Alex listened in silence while Marsh repeated his idea of sending Alex into an advanced program at Stanford. As he talked, Marsh kept his eyes on his son, trying to see what effect his words might be having on the boy.
Apparently there was none.
Alex’s expression never changed, and Marsh suddenly had the uneasy feeling that Alex wasn’t even hearing him. “Well?” he asked at last. “What do you think?”
Alex was silent for a moment, then stood up. “I’ll have to talk to Dr. Torres about it,” he said. He started out of the room. “Good night, Dad.”
For a moment, all Marsh could do was stare at his son’s retreating back. And then, like a breaking storm, fury swept over him. “Alex!” The single word echoed through the house. Instantly Alex stopped and turned around.
“Dad?”
“What the hell is going on with you?” Marsh demanded. He could feel blood pounding in his veins, and his fists clutched into tight knots at his side. “Did you even hear me? Do you have any idea of what I was saying to you?”
Alex nodded silently, then, as his fathers furious eyes remained fixed on him, began repeating Marsh’s words back to him.
“Stop that!” Marsh roared. “Goddammit, just stop it!”
Obediently Alex fell back into silence.
Marsh stood still, forcing his mind to concentrate on the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, willing his rage to ease. A moment later he became vaguely aware that Ellen, too, was in the room now, her face pale, her frightened eyes darting from him to Alex, then back again.
“Marsh?” she asked uncertainly. “Marsh, what’s going on?” When Marsh, still trembling with anger, made no reply, she turned to her son. “Alex?”
“I don’t know,” Alex replied. “He was talking about me going to college, and I said I’d talk to Dr. Torres about it. Then he started yelling at me.”
“Go to bed,” Ellen told him. She gave him a quick hug, then gently eased him toward the hall. “Go on. I’ll take care of your father.” When Alex was gone, she turned to Marsh, her eyes damp. When she spoke, her voice was a bleak reflection of the pain she was feeling, not just for her son, but for her husband too. “You can’t do this,” she whispered. “You know he’s not well yet. What do you expect from him?”
Marsh, his anger spent, sagged onto the couch and buried his face in his hands.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said softly. “It’s only that talking to him just now was like talking to a brick wall. And then all he said was that he’d talk to Torres about it. Torres!” he repeated bitterly, then gazed up at her, his face suddenly haggard. “I’m his father, Ellen,” he said in a voice breaking with pain. “But for all the reaction I get from him, I might as well not even exist.”
Ellen took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “I know,” she said at last. “A lot of the time I feel exactly the same way. But we have to get him through it, Marsh. We can’t just send him off somewhere. He can barely deal with the people he’s known all his life — how would he ever be able to deal with total strangers?”
“But he’s so bright …” Marsh whispered.
Ellen nodded. “I know. But he’s not well yet. Raymond—” She broke off suddenly, sensing her husband’s animosity toward the man who had saved Alex’s life. “Dr. Torres,” she began again, “is helping him, and we have to help him too. And we have to be patient with him, no matter how hard it is.” She hesitated, then went on. “Sometimes … well, sometimes the only way I can deal with it is to remember that whatever I’m going through, what Alex is going through must be ten times worse.”
Marsh put his arms around his wife and pulled her close. “I know,” he said. “I know you’re right, but I just can’t help myself sometimes.” A rueful smile twisted his face. “I guess there’s a good reason why doctors should never treat their own family, isn’t there? Lord knows, my bedside manner deserted me tonight.” His arms fell away from Ellen as he stood up. “I’d better go apologize to him.”
But when he entered Alex’s room, his son was sound asleep. As far as he could see, even his rage hadn’t affected the boy. Still, he laid his hand gently on Alex’s cheek. “I’m sorry, son,” he whispered. “I’m sorry about everything.”
Alex rolled over, unconsciously brushing his father’s hand away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At a few minutes past nine on Saturday morning, Bob Carey maneuvered his father’s Volvo into the left lane of the Bayshore Freeway, and three minutes later they left Palo Alto behind. Alex sat quietly in the back seat next to Lisa, his ears taking in the chatter of his three friends while his eyes remained glued to the world outside the car. None of it looked familiar, but he studied the road signs carefully as they passed through Redwood City, San Carlos, and San Mateo, then began skirting the edge of the bay. His eyes took in everything, and he was sure that on the return trip that afternoon, even though he would be seeing it all from the other direction, all of it would be familiar.
Then, a little north of the airport, Bob veered off the freeway and started inland.
“Where are we going?” Kate Lewis asked. “We want to go all the way into the City!”
“We’re going to the BART station in Daly City,” Bob told her.
“BART?” Kate groaned. “Who wants to ride the subway?”
“I do,” Bob told her. “I like the subway, and besides, I’m not going to drive Dad’s car in the City. All I need is to have to try to explain how I smashed a fender on Nob Hill when I was supposed to be in Santa Cruz. I’d wind up grounded lower than Carolyn Evans was.”
Kate started to protest further, but Lisa backed Bob up. “He’s right,” she said. “I had to argue with my folks for half an hour to keep from having to bring Kim along, and if we get caught now, we’ll all be in trouble. Besides, I like BART too. It’ll be fun!”
Forty minutes later, they emerged from the BART station, and Alex gazed around him, knowing immediately where he was. Yesterday he’d found a tour guide to San Francisco in the La Paloma bookstore, then spent last night studying it. The city around him looked exactly like the pictures in the guidebook. “Let’s ride the cable car out to Fisherman’s Wharf,” he suggested.
Lisa stared at him with surprised eyes. “How did you know it goes there?” she asked.
Alex hesitated, then pointed to the cable car that was just coasting onto the turntable at Powell and Market. On its end was a sign that read “Powell & Mason” and, below that, “Fisherman’s Wharf.”
They wandered around the wharf, then started back toward the downtown area, through North Beach on Columbus, then turning south on Grant to go into Chinatown. People milled around them, and suddenly Alex stopped dead in his tracks. Lisa turned to him, but he seemed unaware of her. His eyes were gazing intently at the faces of the people around him.
“Alex, what is it?” she asked. All morning, he’d seemed fine. He’d asked a few questions, but not nearly as many as usual, and he’d always seemed to know exactly where he was and where they were going. Once, in fact, he’d even told them where a street they were looking for was, then, when asked how he knew, admitted to having memorized all the street signs while they rode the cable car. But now he seemed totally baffled. “Alex, what’s wrong?” Lisa asked again.
“These people,” Alex said. “What are they? They don’t look like us.”
“Oh, Jeez,” Bob Carey groaned.
“They’re Chinese,” Lisa said, keeping her voice as low as she could, and silencing Bob with a glare. “And stop staring at them, Alex. You’re being rude.”