The Perfect Son (33 page)

THIRTY-NINE

Flying—definitely on a par with an unmedicated root canal. Silently, Felix cursed the Wright brothers and anyone else involved in the invention of flying. Man was not meant to leave the ground. And flying at night was the worst. Unless it was the overnight flight to England, and you could see dawn streaking out of the blackness, bringing the hope of morning. Felix glanced around the businesswoman in the window seat next to him. There was nothing but solid night outside the window. No city lights below, no lights from the plane. They were suspended in darkness.

He finished his whisky in one gulp, but even the warm buzz couldn’t obliterate the image of an underpaid cop manhandling Harry. Felix sank back into his seat, heart pounding faster than Ella’s defective one.

Could the plane not speed up?

He’d paid to use the Internet, not something he usually did, but he needed to stay connected. If nothing else, he could research the hospital, make sure the staff was competent. He scrolled through his email: one from Robert with no subject. Felix ignored it.

Could the plane not speed up?

What if Harry had brain damage? The British actress Natasha Richardson had barely bumped her head during a skiing lesson, had seemed fine, and then had died of an epidural hematoma. He logged onto the Web and started a Google search:
CT scan + brain.
Then he closed his laptop and flagged down the flight attendant for a second whisky. First class had its perks, provided you chose not to think about cost.

Felix raked his fingers through his hair, and his neighbor turned toward him. He closed his eyes on her.
Don’t even think about asking what’s wrong.

Mount Auburn. He needed to figure out the location of the hospital. He sat up, flipped open his laptop, typed, and read.

“Mount Auburn Hospital is a vibrant regional teaching hospital closely affiliated with the Harvard Medical School.” Harvard Medical School? He clicked on “About Us” for the address. Mount Auburn was in Cambridge? Why had Harry been sent to a hospital in Cambridge? Did he need special care? Or had the boys been in Cambridge when the incident occurred? Today was their down day, a day to sightsee around Boston. Clearly, they had decided to go into Cambridge. A flashback to Harry’s apology for calling him a Nazi. Felix had said, “My experience is that people normally speak the truth when they’re angry.” Angry or upset.

What exactly had Max said earlier? Slowly, Felix replayed their conversation.

Max had mentioned a campus cop. Cambridge plus a campus cop added up to one thing—Harvard. The boys were at Harvard. Harry was on a college visit and he had included Harvard. But why? Why fight the idea every step of the way, and then go to Harvard in secret? Harry didn’t have a devious bone in his body. What the hell was he up to?

The flight attendant came back with his drink, and Felix forgot to say thank you. He’d just lost the one good thing to come out of his childhood: perfect manners.

Harry’s at Harvard; Harry’s in trouble.

Everything that had happened between them since Ella’s heart attack had boiled down to his own bullishness about Harvard. Why could he not get his mind off Harvard? Was it merely socioeconomic programming, the belief in the old school tie network and the do-what’s-expected-of-you model that had been bashed into him during his formative years? Even now, was he still acting in ways that would have gained Pater’s approval? Pater had sent him to hell, and still young Felix would have walked across broken glass barefoot if he’d thought it would have made the old man happy. All he’d ever wanted was to be the perfect son. Nothing he did was ever good enough for Pater; nothing Harry did was ever good enough for him.

Had Harry visited Harvard for the same reason Felix had gone to Oxford—to make his father happy? Felix thumped his head back into his headrest and stared at the airplane ceiling. Why could he not be proud of his son? A straight-A student who would likely graduate valedictorian. A straight-A student who was a good kid. A kid who just wanted to make his father proud. And where had it led him? To the ER.

Max’s parents didn’t care that Max looked like Marilyn Manson on a bad hair day. Why should he care that his son had Tourette syndrome and couldn’t sit still through a movie? Why should he care that his son was messy and chaotic and an indiscriminate hugger? Why should he care that his son was not perfect?

Felix returned to his laptop, typed in
perfectionism
, and hit “Enter.” He paused on the fourth listing: “Perfectionism—Personality Disorder.”

Personality disorder?
Like Pater? Tom had said once, “I don’t know whether he’s a psychopath, a sociopath, or he just has a personality disorder, but our father is not of sound mind.”

Like father, like son?

Swirls danced across his laptop screen—a generic pattern he’d never customized.

His head spun; his heart spun; his stomach spun somewhere up near his throat. The ringing in his ears blocked out the sound of everything but his thoughts. Harry had accused him of being fucked up. What if his son had been right? What if he was stark raving mad? A genuine, certifiable lunatic?

No.
Felix took a deep breath. He would be calm; he would be rational. He would be in control. He flexed his fingers and hit the “Return” key. The screen came back to life. He scrolled down. A book was listed:
Too Perfect: When Being in Control Gets Out of Control
.

