Heart of the Matter (32 page)

“That’s who you are, yes. But that’s not
all
you
are. You’re also my husband. Ruby and Frank’s father.”

“Right, I know. I know. But why does that mean I have to have a full social calendar? And that my kids have to go to a fancy private school? And that my wife has to be consumed with what other people think of us?”

“That’s how you see me?” I ask, my tears at their final tipping point. “As some kind of a lemming?”

“Tess. No. I don’t see you as a lemming. I see you as a smart, beautiful woman who . . .”

I begin to cry as he reaches over to touch my hand. “Who what?” I ask through tears.

“Who . . . I don’t know . . . Tess . . . Maybe something has changed in our life. I’ll grant you that. I just don’t think that thing is me.”

I look at him, feeling light-headed, the weight of his words making it difficult for me to breathe. It is the admission I have been driving for and now that I have it, I have no idea what to do with it.

“Maybe it is partly my fault,” I somehow manage to say, too afraid to ask about the text or anything else about Valerie. “But I still love you.”

(

Several seconds pass—seconds that feel like hours—before he
replies, “I love you, too, Tess.”

I look at him, holding on to the edge of the table and his words, wondering what kind of love we’re talking about and whether it will be enough.

36

Valerie

She
waits. And waits. And waits some more. She waits for ten excruciating days, the longest stretch of time she can remember, almost as agonizingly slow as the early days at the hospital. She stares at her BlackBerry, sleeping with it next to her pillow, the ringer on high. She parts the curtains, looking for his car whenever she hears a door slam outside. And when she can’t bear the waiting and wondering another second, she even breaks down and sends him a text that simply says,
Hope you’re okay?
She adds the question mark for the sole purpose of requesting a response, but she still hears nothing from him. Not a single word.

At first she gives him the benefit of the doubt she believes he’s earned, coming up with all sorts of excuses on his behalf. There’s been an emergency at work or at home. Someone’s hurt.
He’s
hurt. And the most implausible scenario of all—that he told his wife he is in love with another woman, that he is unwinding his marriage, filing for divorce, wishing for a clean break before they continue, together, on an honest, true path.

She feels foolish for even conceiving of such a notion (let alone dreaming about it, and once, in an especially desperate moment, even
praying
for it) when she knows what is far more likely. That he regretted what they did and what he told her. Or worse, that he didn’t mean it in the first place.

The emotions send her reeling back in time, to what she has come to call her stupid years, before she learned to protect herself with a wall of distrust and cynicism and apathy. The wounds Lion inflicted, wounds that she thought had healed long ago, are suddenly fresh and raw. She begins to hate him all over again, because it is easier than hating Nick. But she hates herself most of all—for being the kind of woman who gets herself in these situations.

“What is wrong with me?” she says, when she breaks down one bleak Tuesday afternoon at work, calling her brother, confessing what she did with Nick, and that she hasn’t seen him since, hasn’t even heard from him since his obligatory morning-after call.

“Nothing is wrong with
you”
her brother says, sounding halfasleep or stoned—maybe both.

“Something
is wrong with me,” she says, staring out her office window into another office across the block, where two men are
literally
standing next to a water cooler, laughing. “He had sex with me once, then ended things.”

“He didn’t exactly end things. He just hasn’t. . . followed up ...”

“It’s the same difference. And you know it.”

Jason’s silence erases another sliver of hope.

“So what do you think it was? Am I not pretty enough?” she asks, knowing she sounds like an anguished, broken teenager. She desperately doesn’t want to be in this category of women who gauge their self-esteem by a man, pin their hopes on another. Yet that is exactly what she did, what she continues to do by asking these questions.

“Are you kidding? You’re fucking gorgeous,” Jason says. “You got the face. The body. The whole package.”

“So what, then? Do you think it’s the sex? Maybe I suck in bed?” she says, just as she pictures Nick’s face, twisted with pleasure as he came inside her. The way he stroked her hair afterward. Kissed her eyelids. Ran his hand over her stomach and thighs. Fell asleep holding her, clutching her to him.

Jason clucks his tongue and says, “It’s usually not about sex, Val.”

“Then what is it? Am I boring? Too negative? . . . Too much baggage?”

“None of those things. It’s not you, Val. It’s
him . . .
Most guys are assholes. The gay ones, the straight ones. Hank’s a diamond in the rough,” he says, his voice radiant, the way it always is when he speaks of his boyfriend. The way she might have sounded only a few days ago. “But Nick . . . Not so much.”

“He was so
amazing with
Charlie,” she says, snapshots filling her head. “They had a rapport. A bond. You could see it. You can’t fake that.”

“Just because he’s a great surgeon and became attached to the best kid in the world doesn’t make him right for you. Doesn’t make him a good guy, either,” Jason says. “But I can see why you’d confuse the two. Anyone would. That’s what makes it even worse—what he did. It’s like . . . he took advantage of his position.”

She sighs in agreement, although she can’t quite make herself believe that he is that manipulative, that awful. It would be easier if she could. Then she could agree with her brother, agree that this rejection would be about
his
flaws, not hers.

“Charlie has an appointment with him next week. And we have another surgery scheduled for February,” she says, thinking of the number of times she has looked at her calendar, wondering what she will say to him when she walks in his office. “Should we find a new doctor?”

Jason says, “He’s the best, right?”

