Heart of the Matter (14 page)

Only at one point, about two hours after the surgery begins, does Valerie lose focus and let her mind wander to her foolish Saturdaynight stunt. She feels her face grow warm with shame, even though she knows she escaped unnoticed, that nobody will
ever
know what she did, and that it will never happen again. Still, she asks herself what she had hoped to gain or glean. And, God, what if Nick had seen her—or worse, he and his wife had
both
spotted her? What then? Would they have chalked the maneuver up to a mother so distraught that she lost her moorings, pitying her in more ways than one? Or would their explanation have been less benign, accusing her of stalking? Would Nick have been disturbed enough to recuse himself and turn Charlie over to another, lesser surgeon? The thought makes her literally shudder as she pulls her cardigan more tightly around her.

She asks herself
why
again—what made her go there?—and does her best to ignore the disturbing answer taking form in her mind. That there is something between them. An attraction. Or at least a connection. She shakes her head, dismissing her conclusion as wrong, delusional. She couldn’t possibly have feelings for a man she barely knows. And he certainly does not have feelings for her, other than mere compassion. She is just vulnerable, that’s all, and he is her salvation. She tells herself that it must be a common phenomenon—patients falling for their doctors, confusing gratitude with something more. In fact, she remembers reading something about it when she was pregnant—how some women develop crushes on their obstetricians. She thought it seemed inconceivable at the time, but looking back, perhaps she was just too preoccupied with Lion for a crush of any kind, however fleeting, to materialize.

So that is it, Valerie decides. She is a textbook case, nothing more. It suddenly makes perfect sense to her, especially given that Nick is so frightfully good to look at. Anyone could plainly see his beauty—his eyes, that hair, those shoulders—which is why so many of the single nurses swooned and giggled around him. Even those who were married, the kind who carried around brag books filled with photos of their husbands and children, seemed smitten.

Valerie crosses her legs and shifts her weight in her armchair, feeling relieved to find such a logical explanation for her erratic behavior. Nick is a brilliant, handsome surgeon—and she, not only single but, these days, utterly walled
off
from the rest of the world. She looks up, watching the second hand sweep across the face of the clock above her, convincing herself that the crush will soon pass, until a figure moving behind the frosted glass door of the waiting room breaks her concentration. She sits up straighter, hoping it is someone for her, someone with news or an update of some kind. Hoping that it is Nick.

Instead, Valerie looks up to see two women looming in the doorway. She recognizes one, but is slow to place her. She finally does, stiffening as she hears the woman say her name.

“Romy,” Valerie replies. “What are you doing here?”

Romy raises a big wicker basket filled with a bouquet of white and yellow flowers, which appear to be handpicked but artfully arranged, and fruit so waxy and perfect in appearance that it looks fake.

“I brought you this,” Romy says, carefully placing the basket at her feet. Valerie looks down, noticing a bottle of wine, angled opposite the flowers, raffia tied around its neck. She scans the French label, registers that the bottle is from a vineyard in Provence—and feels a wave of rage at the inappropriateness of wine at a time like this one. She glances around the room, feeling trapped, realizing she has nowhere to go, no possible escape route short of pushing past the women and running out the door. And of course, she can’t leave. She told Nick that this is where she would be.

Valerie acknowledges the basket with a nod, but refuses to thank Romy for the offering, instead turning to gaze at the other woman.

“Hello, Valerie,” she says, speaking slowly as if communicating with a foreigner. “My name is April. My daughter, Olivia, is in Charlie’s class. We just wanted to tell you that the whole class is behind you. The whole
school.
We’re all so terribly sorry for you and Charlie. How is he?”

“He’s fine,” Valerie says, instantly regretting this answer, especially as she studies April’s expression. There is something about it that Valerie finds distasteful—condescending and aggressive at once. Besides, Charlie’s not fine. He’s not fine at
all.
So she tells them, “He’s in surgery now.”

The two women exchange a surprised, uneasy glance, solidifying Valerie’s cynicism and suspicion that Romy is worried about a lawsuit, about parting with some of her money. She suddenly remembers Romy’s earrings—the big diamond studs she wore at the open house at school—and notices that small silver hoops are in their place. Gone, too, is her hulking engagement ring. Everything about her appearance is understated, a portrait of a woman trying hard to show she does not have deep pockets.