He clicked on the reviews. One said, “Best book on OCPD out there.”

What the hell was OCPD? A form of OCD? But shouldn’t he know if he had obtrusive, unwanted thoughts? Wasn’t that what defined OCD—you were a slave to thoughts you didn’t want and couldn’t control? He had no problem with order and control. It was everyone else who had the problem.

He read on: “OCPD is not OCD.”

Oh.

Felix huddled forward and angled his laptop round so his neighbor couldn’t see. He started a new search:
obsessive-compulsive personality disorder
. He swallowed hard. Personality disorder was the deepest, darkest level of insanity, a whole separate level from barmy, which was the polite British way of saying you belonged in a loony bin. Did he have a personality disorder? Did that make him a danger to society—someone who belonged in the Bates Motel?

Felix downed his drink.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” The flight attendant took away his empty glass.

Alcohol—the coward’s way out. Felix shook his head, shook off the fug of two whiskies. He wasn’t a big drinker, didn’t like to lose control. Control. His whole life, until Ella’s heart attack, had been about maintaining control.

When being in control gets out of control.

He started to read online articles. Everything he could find. He read until the plane began its descent into Logan International Airport. And then he closed his eyes and tried to process the information.

OCPD was nothing he’d ever heard of and everything that was familiar. He had memorized the list of characteristics from the International OCD Foundation’s website:

“Rigid adherence to rules and regulations.”
Check.

“An overwhelming need for order.”
Check.

“Unwillingness to yield or give responsibilities to others.”
Check.

“A sense of righteousness about the way things ‘should be done.’”
Check.

“Excessive devotion to work that impairs family activities.”
Check.

A long explanation followed about why OCPD wasn’t obsessive-compulsive disorder. He imagined some exasperated person typing,
For the umpteenth time, no. OCPD is not OCD
. The bottom line appeared to be this: people with OCD knew they were crazy; people with OCPD didn’t. People with OCD wanted to change; people with OCPD didn’t.

He found information about hoarding and frugality, which he preferred to ignore, and a link to Tourette syndrome. All those years wasted looking for answers, for the root cause of Harry’s tics, and everything led back to Felix, to the Fitzwilliam DNA.

His midair research had also revealed that most OCPD went untreated. Sufferers were too convinced of their own rightness to believe they needed help. Apparently those who did seek treatment did so only because desperate family members had issued ultimatums: get help or we walk.

Had he driven his family to desperation—caused his wife’s heart to fail from the stress of living with him; pushed Harry into an action that had endangered his life? Was his desire for control
out of control
?

He was not losing his family; he was not losing Harry. Their relationship was just beginning—a new chapter, a new day in his life. He would not be Pater, who had died estranged from his sons. He would do whatever it took to be a good father—not a perfect father, but the best he could be. He would be there for his son today, tomorrow, and every day after that. And he’d read that psychotherapy held much promise for people motivated to change
.
Damn right, he was motivated to change. He was going to hire professional help—the best.

Felix barely noticed the landing, barely noticed the bracing roar of the airbrakes. His attention was fixed on the seat belt sign. The moment it dinged off, Felix was in the aisle with his laptop and his briefcase. He stood first in line to deplane and powered his phone back on. He was going to rescue his son, and nothing would stand in his way.

FORTY

To hell with squirrels in his linen closet—there was a troupe of them cartwheeling through his mind. Felix jostled around in the back of the town car. Anxiety, outrage, terror, shame—which was stronger? How could you mend a broken personality? Wasn’t that the core of your being? Did it mean that inside he was defective and contaminated? Rotting away?

And there had been no update from Max about the CT scan. Felix needed those results. He needed to know Harry was okay.

The moment the taxi pulled up alongside the hospital, Felix had to stop himself from opening the door to vomit in the gutter. His hands shook as he paid the cabbie and texted Max.

I’m here.

Max responded with a smiley face that seemed slightly deranged.

Where are you?
Felix typed.

Some room off the ER.

Not exactly helpful, but it told him enough. Felix catapulted into an emergency department for the third time in six weeks.

“My son, Harry Fitzwilliam—” He started talking before he reached the check-in desk. Or rather, yelling. He stopped in front of the counter and took a breath. “My son, Harry Fitzwilliam, was brought in five hours ago with a concussion, and I’ve just flown here from North Carolina.” He paused to catch his breath; the bug-eyed receptionist smiled but did and said nothing. He flipped open his wallet, pulled out his driver’s license, and pointed at his name. “I need to see Harry Fitzwilliam. Right now. He’s a minor. You’re treating a minor and I’m his father and I need to see him. Right now.”

“Yes, sir.” She consulted her clipboard. “Love the accent. Are you from Great Britain or Australia?”

“London. Where’s my son?”

