The gifted son, p.11
The Gifted Son, page 11
The fear that had coursed through her as she’d cooked Jamie’s macaroni and cheese on that fateful day had not come out of nowhere. Her own last day of school had ended in tragedy. The girls all cut their uniforms to ribbons and wrote messages of love and good luck up and down each other’s arms with black markers. Afterwards Lillian and some of her friends had climbed onto the roof of the old convent greenhouse so they could throw water balloons at the other students. It had seemed so harmless on that pretty spring day. Their weapons were soft sacks of water, coloured translucent pink and green, like large jellybeans. But even that gentle rebellion had proven disastrous. The glass roof of the greenhouse was blackened by years of grime and mould. It had been in use when the nuns lived in the convent but by the time Lillian graduated all it contained were rotting gym mats and iron garden furniture mummified in drop sheets.
As they staked out the paved walkway below, Lillian had been careful to stand on the steel frame that held the ancient sheets of glass in place. Her friend Sandra hadn’t. There’d been a crack then a shriek as a pane broke beneath Sandra’s foot. She’d fallen, then stopped, caught by the steel frame she’d been straddling. Her left leg was sliced open in a long, deep gash. Seeing the blood, Sandra turned pale then fainted, her body jackknifed over the steel cross beam as her leg continued to gush onto the ground below. Lillian screamed for help as she clambered over to her friend and hauled her up onto the red-smeared roof. Blood was pulsing out of Sandra’s leg.
It was only thanks to a quick-thinking gardener she was saved. Lillian could still remember seeing him drop his wheelbarrow and bolt towards the greenhouse. ‘I wasn’t even supposed to work today,’ he’d said, as Sandra had been loaded into the ambulance. Lillian shivered at the memory, even all these years later.
When she got home, John was already asleep. She felt a ripple of resentment. Instead of climbing in next to him Lillian went downstairs in her dressing gown and opened the fridge. She assembled Ryvitas, cherry tomatoes and a few slices of ham on a plate and ate them standing up in the dark. She had hardly eaten all day, but she wasn’t hungry, she was restless. She felt unmoored. She wanted something. A bottle of chardonnay was sitting in the fridge door. Lillian grabbed it, uncorked it, and drank one glass after another until the sky began to lighten and she finally fell asleep on the couch.
She woke before John and made breakfast to take to Jamie. Before she left the house, she went to her jewellery box where she kept the crucifix her mother had given her when she got married. It was a thin gold cross on a fine gold chain. She fished it out from among the earrings and brooches and clipped it around her neck. It can’t hurt, she thought.
She was back at the hospital by eight. Impatient, she called St Nick’s again and was told Mr Hoover wasn’t available. She called Sergeant Hawke and asked if there was any update on the investigation. He said there was not.
‘There’s been no sign of Jeremy Morgan at the hospital?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’ Lillian was taken aback. ‘You still haven’t spoken to him?’ Caroline Morgan had left a casserole on the Hogarths’ doorstep with a kind note. Lillian had assumed Jez had given his statement and the officers were quietly working towards arresting the assailant.
‘Two officers doorknocked his house again on Monday but he wasn’t there,’ Sergeant Hawke said.
‘Oh.’
‘I promise I’ll call you as soon as there’s anything to report.’
Lillian returned to Jamie’s bedside to find him still sleeping, so she took out her sketchbook. She was behind on her designs for Valentine’s Day, which was when her sardonic greeting cards were particularly popular. Whenever she met with a store manager, they were always surprised to find the woman behind the illustrations was a thin, grey-blonde lady dressed in cashmere and linen, and not a gender studies graduate with a purple buzzcut and a nose ring. But she was feeling frazzled, so instead of working she sketched her son, creating a photo-real likeness of him with light grey strokes of lead. The broad end of his nose and heavy-set jaw marked him as the third John Hogarth, but his curious, artistic nature and feathery, dandelion eyelashes came from her side of the family.
