Season of Gifts (Neighborly Affection #8)

42. Henry

Chapter forty-two

Henry

T he paper refused to produce a satisfactory result regardless of how Henry sketched his opening strokes. The quiet rasp of Mother’s pencils beside him compounded the atypical frustration that jabbed at him like unwanted needle play.

At her request, he’d arranged their soiled dinner dishes in a heap and positioned the tray at the foot of the bed to provide a subject for after-dinner amusement, but thus far he’d merely ghosted in a handful of guidelines. The activity ought to have been soothing. He’d been finding comfort in the practice for thirty-two years. Alas, not tonight.

Dessert had proved less of a battle. An enormous gift basket, arriving as Robert departed, bore an assortment of books and mixed nuts and other heart-healthy snacks. The muffins he and Mother had sampled after dinner would make an excellent accompaniment to breakfast tomorrow as well.

He had Will and Emma to thank for the kindness, but that note of appreciation would wait. He lacked the energy for another sparring match with Will. And if Emma had truly sensed something wrong with Jay, she would have called him directly, not outsourced an admonishment. She had no trouble speaking her mind whenever she wished.

His hand curled across the paper, his pencil gripped far too tightly for competence of any sort. Needles danced along his spine, proving particularly fond of the base of his skull.

The scratch of Mother’s pencil ceased. “Should we stop for the evening, darling?” She stretched a hand across the quilt toward him, falling short of his arm. “You don’t appear to have the heart for sketching just now.”

“No, please, continue.” Sketching kept Mother’s mind and hands occupied while resting her body. He had no better pastime to offer. “I’ll select another subject. Something a bit closer to my heart.” Raising one leg, he shifted sideways in the chair. His knee touched the back; his foot dangled from the seat. Jay and Alice would certainly feign shock to see him sitting so casually. He lifted the sketchbook and contemplated Mother in profile. “There, that’s better.”

Her noble chin dipped; one stern eyebrow climbed. But her eyes glowed merrily, and her lips curved in a gentle bow. “Oh no you don’t. I see this face daily in the mirror. Draw me Alice and Jay, if you would. One of those wedding photos you showed me this morning. You had quite the talented photographer.”

“Yes, yes we did.” The young woman had a knack for capturing emotion. One of the shots of his spouses sweeping down the aisle toward him would make a perfect reference. “Just a moment.”

He retrieved his phone from the floor beside the chair. So strange to keep the device constantly at hand. At home his rules prevented its intrusion on the time he and his spouses could spend with one another. But in the past two weeks, as their company had grown distant, the phone had become a ubiquitous companion.

The link to the album would be in their message thread—

And a new message from Alice within the last hour, to him alone. Good news! Everything’s wrapped up here. I’ll be home tomorrow. Talk more then. Early to bed for me. I have a date with the airport before sunrise. I love you.

He responded with a quick message of love; if she’d fallen asleep, she would at least know his heart when she woke. Her return would buoy Jay’s spirits as well, if indeed they needed it. He’d seemed reasonably and authentically cheerful last night during their call about the photos. Perhaps whatever upset Emma had noted Tuesday had been short-lived, a temporary state brought about by Henry’s forgetfulness regarding their anniversary, rectified by apologies and Jay’s therapy session yesterday.

A message to Jay would be appropriate as well, though a call would likely serve better, if he could muster the energy for it.

“Are you having trouble finding a suitable image?” Mother had returned to sketching, her pad propped against a lap desk supported by her bent knees. The sloping quilt surrounded her with vibrant flowers.

“No, my apologies, Mother.” He folded the phone against his stomach. That was the danger of the device—the bright lure claimed more time than intended, stealing attention from the loved ones in front of him. “A note from Alice captured my thoughts. It appears we will all be together Saturday as planned.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” She leaned forward, her smile expanding. “We’ll be able to attend the ballet. I was worried we would have to miss it.”

“The ballet?” His mental catalogue for the weekend included no such thing.

“Yes, I procured the tickets weeks ago, after we confirmed the timing for your visit. Before all of this nonsense.” She waved at the oxygen mask beside her and the tubing draping down the side of the bed to the tank. “Perhaps at tomorrow’s checkup they’ll take this back, so we needn’t be so encumbered at the theater.”

Weeks ago. Yes, they’d briefly discussed potential outings. His mind had become a sieve, unaccountably retaining ancient history while filtering out the here and now. She’d likely intended a day out in Portland—a bit of window shopping, dinner, the performance. Far too exhausting for her in her current state. “I’m afraid we’ll have to skip the Nutcracker this year, Mother. Alice and Jay will understand the need to wait for next year.”

“I don’t see why.” Her tone tart, she folded her arms over the top of her slender desk. “I am, in fact, a champion at sitting still for hours.”

The entire day had been a series of small disagreements. Prioritizing her health made him far from her favorite son. But the precautions were for her benefit. “Being so far from your care team for an extended period would be unwise. Not to mention the lengthy car ride, the stairs at the venue, the jostling of the crowd—”

“At least take Alice and Jay, then.” Her fingers gripped the edge despite her cheerful encouragement. “A night out for the newlyweds. The respite would do you well.”