More consultation of the clipboard. “I’m saving up for a trip to England. I hear it’s very expensive, and I want to see the whole country.” She glanced up, her index finger marking a spot on her list. “I think five days should be long enough, don’t you?”

Good God.

“Did my son come in with anyone?”

“Another kid. I believe he’s still here.”

“How about a campus cop?” Felix clenched his right fist. “And a female student?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir. Do you have any recommendations for restaurants in London? Decent food, not too expensive.”

“No. Is he through here?” Felix walked toward a door.

She leaned over her counter. “Hold on, there! I need to buzz you in first. Then turn right, and it’s the third door on the left. How about hotel—”

Felix ran.

He opened the door without knocking. Max was sitting in a chair pulled up close to the bed, watching Harry sleep. A very pale Harry.

“Is he okay?” Felix whispered.

“Just dozed off, but I’m timing him. If he’s not awake in”—Max glanced at his phone—“another ten minutes, I get to slap life back into him.” Max grinned. Even when he smiled, Max was one ugly mongrel, and Harry was blessed, so blessed, to have him as a best friend.

Felix put his briefcase down quietly on the floor, yanked off his tie, and shoved it in his pocket. Then he tugged off his coat and dropped it onto the other chair. Since when had the lining been ripped? Ella had been pressuring him for years to donate the coat to Goodwill, to splurge and buy a new one, and he’d always argued it had years of wear left. Was this a marker of OCPD frugality? Would he suddenly question everything he did, search constantly for flaws in his behavior?
Not now, Felix. Shelve the thought.
He stretched out his neck.

“You’ve been brilliant, Max. Thank you.”

“Here—” Max gestured to the chair. “You sit, Mr. FW.”

Harry stirred.

“He’s been drifting in and out. I’m not sure if it’s the concussion or the shock.”

“When did the doctor last visit?”

“A while ago.”

“Have you eaten?”

Max shook his head.

“Are you hungry?”

“Famished.” Max pursed his lips. “Also starving, ravenous, and anything in the thesaurus that means about to chew off one’s fingers.”

Felix pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Find a cafeteria and get something to eat.”

“Thanks. Can I bring you anything, Mr. FW?”

Felix was about to answer no when his stomach growled. “A bottle of water. And, you know what? A bag of salt and vinegar chips if they have any.” He handed over another five dollars.

“Salt and vinegar—my favorite,” Max said.

“Mine too.”
At least they used to be, until I developed absolute control over my eating habits.

Max stopped in the doorway. “Don’t forget to wake him in ten minutes; otherwise, Nurse Ratched will rip you limb from limb.”

“Nurse Ratched reporting for duty.” A slim brunette with multiple piercings entered the room.

Max turned back to Felix. “She’s way tougher than she looks. A total ball breaker,
Dad
.” Then he laughed and disappeared.

“You must be the boys’ father. Max said we should expect you. I’m just going to take some vitals.”

“How is he?” Felix asked.

“Fine, he’s doing fine. We’re just keeping him in for observation. I’ll tell the doctor you’re here, and he can go over the CT scan results with you.”

“Please tell me—were they clear?”

She glanced toward the door and nodded; then put her finger to her lips and smiled. He could have kissed her. Felix stood up and moved out of her way.

“Harry, sweetheart,” the nurse said. “I need you to wake up.”

Harry woke with a sharp jolt. Shook his head hard.
Ow.
The nightmare still clung. Face shoved into a dirty floor; someone suffocating him. Stale sweat and coffee breath bearing down on him, crushing him. He gasped for air.

“It’s okay, Hazza. You’re safe.” Dad’s voice. Was Dad here?

The hospital. Not a nightmare after all. Worse than a nightmare because this was real.

Harry shielded his eyes.

“Are you still seeing double?” the nurse said.

“Yeah.” His hand groped air. “Dad?”

“I’m here, Hazza. I’m here.”

Never thought he’d be so happy to hear Dad’s voice.

After the nurse left, closing the door quietly behind her, Dad scraped the chair around and straddled it. He leaned over the back and took Harry’s hand. “How’re you feeling?”

“Head hurts.” Harry tried to pull himself up.

“Relax. We’re not going anywhere until the doctor gives you the all clear.”

Harry flopped back. “You came.”

“You doubted me?”

No.
“No. I’m just so happy to see you. When can I go home?” He wanted to be in his bed, under his duvet, away from this waking nightmare.

“Soon.” Dad’s hand was hot and sticky; he squeezed hard, then let go.

“Mom?”

“She thinks I’m staying at the office all night. Katherine’s covering for us. We’ll call home tomorrow, and you can tell Mom you’re okay. She’ll want to hear your voice.”

“I can talk to her now.”