“Surgery?” Romy says.

“Yes. A skin graft.”

Romy’s hand reaches up to touch her own cheek. “How. . . is . . . his face?”

Valerie’s response is reflexive and terse. “I’d rather not discuss it.”

Another look is exchanged between the two friends, this one more overtly worried, self-interested. Romy’s lower lip quivers as she says, “We were just concerned.”

“About who?” Valerie snaps.

“About Charlie,” April says, stepping in to defend her friend.

Valerie bristles at the sound of her son’s name, spoken by this stranger who has no business being here in the first place.

“Look. I’m not going to sue, if that’s what you’re worried about. No matter how negligent you were.”

Romy looks as if she might cry, while April says, “She
wasn’t
negligent.”

“Oh?” Valerie says. “So you think it was a good idea to roast marshmallows at a birthday party with a bunch of little boys?”

“Accidents happen. Even when you’re careful,” Romy insists, her eyes now filling with tears.

“Well, can you tell me what happened?” she presses, her volume rising. She notices a man in the corner who has been engrossed in a book glance their way, sensing controversy. “Because your husband said he wasn’t sure. Do you know? Does
anyone
know?”

Romy stops her tears on demand, further proof that they are fake. “The boys were roughhousing.”

“Six-year-old boys will do that,” April adds.

“Right. So once
again,”
Valerie says, in her cross-examination mode, “how is unsupervised marshmallow roasting a good idea for a bunch of six-year-olds who are prone to roughhousing?”

“I don’t know. I’m . . . I’m
sorry,”
Romy says, her words empty, hollow.

“You should have started there,” Valerie snaps.

“She tried to start there,” April says. “You won’t take her calls.”

“I’ve been a little busy here. Forgive me.”

“Look,” Romy tries again. “We know your son is hurt and that you—”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Valerie says, standing, her voice louder. “You think you know me. But you have no clue. None.”

April taps Romy’s shoulder, then nods toward the door. “Let’s go,” she says.

“Great idea.
Please.
Go,” Valerie says. “And take your wine and flowers with you. Maybe you can use them at your next party.”

***

Minutes after the women leave, Nick arrives in the waiting room. He is not smiling, but he might as well be. Valerie has learned that this is his version of a happy face—relaxed but dauntless—and she knows in an instant that Charlie is okay. She stands expectantly, awaiting confirmation.

“He did great,” Nick says, which of course means that
Nick
did great.

This nuance is not lost on Valerie, who feels overcome with emotion as she says, “Thank you so much.”

Nick nods and says, “I’m really pleased with the results.”

Valerie thanks him again, as Nick cautions her that she won’t be able to tell much right now, that the graft still needs time to heal, the new vessels time to grow. “In other words, it might not look pretty to you—but it does to me.”

“Well, that’s what matters,” she says, recalling the before and after images on the computer that she pored over this weekend, all the worst-case scenarios she read about, all against Nick’s admonition to stay off the Internet. “Can I . . . see him?”

“Of course. He’s still asleep, but should be waking up soon,” Nick says, glancing curiously at the basket that the women left behind. “Is that yours?”

“No,” Valerie says, stepping purposefully over it, as she follows Nick’s eyes to the large white envelope clearly addressed to “Valerie and Charlie.”

She awkwardly plucks the card out of the basket, drops it into her bag, and stammers, “I mean, yes . . . it’s mine. But I think I’ll just leave it here. For other families . . . to enjoy. I’m not really in the
mood for wine these days . . .”

Nick shoots her a look, as if suspecting more to the story, but says nothing as he leads her out of the room to Charlie. Along the way, he is all business, talking more quickly and excitedly than usual, giving her details about the procedure, telling her how well everything went. When they arrive outside the recovery room, he motions for her to go in first. Valerie braces herself, but not enough for her first glimpse of Charlie in bed, looking smaller than ever. His body is covered with blankets, his scalp and face with dressings, only his nose, eyes, and lips showing. As Valerie watches an unfamiliar nurse take his vitals, she has the sudden urge to go to him, touch the pink of his neck, but she hangs back, frightened that she will somehow infect him.

