“It’s nearly your birthday.”
“Yeah, how about that?” Harry gave a big yawn.
“Your mother, of course, bought and wrapped your presents months ago.”
Harry smiled. “Dad, I’m pretty comfy. You mind if I stay here for a while?”
“No. Happy seventeenth birthday, Harry Felix Fitzwilliam. Sweet dreams of Sammie.”
Harry closed his eyes. “Thanks.”
Felix turned off the lights and went back into the bathroom to finish sorting the laundry. Even on a Saturday night, an incomplete task had to be finished.
When he reemerged, Harry was asleep. Felix sank into the big club chair, Ella’s reading chair. Ella used to watch baby Harry sleep, but Felix had always been too scared, because if he’d started watching over their son, how would he ever have found the strength to stop?
The terror had been constant: terror of touching the baby, terror of doing something wrong. And then Harry grew into a walking, talking whirligig of impulsivity who toddled into Felix’s den one day when Ella was out and dumped the contents of Felix’s files across the carpet. Felix smacked him hard enough to leave a handprint on the back of Harry’s legs. By the time Ella came home, Harry had been bribed with ice cream and an expensive trip to the toy shop on Ninth Street. The next day, he had begun the process of retreating from Harry’s life, because after that, he no longer trusted himself to be alone with Harry.
Felix hadn’t planned to tell Harry about smacking him, but Harry had handled the revelation well. And yet, it had been little more than a pinpoint in time for Harry. The moment had held meaning only for Felix.
Midnight, and he was sleep deprived, yet wide awake, which made about as much sense as the rest of his life. He went into the living room, turned on Ella’s phone, and started moving everything from her calendar to his: birthdays, anniversaries, a dentist appointment for Harry, and an alert to turn the compost. (He made a note to research that on the Internet.) At two o’clock, knackered almost to oblivion with a mind that continued to churn, he went into her messages and scrolled through the barrage of texts Harry had sent in the last week. No wonder Ella had relinquished her phone. Felix went farther and farther back, through their never-ending conversation, through the intimacy and understanding that he could never hope to achieve with his son. His name rarely appeared. It was as if he’d been a footnote in their lives.
FOURTEEN
“Dad, Dad. Wake up!”
Felix shot off the sofa and reached for his glasses. Why was it light outside, and why was Harry standing over him wrapped up in the white duvet, looking like the Michelin Man with a full head of hair?
“What are you doing out here?” Harry grimaced and blinked, grimaced and blinked.
Good question. Felix swept his tongue round his mouth, which was dry and fuzzy and had a sour taste. “I was sorting through your mother’s calendar, and I must have conked out.” He massaged the crick in his neck. “Happy birthday.”
“Yeah, thanks. Listen—” Harry lowered his voice. “We have a problem. Mice. Or maybe rats. I don’t know.”
“What?”
“Shhh.” Harry grabbed his hand. “Quick, come now before they stop. They’re in the walls.”
The doorbell rang.
“Oh, that’s probably Eudora. I saw her in the garden with flower clippy thingies.”
“Who the hell’s Eudora?”
“Our neighbor.”
“We have a neighbor called Eudora?”
“You know.” Harry mimed out something that could have been interpreted as power walking. Or maybe he was constipated. “She walks with Mom?”
“I thought her name was Eleanor.”