“Let’s wait until you’re feeling stronger. Mom doesn’t miss much where you’re concerned. She’ll hear hesitation and worry.”

Harry tried to nod, but too much movement and his head might explode.

“Once they discharge you, we’ll book into a hotel. You and Max can order room service and sleep in tomorrow. Then we’ll pick up your suitcases and head to the airport.”

“Are you going to sit up all night watching over me—to make sure I’m breathing?”

“That thought has crossed my mind. How’s the head?”

“Sore. Can I get a Tylenol or something?”

“I’ll ask the nurse.” Dad frowned, then glanced at the call button. “Is the headache worse than before?”

“Holding steady,” Harry said. “How much trouble am I in?”

“I’ll take care of everything.”

“No, I mean with you. Are you going to punish me?”

“Yes?” The nurse’s voice crackled through a speaker on the side of the bed.

Dad slumped forward to reply. “Can my son get a Tylenol for his headache?”

“I’ll be right in, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. I just wanted to impress you. I—” Harry closed his eyes, but opened them quickly. The pain was worse with his eyes closed. “I just wanted you to be proud of me. It was meant to be a surprise. I was going to come home and say, ‘Look what I did, Dad.’”

“You did all this—the college trip, everything—to make me proud?”

Harry nodded.

“I am proud of you, Harry. So very proud.”

“You are?” He was?

“What you did took real courage. You faced your fears, and you’re an inspiration. On the plane, I was trying to figure out why I always want more from you. Why enough is never enough. Why I can’t ever say well done. I think you’re right, Harry. I think I have”—Dad stared down at the vinyl floor—“problems.”

“All the best people do,” Harry said. “Normal is vastly overrated.”

“I’m going to find a therapist.” Dad straightened up. “I want to fix this. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“That’s great, Dad. Really great.” The pounding in his head intensified.

“I found this thing online called OCPD. I think that’s what I have.”

“Sounds like an STD,” Harry said. “What does it mean?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.” Dad paused. “And I’m sorry, too. Sorry that you’ve had to wait seventeen years to hear that I’m proud of you. Sorry that I pushed so hard about Harvard. Sorry that I’m the world’s most fucked-up father.”

“Yeah, but you’re my fucked-up father. The only one I’ve got. And I wouldn’t trade you.”

Dad smiled.

Harry rubbed his forehead and tried not to think about the pain bouncing through his brain like a beach ball with spikes. “Dad, can we take Harvard off my college list? I didn’t like it even before I got handcuffed and knocked unconscious.”

“Consider it gone,” Dad said.

Talking—just talking—with Dad was good. The Tylenol had kicked in, and the doc was off working on the release papers. And Harry was never coming back to Boston. Not even if Max’s band kicked off their first world tour in the city.

“You know the weird thing, Dad? I’m not that anxious about being in a hospital bed. I think I’m all anxiety’d out. Just incredibly relieved to be here and not in jail.”

A muscle pulsed in Dad’s neck. “Want to tell me what happened?”

Harry told him everything, twisting the edge of the hospital sheet tighter and tighter. “It was all a big misunderstanding, Dad. I didn’t really hit a cop. I couldn’t control the ticcing. I hit him because I was ticcing, and then I hit my head because I was ticcing.”

“I’m going to sort this out, Harry. There will be no repercussions. I’ll make sure of that.”

“But what about Steve? The last thing I remember, he was mouthing off about pressing charges.”

“I can assure you he won’t be when I’m done with him.” Dad’s voice was cold.

Harry’s elbow flapped. Maybe he should have downplayed Steve in the role of bastard asshole. After all, Steve wasn’t the one who’d thrown the first punch. “Can we just pretend it never happened and hope it goes away?”

“No. You have a neurological condition, and this kid judged you. That is not okay. That will never be okay.”

“I’m used to being judged, Dad. As long as no one’s pressing charges, I don’t care.” Harry tried to smile. “How do we find out what’s going on?”

Someone knocked on the door. A quiet little knock.

Dad turned. “Come.”

“It’s Annie,” Harry whispered as the door opened.

Chewing her fingernails, she peered around Dad and then darted to the bed. Her eyes were puffy and red, and she hadn’t buttoned her jacket right. He hadn’t meant to cause her pain, hadn’t meant for any of this to happen.

“Are you okay?” Harry said, and patted her hand.

She burst into tears. “You’re asking me?”

Then it was hard to tell if she was crying or laughing, but Dad handed her a tissue, and she seemed to pull it together.

“Harry, I’m so sorry.” She dabbed at her face with the tissue. “I told the campus cops everything—that it was an accident and Steve overreacted. I don’t think they’re going to pursue it, but I made sure they have all my details if they need to contact me. Steve, he’s . . . a thug. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to dump him for months. But what he did today—I’m just so sorry. And I had to check on you.”