After she’d filled two pages, a hospital worker scuffed into the room carrying a plastic lunch tray. Soon after John entered through the blue curtain, with a weary look on his face and his laptop tucked under his arm. ‘Is he awake?’
Lillian straightened her back but didn’t look up from her page. She heard the soft whoosh of a silk tie being pulled from its sheath under the fold of a collar. ‘Busy morning?’
‘Yes, and I’ve got to go back in, in an hour,’ John said.
‘Don’t you think your son needs you more than your staff?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice even. ‘In a year, nobody is going to be saying, “Wow, John Hogarth really delivered on that second quarter report.”’
John’s face pinched in a way Lillian recognised as genuine anguish as he tried to explain. ‘It’s … just a crucial time right now,’ he said finally.
Lillian bit back her irritation.
‘I bet you haven’t eaten. Why don’t I get us both something?’ John offered.
She nodded, softened by the gesture but not yet ready to forgive. John returned with two ham and cheese sandwiches, some blueberry muffins and the newspaper, which Lillian accepted with gratitude. As they ate their cafeteria food, she skimmed the headlines until one caught her attention: ‘Inspiring 11-year-old miraculously recovers from deadly brain cancer.’
Lillian put down her sandwich, spellbound. Mackenzie Keith had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumour, the paper said. Diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma. The community had rallied around the family, who were beloved for their charity work, but the doctors said there was no hope, and so the family called in a priest to give the girl the last rites.
‘He called on God to bless Mackenzie and keep her safe,’ Mackenzie’s mother, Miriam, was quoted as saying.
As they prayed, Miriam was filled with a divine peacefulness, and when she opened her eyes, she saw Mackenzie was awake and clear-eyed. Mackenzie said she was hungry, and so Miriam fed her some chicken soup. The family asked the priest to delay the death rites and come back the following day. But when he returned, Mackenzie was sitting up in bed, chatting with her parents and eating a piece of toast. They asked the priest to delay again.
In the following days, Mackenzie continued to improve. When they took her to the hospital an MRI scan showed her tumour had shrunk considerably. Within two months she was on her way to being in remission. The doctors were baffled. ‘It was a miracle,’ Miriam Keith told the paper.
Lillian gently tore the story out of the paper, folded it up and slipped it between the pages of her sketchbook. It offered a strange kind of comfort, much like the nurse’s story about the American baby. These glimmers of hope helped her stay positive about Jamie’s future. She glanced over at her husband, whose face was set in a mask of consternation as he pored over his laptop screen, and she reminded herself not to be so hard on him.
In the spirit of forgiveness, she asked, ‘Would you like me to get you something to drink? A Coke from the vending machine? Or a coffee?’ He smiled gratefully and said a Coke would be perfect. On her way down the hall she passed the noticeboard near the nurses’ station. She stopped in front of the fundraiser flyer for the spinal injury support group and thought of all the people who weren’t as fortunate as her family. She thought of Mackenzie Keith and her charitable parents and her mantra repeated itself in her head: Sow goodness to reap goodness.
Lillian took out her phone and went to the support group’s website to make a contribution. One thousand, no, two thousand dollars. As she tapped in her credit card details she could see the jewels in her brooch reflected by her phone screen and added another grand to the donation. She confirmed the donation and felt an uplifting sense of accomplishment. When she returned with John’s Coke, she had a little spring in her step.
Chapter 12
John
At quarter past eight the next morning, John sank into the leather chair in his office and groaned at the sight of an email from his loan manager sitting in his inbox with an angry red exclamation point next to it, signalling urgency. He knew it was a reminder that they were late on their repayment. When he clicked reply to promise he’d be transferring the balance this morning, he looked at the grey and blue company logo that appeared in his signature and he did have to admit that Ken was right when he said it needed updating. He heaved a desultory sigh and began to write his email.
