“Do you think your mother’s depressed?”
Harry didn’t answer for a few seconds. “Maybe. When we talk it feels, you know, forced. Like she’s trying too hard. One of my friends has it bad. Depression, I mean. Had a horrible time finding meds that helped.”
“And he talks about it?” The light changed and they started moving forward.
“She. To her friends? Yup. Why wouldn’t she?”
“In my world, one doesn’t discuss mental health. One pretends life is lovely and suffers silently.”
“It’s hard, isn’t it, Dad?”
Felix wasn’t sure if Harry meant the way their lives had turned out, depression, or this thing called love, but he agreed on all counts.
A concrete walkway with evenly spaced steps and handrails led them up a gentle, wooded slope toward the museum. Under the trees to his left, American robins, larger than their English counterparts, hopped through the leaves. Fallen leaves usually set Felix’s teeth on edge. At home, they mounded up in inappropriate places and mixed with rubbish blown in from the street. But the leaves here created a perfect carpet that ran up to the steps and stopped. Not a single stray leaf defiled their path. Everything on the Duke campus was close to perfection. It was a place that spoke of an established world order, of tradition, of old money. Of things being maintained the way they should be. Felix inhaled. Even the air smelled fresher at Duke.
Harry ran ahead, and Felix followed him through the museum door.
“Wait.” Felix stopped by the semicircular checkin desk. “Would you like to see the exhibits while we’re here?”
“Sure, Dad,” Harry called over his shoulder. “But can we eat first?”
Without a backward glance, Harry shot across the vast, empty atrium toward the nook with the café. He looked so small, so insignificant, and some unfamiliar instinct made Felix want to run after him, saying, “Wait. Don’t leave me behind.” Instead, he paid for two five-dollar tickets. Harry, it seemed, was an adult at seventeen.
Sunlight filtered through the angular ceiling of glass and steel to create a crisscross pattern on the far wall—a trellis of light and shade. A strangely calming sight that might have quieted his thoughts, had a passing cloud not momentarily blocked the sun.
Felix strode toward the café. Plates and silverware clattered in the kitchen behind the counter, and Harry jiggled amidst a row of empty chrome tables. He had chosen a spot in a patch of sunlight. As hoped, the place was semideserted.
“I knew you’d want the sun,” Harry said with a huge smile. Even his smile was larger than life. Harry did nothing quietly.
A muted hum of voices rose from the small group in the corner, but it was impossible to distinguish individual words. Good—the acoustics favored privacy. Felix pulled out a chair, gripped the cold metal arm, and sat.
A young waitress in black trousers and a black shirt came over and handed them menus. “You’re just in time,” she said. “We have a limited menu after four o’clock.”
She reached over to grab the chain on the blind behind Harry.
“Can we leave that up?” Felix said.
“Sure.” She glanced at Harry.
“My dad’s a Londoner,” Harry said. “Winter sun’s a novelty for him.”
Felix frowned at Harry. Now he was giving out personal information to a stranger? What next—a full family bio on Facebook?
Harry’s face contorted into a grimace.
“You okay?” she said.
“Was I ticcing? Sorry, I have Tourette syndrome.” Harry spoke as if they were still discussing the sun.
“Good for you. I’m bipolar.” She glanced at Felix with a hesitant smile. “Wow. I don’t normally blurt that one out.”
“I guess it’s easier to hide than ticcing.” Harry grimaced and blinked, grimaced and blinked.