Free The Perfect Son by Barbara Claypole White Page B

and grabbed the phone.
    Harry. How did he get access to his mobile during school hours? “Harry’s sending you a virtual hug.”
    “Send him back the heart sign.”
    Felix stared at the keyboard. “There’s no heart sign.”
    “Type the less-than sign followed by the number three.”
    Felix typed and squinted. “That doesn’t look like a heart sign.”
    “I can assure you it does to Harry’s generation.”
    He hit “Send”; Harry replied immediately with the same sign. Overhead, helicopter blades thumped through the air; voices moved down the corridor.
    “Do you know how messed up most teenagers are,” Ella said, “even without a slew of diagnoses?”
    “Harry isn’t messed up.”
    “Exactly. But take away his anchor, and it could undo everything. All the years of therapy, of learning coping skills, of—” She hesitated and her monitor continued to bleep. “I’m his go-to person twenty-four seven, and I can’t be that person right now. I can’t even pee by myself.” She stopped to breathe. “He’s blessed to have devoted friends, and thank God for Max, but Harry’s going to need you like he’s never needed you before. You have to take over, Felix—provide the infrastructure that lets Harry be Harry.” She closed her eyes briefly. “You have to promise to apply all that focus you direct toward fixing up the house to becoming Harry’s emotional rock.” She sucked in a breath. “When I’m on my deathbed, I want my final thought to be ‘Harry will be okay.’”
    “But you’re not on your deathbed.”
    “I didn’t say I was.”
    “Did Dr. America tell you something he didn’t tell me? I don’t trust that man. I need to get you moved to Duke or Memorial. We can get you the best, we can—”
    “Felix, I’m not moving. The end. I won’t consider anything that slows down my recovery time and delays my return home. I just need you to promise me—”
    “You’re asking me to attempt something doomed to fail.”
    “You don’t know that.”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “Look, can we just be practical for a minute? What about the fact that I live in my car, transporting our nondriving teen to school, music lessons, parties, the child psychologist, the psychiatrist, the neurologist . . .” She shook her head. “It could be weeks before I can drive.”
    “How can I become you, Ella?”
    “You don’t have to become me. You just have to try and . . .” Her eyelids fluttered. “I’m tired, Felix. Exhausted.”
    “Sleep.” He took her hand. “I’ll sit with you.”
    “Tell me a story. Talk to me about how we met, about how you saved me.”
    “I didn’t save you, Ella.”
    “Yes,” she said. “You did. I was so lost after Mom died. And then all I wanted was a family of my own . . .”
    Ella drifted back to sleep, and Felix held her hand. What else could he do?

    Felix sat in the hospital car park, shaking an empty Pepto-Bismol bottle. Ella had slept, woken up, and slept some more. Katherine had arrived a little after eleven, and Ella suggested he leave—try to work until school pickup. But he could hardly go to the office in jeans. Besides, Nora Mae, the office administrator, would mace him with concern. He could, however, call his assistant.
    He briefed Curt on the upcoming meeting for Life Plan, the hundred-million-dollar deal that would allow their client to buy a Research Triangle Park company on the cutting edge of medical device invention: 3-D organ printing. Would computers one day be able to create digital hearts? Curt’s final comment, “I’ve got your back, Felix,” was not reassuring. When he’d hired Curt, he’d been attracted to the young man’s ability to schmooze. Felix hated that word and everything it implied, but Curt’s social charm kept people calm during deals. It had worked well for both of them: Felix handled the numbers; Curt handled the people. But an industry filled with money and greed generated its own healthy supply of sniveling weasels, and