Building software for lawyers was not the glamorous career John had pictured for himself when he was Jamie’s age and embarking upon a double degree in business and law. But for almost two decades it had made him a rich and respected man. The platform he and his partner, Ken Barker, had come up with was neat, elegant and highly adaptable, and because they had picked a niche where they had umpteen contacts, they were able to build a client base very, very quickly. Their customers were successful men who considered themselves VIPs and they liked the personal attention John, the company director, gave them when they had a grievance.
The year Jamie started at St Nick’s LegalAds was the administration platform of choice for every major law firm in the country. Then two competitors had launched. Xero and Quicken. At first John hadn’t been worried. They weren’t tailored to law firms, and they hardly made a dent in his business. Then, suddenly, clients began to drop off. Before they knew it, LegalAds was in hot water.
Now, the family savings were running out fast and he still hadn’t come clean to Lillian. He and Ken had taken out a significant loan to finance the overhaul of the platform. LegalAds 2.0. But nobody was buying it, which was why Ken was lobbying to hire a creative agency to do a rebrand. More long nights lay ahead. John thought of Lillian that morning, savagely cutting into a frittata for Jamie with a long, sharp knife, like she was trying to get it to give up state secrets.
‘Can your son expect you to make an appearance today?’ she’d said without turning around.
‘I go in when I can.’
She put down the knife, leaned forward on the bench and exhaled forcefully. ‘For what, thirty minutes? John, he needs you.’
There was a tremor in her voice that made him want to confess everything, to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness. But he’d been up all night running numbers in his head and was too stressed for such a delicate conversation. He needed to talk to Lillian when he could calmly reassure her he had a plan.
‘I’ll be at the hospital at lunch time,’ he’d promised, and given her a quick kiss then disappeared out the door.
He looked at his watch and began working through the correspondence that had come in overnight.
‘John! I wasn’t expecting you to be in.’ John’s silver-haired business partner stopped by the open office door.
‘This is where I can be the most useful,’ John said.
‘Yes, but—’ Ken looked over his shoulder then closed the door. ‘You know that cliché about nobody ever saying they wished they’d worked more on their deathbed?’
John smiled. ‘Without labour nothing prospers.’
‘Sophocles. Touché.’ Ken laughed.
‘Winning our old clients back is the only way we’re going to save this sinking ship. Now more than ever it’s important for me to make sure it doesn’t go under. For Jamie,’ John said.
Ken’s face grew serious. ‘How’s he doing?’
‘He’s still in the acute ward. But he’s brave. He’ll get through it.’
Ken smiled sadly. ‘That he will. And Lillian?’
‘You know Lillian. She’d donate her own spine if she could.’
‘She’s a fine woman.’
John nodded. Ken lingered in the doorway a moment then he patted down his suit as if checking he had everything. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if there’s anything I can do to help, give me a yell.’
‘I’m meeting with Justin Lester on Thursday to try and get his firm back on board. He’s a big fish. It might help if we both go.’
‘Consider it done. Anything else?’
John gave a gruff laugh. ‘Save the company.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Ken said, then disappeared.
John opened up his browser, intending to trawl for potential new clients, but instead he found himself searching ‘spinal rehabilitation, best in the world’. He had created spreadsheets to cross-reference credentials and costs. There was a treatment centre in Atlanta, Georgia, that had just been declared the best in America. He was also drawn to a place in Switzerland that was pioneering exoskeleton research. Its website beckoned with photos of healthful staff shot against the white peaks of the Alps under a sharp blue sky.
When times were good it would have been nothing for the family to decamp to Europe for a few months, where they could drink spring water and breathe restorative mountain air. But as it was, his son would have to settle for a centre nearer to home, and it was all John’s fault. He was staring blankly at his screen when Catherine messaged him: ‘Mr Hogarth, your 10 a.m. is here.’
‘Thank you, Catherine,’ he messaged back, clearing his throat and swiping at his face with his suit sleeve to soak up the tears that had gathered in his eyes.
John’s day was chewed up by three back-to-back meetings with prospective clients. He’d been feeling optimistic when he set them up but now his heart wasn’t in it. Even though they’d revamped their tech the platform still looked outdated. When he returned to his desk, he felt deflated. It was nearly five and he wanted to see his son, but there was so much work to get through. Then came a knock.