“How’s he doing?” Nick asks the woman, who responds in a raspy voice, giving him numbers that mean nothing to Valerie.

Nick nods his approval as she makes notations on his chart and slips out the door.

“Come here,” Nick says, motioning her over to the bed.

As Charlie’s lids flutter and open, she feels ashamed for her hesitancy, for not being stronger in this moment. He is the one who has just endured four hours of surgery. He is the one with a mask over his face, an IV dripping into his body. All she had to do was wait.

“Hi, honey,” she says, forcing a smile, feigning courage.

“Mamma,” he says, the first name he ever gave her, when he was just a baby, abandoning it as he learned to talk and walk.

She feels overcome with relief to hear his voice, see the blue of his eyes.

“You did great,” she says, tears welling as she sits on the bed next to him. She rubs his legs through several layers of blankets, watching him struggle to keep his eyes open. After several seconds, his lids grow heavy and close again.

“Here. Let me show you,” Nick whispers, turning to put on a pair of latex gloves. He then goes to Charlie and, with the steadiest hand, removes the mask and peels back one corner of the dressing to reveal his work.

An uncontrollable gasp escapes Valerie’s lips as she looks down at her son’s face. Sheets of pale, translucent skin cover his cheek, all dotted with tiny holes draining blood and fluid. A ghostlike mask beneath his mask. A scene from a horror movie—the kind Valerie never lets herself glimpse, always hiding her face in her hands. She feels herself start to shake, but keeps the tears at bay.

“You okay?” Nick says.

She nods, gulping air, willing herself to exhale, get it together.

“Remember. It needs time to heal,” Nick says as he replaces the dressing and mask.

She knows she should say something, but can’t get any words out.

“It will look nothing like this in a few days. You’ll be amazed.”

She nods again, feeling dizzy, weak. She tells herself she cannot faint. That she will never forgive herself for fainting upon seeing her son’s face.

“It will turn back to a normal flesh color as it regains vascularity. And it will move like normal, too, after the skin heals and adheres to the underlying facial tissue and muscle.”

Say something,
she tells herself as she sits on the edge of Charlie’s bed.

“That’s why we’ll need that face mask, which should be here today or tomorrow. To keep constant pressure—to keep things in place as he starts to eat solid foods, talk, that sort of thing. It will also help control his pain—”

Valerie looks up at him, alarmed into finally speaking. “He’s going to be in pain? I thought you said there were plenty of pain meds?”

Nick points to the IV and says, “There are. But there will still be some discomfort—and the pressure helps with that.”

“Okay,” she says, the dizziness and terror clearing as she gathers facts she will need to help her son. “So he can drink now?”

Nick nods. “Yes. He can sip liquids, and we’ll go to soft foods in the next day or so. And other than that, he just needs rest. Lots of rest.

“Right, big guy?” Nick says as Charlie opens his eyes again.

He blinks, still too drowsy to speak.

“Right,” Valerie says for him.

“Okay then,” Nick says as he removes his gloves and shoots them, basketball style, into a wastebasket in the corner. He makes the shot, looking satisfied. “I’ll be back.”

She feels a sharp pain, wishing he weren’t going yet. “When?” she asks, instantly regretting the question.

“Soon,” Nick says. Then he reaches for her hand, squeezing it once, as if to tell her again that everything is going exactly as he hoped, exactly as it should.

13

Tessa

I
hate to say ‘I told you so,’” April calls to tell me on Monday morning while I maneuver my way down the crowded cereal aisle at Whole Foods.

“Nice try,” I say, laughing. “You
love
to say ‘I told you so.’”

“I do not,” April says.

“Oh, yeah? How ‘bout the time you told me that if I let Frank play in a public sandbox, he’d get pinworms?”

April laughs. “Okay. I loved that one—but not because he got pinworms! But because you and Nick mocked me for being paranoid.”

“You
are
paranoid,” I say. I often tease April about her incessant hand sanitizing and remind her that she does, in fact, have a few white blood cells. “But you were right... So what else were you right about?”