“Your mother—your very sick mother—was adamant.” Now Felix was repeating himself, but his brain was too exhausted for original thought.
“So am I. Which means you get to make a choice. If someone told you you couldn’t visit Mom, would you listen?”
Felix put the glasses upside down on the draining board and turned to stare into the darkness on the other side of the sliding doors. Despite the predominance of pines at the edge of their property, Duke Forest was filled with hardwood trees, all of them naked at this time of year. In three months, when everything returned to life with the bright-green touches of spring, would Ella be healed? Would she have a new heart? Could anyone tell him that in three months, this nightmare would be over?
“No,” Felix said. “I wouldn’t.”
NINETEEN
Holy shit, spring had sprung. Harry whirred around. The birds were singing their adorable little hearts out, and look! Was that a butterfly? No—Harry snatched up the scrap of colored paper dancing across the yard. Hopefully, Dad hadn’t noticed; otherwise, he’d be in for another lecture on securing the recycling. As Saint John would say, a real bollocking! When Harry had lugged the recycling to the curb the other day, he’d forgotten to snap the bungee cord over the top of one of the bins, and paper had blown everywhere. Oops.
Couldn’t they be done with the whole squirrel fortification? He and Dad were checking every piece of siding, every nook and cranny on the outside of the house, and it was sooo boring. He should go finish his AP Lit essay. Due Monday. But it was warm outside, and cool and dark inside. The house felt like a tomb. Except when Sammie was over. Mom could meet her next weekend!
Ha! A wild turkey strutted across the yard. Didn’t see those too often. Gobble, gobble! Man, he was sooo bored. Watching ice melt would be more exciting than this.
One week and counting till Mom came home. Seeing Mom in the hospital had been gut-wrenchingly awful. He cried; she cried; even the nurse cried. But they kept it short, and he’d chosen an awesome bunch of balloons and flowers in the gift shop, with a stuffed bear that looked like it needed its own transplant. Dad had complained it was too expensive, but Harry had offered to pay half. Never expected Dad to hold him to it. And now his piggy bank was empty. How could he afford to take Sammie to the movies?
He’d seen Mom and felt strangely better. Like staring down the enemy, like saying, I’m scared shitless that my mom is dying, but I will see her and hug her and make her smile. And he had—he had made her smile! Mom had called him the Harry Tonic.
Calling her room every night wasn’t the same as seeing her, especially since she didn’t always pick up the hospital phone. A bazillion times during school, he’d think, “I need to tell Mom this.” But then the end of the school day came, and it was just him and Dad. And by the time he talked to Mom, he’d forgotten half the school gossip. Mom used to love school gossip. Funny, she didn’t seem that interested these days.
Harry reached down and grabbed the basketball from where he’d left it in the middle of a fern. He ran his right hand up the fronds. (Wasn’t that what Mom called them?) Did the same with his left. Gave him that calm, just-right feeling. Like when he’d been in kindergarten and he had that poking tic. Had to poke things until they felt right. When it was other people—that was problematic. But Mom had gone into the class and explained it to the teacher and all the kids. Then she’d told him—in private—that poking people wasn’t acceptable behavior, and they’d figured out a way to stop the tic. Funny thing, he couldn’t remember their strategy; he just remembered it had worked.
He pounded the ball on the concrete. Bounce, bounce; bounce, bounce. Rise up on your toes, take aim, shoot. Swish. Perfect shot. Hell, yeah!
A dog barked in the street. He’d wanted a dog. Used to pester Mom about it. Answer was always the same: “Dad says no.” Never a discussion.
Bounce, bounce; bounce, bounce. Aim, shoot. Swish.