Hardly a respite after a three-hour drive each way to retrieve them. “The timing would be difficult.” Would he ask Lina to arrive at nine in the morning and stay through the night? Surely not, three days before Christmas. “A quiet night in for the four of us would be a sweeter reward. Shall we call Constance about the tickets in the morning? She and Robert could take the boys.”

Mother sagged back against the pillows, her eyes fixed on the tray of dishes, her lips tight. Narrow furrows surrounded her mouth like craggy fjords. “Do you know the most difficult thing about an extended illness, Henry? It is not the pain or the unending checkups or the pitying glances disguised as sympathy. It is the shrinking of one’s universe, the tightening until one can’t escape the shroud.”

“Not a shroud.” Klaxons screeched, bringing all other mental operations to a halt. Danger lay down this path. A chill wind swept across his skin. “A safe nest, rather. A place to heal before taking flight once more. How about a concert next month instead? Shall we see what’s on the schedule?”

“Next month when you and your brother have installed a stranger in my home to dog my every step and ration my tea, you mean?” Green eyes flared; she tucked her knees closer to her chest.

A wild exaggeration. Confrontation would serve only to make both of them more agitated, his words hastier and ill-considered, her defensive postures more wounded and childlike. The tension in his back had spread to his shoulders, down his arms. A similar response in her would strain her heart. He forced his hands flat against the sketchbook and breathed calm into his voice. “We’re worried about you being alone, that’s true.”

“I am hardly alone. You are here. Alice and Jay will be here soon. You still intend to stay the week, don’t you, darling?” She confirmed with a nod, her logic irrefutable, the outcome unassailable. Self-evident how mistaken he was. “And after that I will be fine on my own. The medication will be in full effect, this damnable tank will be gone, and I will attend my rehabilitation and complete all of the follow-ups as prescribed.” Her splayed hands indicated a fait accompli. Only a fool could fail to agree. “I do not need a minder.”

More fool him if he believed such a thing.

“I have seen what happens when you don’t have a minder. I would not wish—” The thunder of paramedics racing down the hallway. “I would not—”

Mother lying so still.

He pushed off the chair with a heavy breath, as if he might find fresher air above the current clouds.

“It’s growing late.” The air did little to relieve the pressure in his chest. Did she find the oxygen mask equally unhelpful? “I suggest we table this discussion and consider the home health aide situation from a novel perspective in the morning.”

Mother held out her hand to him, palm up, beckoning him toward her. “It won’t happen again, Henry,” she whispered, her eyes softening. Her fingers shook. “We haven’t talked about those fears in a long time.”

“And we needn’t now.” He added the sketchbook and the pencils to the assortment of items carpeting the nightstand, then bent into her embrace and kissed her cheek. So thin and light she was, the fledgling bird he’d named her. “Would you like any assistance before I remove the dishes?”

“No, darling.” She smoothed her hand down his face and left her own kiss high on his cheekbone, just shy of his ear. “Take time for yourself, will you? You’ve been doing so much. So many echoes. This won’t be like last time.”

No, it would not. He would make certain of it.

With the portable monitor clipped to his hip, he carried the dishes downstairs in a single trip. The dishwasher was due for a cycle. Neatening the kitchen required but minutes.

Mother’s optimism—willful denial a perhaps less gracious but more accurate accounting—complicated his ability to put systems in place to support her. Another week, yes. Alice and Jay would be a balm for the season’s melancholy tendrils, the grief that wrapped its fingers around the house each December. But what then?

When an instantaneous recovery did not materialize, how then would he make certain Mother was safe? Send Alice and Jay home while he remained?

He paced the kitchen, his anxious energy uncontainable, perhaps the drive to move that Jay lived with daily. If Will was correct in his insinuations, Henry’s long separation might have eroded Jay’s progress, the steps so hard-won, the therapy he’d poured himself into energetically after years of resistance. Touch would tell him. Touch and keen questioning, but how was Henry to accomplish such a feat with his mind dulled?

A full night of sleep would be a start, yet impossible to achieve. His body rebelled against the usual meditative techniques. He owed Will an apology, of course he did. Too raw and emotional over Mother’s health? An obvious truth. What had he told Jay, that therapy could teach them to redirect their responses but not eradicate them. Not erase the people they had been. The boy he was, slumbering for all these years, was wide awake now, and Henry had allowed his fear to seize control. The planning and deliberation he prided himself on, the careful and gradual coaxing, all remained inaccessible to him so long as his child-self steered the ship.

His feet carried him out of the kitchen and into the garden studio. The lights flicked on under his hand, casting a blazing spotlight on the easel near the windows. He hauled a sizeable sketchbook up from the nearest rack. Pristine from the first page. Blank sheets awaiting the torrent of his emotions. The rolling stand held charcoal and pastels. He snatched up a stick of darkest black, the powder flaking off and embedding in his fingers before he laid the first stroke.

In his mind’s eye, he pushed open the door to Mother’s room. She was better now, Father said, but she still spent an awful lot of time in bed or napping in the garden room. Sometimes they would read in the library, but he couldn’t snuggle against her. Her stomach had an angry red scar, a slash below her belly button. Even hugging him sometimes made her wince.

