
“Seriously?”
“You didn’t get sucked in. It’s like you were this force of control. Everything I wasn’t, but needed. Does that make sense?”
Felix didn’t dare say anything, couldn’t risk ruining the moment.
“I would come out of my room after I’d trashed it and be totally freaked out by what I’d done, but the rest of the house would be, you know, orderly and predictable. Everything as it should be.”
“Part of me understood that rage, Harry. I have blind anger. So did your grandfather.”
“Dad, did your father ever hit you?”
Felix turned away from Harry and faced his reflection in Ella’s full-length mirror. His father’s eyes stared back. Cold. Hateful.
He whipped me. Like a dog.
Once, Ella had asked about the scars hidden low beneath the waistband of his jeans. He couldn’t remember what he’d told her. Certainly not the truth, too shameful to admit to the woman he loved. Only two people knew the real story, and they were both dead.
“I can’t talk about it, Harry.”
“That’s okay. I understand. But if you wanted to, you know, I’d listen.”
“Are you good at that—listening?”
“My friends think so. Besides, when your best friend’s Max, you have to listen a lot. Tension at home and all that.”
“I imagine it’s not easy having an autistic younger brother.” Maybe he’d been too hard on Max. After all, not every big brother could be Tom.
“Oh, no, he and Dylan are fine.” Harry flopped back, pulling the duvet up to his chin. “It’s with the parentals, as Max calls them.”
“Really? His mother and father seem so normal.”
“Exactly. And, like, Max lives in a parallel universe.” Harry paused. “Dad—why didn’t you and Mom have more kids?”
We didn’t plan for any kids. “We never really discussed it. You came into our world as a fireball, and our family was forged in nuclear energy.”
“Right. Who’d want two of me?”
Harry snuggled under the duvet, and Felix tried to think of a comment other than “Yes. One of you was more than enough.” Instead, Felix walked around to Ella’s side of the bed and tucked their son in.