The Perfect Son Read Online Free

in bed by ten thirty, and he never finished work before midnight. Her alarm went off at six so she could go on a power walk with some retired neighbor; his alarm went off at eight, when she was weaving through Durham’s historic tobacco district, driving Harry to school. Could he blame conflicting circadian rhythms for their dwindling passion, or had something fundamental shifted in recent months? And if so, why was his gut hinting that the failure was his, that he was the one at fault?

    The Coheed and Cambria song from Harry’s iPod continued playing through the car stereo as Felix slowed down for the exit ramp off I-40. Music had always been problematic—so many wrong notes and bad lyrics. He’d faked an interest in punk and new wave as a teenager because doing so seemed appropriate, but until New Order’s “Blue Monday” hit the charts in the early eighties—with its orderly, repetitive pulse—no song had resonated. Music, however, was a sedative for Harry. Although that screamo stuff Harry and Mad Max blared through the house could hardly be classified as music.
    In the passenger seat, Harry was folded in half. What a gift to sleep that way, as if his constantly flailing body were finally unplugged. Once he’d become mobile, young Harry had stopped napping, and the broken nights had lasted through most of middle school. This new ability to conk out anywhere seemed to have coincided with Harry’s starting high school. On random nights, however, he still shuffled into their bedroom, whimpering, “Mom, I had a nightmare. I need a hug.”
    Felix’s own mother had stopped hugging him when he’d turned five. Mother. She had never been the easiest of people. Since turning eighty, she had become downright unpleasant. Harry had nicknamed her Moaning Myrtle, which was kinder than her cleaning lady’s mumbled miserable old trout .
    As Felix turned right onto Airport Boulevard, sirens advanced toward him like an approaching thunderstorm. He pulled over and stopped, and a bright-orange ambulance shot past, heading back toward the highway, lights flashing, siren howling.
    Some poor bloke was probably strapped to the gurney inside. A wiped-out businessman who’d stayed over the Saturday night to save his firm money—an honorable thing to do—then risen early, showered and shaved, unaware that this flight would not be the carbon copy of every other trip home. Hopefully, the poor bastard would survive. Rotten luck to be taken ill at an airport.
    Looking over his shoulder, Felix inched back onto the road and continued two miles an hour below the speed limit. He began spotting signs for Terminal 2 hourly parking. It was easy to get distracted by the traffic flow and end up in the wrong lane heading for the wrong car park. And when that happened? You had no choice but to exit the airport, circle back to the beginning, and start over. Another ten minutes would be wasted.
    Five minutes later he found the ideal parking space adjacent to the pedestrian walkway and lined up the car perfectly between the parallel white lines. Brilliant. The car juddered into silence, and Harry slept on. Ella always woke him gently, easing him through the transition. Even so, Harry often woke up with fists clenched as if ready to box his way through another day.
    Felix took a deep breath and squeezed Harry’s knee. “Time to wake up.”
    Harry shot awake. “Mom?”
    “It’s Dad. You need to wake up now so we can—”
    “Where’s Mom?” Harry’s head jerked from side to side. “She was calling my name. Something’s wrong, very wrong—”
    “Just a bad dream. You’ve been asleep since we left Durham. Come on.” Felix unbuckled Harry’s seat belt, but his son cowered.
    “Harry. Shake off the dream. We need to find your mother.”
    Eyes glassed over with fear, Harry stared at Felix as if he were a stranger. Had Ella ever talked to the psychologist about these nightmares? Felix glanced at his watch. Ella’s plane had landed ten