“There’s my birthday boy!” She closed the nightstand drawer and twirled her finger at him.

He spun slowly. He was taller today; he could feel it. When he went downstairs, Lina would measure for him against the pantry door. For the party, he’d worn dress pants and a plain dress shirt with a tie under his sweater. “Do I look seven, Mother?”

She crossed her hands against her chest. She’d worn her lavender robe today. If she meant to go downstairs with him, she would have worn real clothes, not pajamas. “You don’t look a day over thirty-seven, darling.”

So old! Thirty-seven was as far ahead of him as the dinosaurs were behind. But he was seven now; he could be gracious. Or magnanimous. He’d have to look them up again and compare. “You don’t look a day over twenty-seven, Mother.”

She laughed, holding her stomach tight. “Shameless flattery! Your classmates must adore you.” With both hands, she gestured him to the side of the bed. He stood still as she tidied his hair and kissed his forehead. “You are the most perfect thing I’ve ever made in my life. Do you know that? The very best thing.”

If that were true… “Better than Robert?”

Nose wrinkling, she laughed again. “And so quick! Go find your grandfather, please, and send him up to visit with me.”

“I could stay with you too, Mother.” Father almost never did; he was in his office now, even though it was Sunday afternoon.

“But what about your party guests?” Eyes wide, she pressed her lips together. “They’ll be here soon, and you mustn’t disappoint them.”

True. He was the host; it was his responsibility to make sure all of his classmates enjoyed the party. “I’ll save you a slice of cake, Mother.” There, that was decided. He couldn’t include Mother in the games, but she could partake in the sweets Lina had made. “We may have some together after my guests have gone.”

She tapped his nose with a single finger and waggled it once. “Thus ensuring you get two slices, you clever boy. Go on, now. Ask Lina to take plenty of pictures for me. It’s not every day my baby turns seven.”

He would always be the baby now. Her robe hid her scar, and her stomach was flat again, not round like it had been before Christmas.

Mother hummed softly. “What is it, Henry?”

He wasn’t supposed to ask. Father said not to talk about it ever. But Mother had overruled Father about stories at bedtime. “Will the others turn seven someday? The babies who got lost?”

She froze like he’d called red in Red Light, Green Light. She stared through him, looking at him but not looking at him, not really. Her throat moved. Her eyelashes fluttered. “They aren’t lost, Henry.”

“But Father said—”

“They were sick, darling.” She closed her eyes so tightly, tighter than hide-and-seek, and blinked them open. The pale green looked shiny and wet, like leaves on a spring morning. The leaves went away every fall, but they always came back. It was only just March; they needed more time. Mother might come downstairs again once her winter ended. “Sometimes, when we are very, very sick, our lungs aren’t strong enough and our hearts can’t pump enough blood, and we die. Like the spider in the story I read you, do you remember? Sometimes it happens before we even get to take a breath in this world.”

He remembered the story; the farm animals had been funny, and they could talk even though real ones couldn’t. Mother had cried when the spider said goodbye. Dying meant going away somewhere mysterious and never coming back. And if being sick made the dying happen—Mother had been sick for weeks now. “But you aren’t that sick, are you, Mother?”

Charcoal covered the page—and his hands. He’d smudged it all along his shirtsleeves nearly to the elbows. A swirling mess sat before him, smudged repeatedly as he’d dragged his hand. No fixative, no clean lines. But recognizably him in mournful grays and blacks, the shadowed green of his eyes the only color he’d allowed, his powdery fingerprints left on the pastel stick.

Seven. The house on the bay had had a hammock on the porch. The beach sand had slipped under his feet, never offering solid footing but on the sharp, craggy stones. He’d rush to each new discovery and back to Mother, orbiting her with erratic frequency. Grandfather, too, though he hadn’t stayed all summer. But he’d visited for a day or two at a time, once a week, sometimes twice. Hovering over his broken daughter, Henry’s frail mother. Father had come twice, on weekends stiff and tense, bringing Robert with him. And in the fall, life had resumed as though the past winter had been a fever dream.

Better for Alice and Jay that they hadn’t been present to witness their dominant’s floundering these last two weeks. He would take tomorrow and the drive Saturday to return to the proper mindset for them—and for himself. To regain himself. To step back and release the past.

Therapy was never complete; it had no endpoint. But the peace he thought he’d made—Alice and Jay deserved that Henry. This Henry, the one stumbling out of memories past midnight, listening to his mother’s breaths as a soundtrack, he had nothing to offer them. Presumptuous, that this unbalanced man would claim to guide them and keep them safe. How could they trust him in this state? How could he trust himself?

He ought to sleep. But he should check on Mother first. In a few hours the day would begin again, and they had cardiac rehab to attend and goose to pick up and ballet tickets to pass off and errands to accomplish. Seven-year-old Henry could do none of those things.

Shoving one hand flat against the page, he tore with the other, a ragged sweep down the center. Half the portrait drifted to the floor, leaving a rough edge behind, one haunted green eye staring up at him.

He crumpled the face in his fist and deposited the mess in the trash. Leaving the room, he closed the door firmly behind.