‘Yes?’
Catherine stepped nervously into his office. ‘I was wondering if I could get you anything, Mr Hogarth? Coffee? Tea? I ordered some more of that organic brand you said you liked. I got some new flavours too. Peppermint and an orange tea that I thought could be interesting.’ All week she had been trying to make up for not passing on Lillian’s messages from the hospital.
John smiled thinly. ‘Nothing for me, thank you.’
She lingered, standing before him in a boxy skirt and a shirt with an oversized collar that was similar to something he’d seen Kate wear. Only, where Kate’s fashion choices made her seem self-assured and successful, Catherine looked like a long-lost von Trapp. It reminded him that she was young, and she was trying. He could see how much she wanted to be helpful, so he gave her a more sincere smile and said, ‘You did a good job today, Catherine. Why don’t you take an early mark?’
‘Okay. Thanks, Mr Hogarth. Have a good night.’
She gave one of her peculiar curtsies, then left. Alone at last, John pulled over a report Catherine had delivered while he’d been out. There was a small white envelope sitting on top of the cover. John stared at it quizzically, then tore it open.
Dear Mr Hogarth,
I feel awful about the way I messed up last week and I know endless cups of coffee and different types of tea aren’t going to make up for it. I hesitated over writing this letter, but I want you to know that I’m trying really hard to be better. I know I’m lucky to have the opportunity to learn from you and Mr Barker and the others at LegalAds. I just wanted to let you know that I am concentrating and if there’s anything at all I can do to make it easier for you to see your son please let me know. I’m willing to go the extra mile to gain some experience. I just want to help and learn. Yours sincerely, Catherine
It was a strange way to address a workplace issue, but its naivety was part of its charm, and he was comforted to think that, despite Lillian’s frustration with him, the whole world did not see him as a heartless corporate cog. And as for seeing his son, he didn’t need to be told twice. He slid his work into his briefcase and headed for the hospital.
The next day, John asked Catherine to rearrange his morning and he went to sit with Jamie, grateful for the respite from trying to sell LegalAds 2.0 and the graphs that pointed catastrophically down. But as he returned to his office, he felt the pressure on his chest tighten once again, like a clamp. After he’d completed the day’s work he asked Catherine to come in to see him.
‘Yes, Mr Hogarth?’ She appeared a second later with a notebook and pen in hand, awaiting a directive. John cleared his throat. ‘I received your card.’
‘I hope I didn’t overstep,’ she said quickly.
‘No, not at all. I suppose, I might have been a little hard on you last week.’
Every muscle in Catherine’s body seemed to relax before his eyes and John realised just how overwrought she’d been after the incident. ‘How are you finding things here?’
She took the question as an invitation to sit in the chair opposite John’s desk. ‘I like it. This is my first office job. I know I seem old to be starting out but I had a few false starts at university. Then I stopped and went travelling, then I panicked and went back to uni. I’m eager to catch up. I have friends who are bosses of their own companies. Start-ups, but still.’ They were silent for a moment until Catherine pointed to a photo on John’s desk. ‘Is this your daughter?’
‘Yes, that’s my Kate.’ He picked up the framed photo with the Opera House in the background. It had been taken when the family had been out celebrating one of Kate’s many promotions. Kate wore her chemically straightened hair in a blunt bob that was perfectly in line with her jaw, so that even when she was supposed to be enjoying herself she looked like she was about to step into a board meeting.
‘She looks so glamorous. That is exactly what I always thought adulthood would be like, wearing high heels and fancy suits with crimson nail polish, going to meetings and business dinners.’
Catherine talked about Kate’s corporate garb the way little girls talk about wanting to grow up to be princesses. ‘I’m not sure it’s a life I’d necessarily recommend,’ John said. ‘She works very hard. She’s under a lot of pressure. Sometimes I think too much pressure.’