“Yes,” she says quickly, her heart breaking, but her loyalty, bizarrely, still intact. She remembers how she continued to praise Lion’s talent for months after their breakup. “Nick is the best,” she says.

“Well, then keep him as Charlie’s doctor,” Jason says.

“Okay,” she says, wondering what she will tell her son, what explanation she will give him as to why Nick no longer comes around, why it isn’t a good idea to call him from school or anywhere else. Why they only see him at the hospital or his office.

“How guilty should I feel?” she asks, thinking of Charlie, his words in the car about wishing Nick were his daddy.

“About what? Tessa?” Jason asks.

She freezes in her chair. “I was talking about Charlie. Not Nick’s wife . . . And would you care to tell me how you know her name?”

“Didn’t you . . . tell me . . . her name?” he stammers.

“No,” she says with absolute certainty. “I did not.”

“You must have.”

“Jason. I
know
I didn’t. I’ve never said her name aloud. How do you know her name?” she demands.

“Okay. Okay . . . So get ready for this one . . . It turns out Hank’s her tennis instructor.”

“You’re kidding me,” she says, dropping her head to her free hand.

“Nope.”

“So Hank knows? About Nick and me?”

“No. I swear I didn’t tell him.”

She isn’t sure she believes him, given the fact that Jason is an open book even when he’s
not
in love, but at this point, she practically doesn’t care, and numbly listens to her brother’s ensuing explanation.

“She’s been taking lessons with him for a while . . . Hank knew her husband was some hotshot surgeon, but he didn’t put it all together until last week when she mentioned one of her husband’s patients—a kid who burned his face at a birthday party.”

Valerie’s heart races. “What did she say about Charlie?”

“Nothing. She just said that Nick works a lot . . . Hank asked what kind of surgeon he was—and she told him. Used Charlie as an example . . . Small freaking world, huh?”

“Yeah. But I wouldn’t want to carpet it,” she says, one of their father’s favorite sayings.

“Exactly,” Jason says, the smile back in his voice.

She sighs, processing this new profile of Tessa, picturing a country-club lady of leisure. A Botoxed, lithe-limbed blonde indulging in midday tennis matches, shopping sprees at Neiman Marcus, champagne lunches at white-linen-tablecloth restaurants. “So she plays tennis? How nice for her,” Valerie says.

“You should pick up tennis,” Jason says, clearly trying to change the subject. “Hank said he’d give you free lessons.”

“No, thanks.”

“Why not?”

“I have to work, remember? I’m not
married
to a plastic surgeon. I only sleep with one when his wife’s out of town.”

Jason clears his throat and says her name as a “buck up, sis” reprimand.

“What?” she replies.

“Don’t let this thing sour you.”

“Too late.”

“Happiness is the best revenge, you know? Just be happy. It’s a choice.”

“Be happy, huh? Like Nick’s wife?” Valerie snaps. “Did Hank tell you how
happy
she is?”

Jason hesitates and then says, “Actually, he said she’s very pleasant. Down-to-earth.”

“Great. Fantastic,” she says, the guilt and remorse from Saturday morning replaced by a thick, strangling jealousy. “Is she gorgeous, too?”

She braces herself, realizing that there is no answer Jason can give her that would satisfy her. If Nick’s wife is unattractive, she will feel used. If Tessa is gorgeous, she’ll feel inferior.

“No. She’s not
gorgeous.
He said she’s attractive. But not gorgeous by any stretch.”

Valerie groans, feeling queasy and light-headed.

“Just remember, Val, she’s married to a cheater. You should feel sorry for her. Not jealous of her,” Jason says.

“Yeah,” she says, trying to convince herself that her brother is right, that she is better off without him, without any man. That he is Tessa’s problem, not hers. But in her heart, she knows that the only thing that has changed since Saturday morning is that he stopped calling her. She knew all along that he was married. She knew all along that he had a wife. She knew all along that she wanted something—
someone
—that didn’t belong to her and probably never would. This is what she gets. This is
exactly
what she deserves.

Jason blows his nose and then asks her if she’s going to be okay. She tells him yes, and hangs up, willing herself not to cry as she swivels her chair and stares up at a watermark on the ceiling.

Seconds later, the phone rings, the screen lighting up “private caller.” She answers it, assuming it is Jason with some follow-up Nick bashing, some nugget of relationship wisdom.

“Yeah?” she says.

“Hi, Val. It’s me,” she hears. She catches her breath, realizing that it is still her favorite voice in the world.

Rage and relief battle inside her as she says, “Hello, Nick.”

“How are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” she says as quickly and convincingly as she can. Her voice is cold—too cold to indicate indifference.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called . . .” he says.

“It’s okay. I understand,” she says, even though it isn’t and she doesn’t.

“I’ve just been confused . . . trying to work through some things . . .”

“You don’t have to explain. It’s really not necessary,” she says, hoping that he will anyway.

“Val,” he says, anguish in his voice that gives her a small degree of comfort. “Can I see you? Can you meet me somewhere? I need to see you. Talk to you.”

Her mind races. She knows she should say no. She knows she must protect her son’s heart, even if she isn’t willing to protect her own. Charlie is attached to Nick now—
fiercely
bonded—but if she continues to see him, it will only be worse when Nick disappoints her again. Her chest tightens as she prepares to tell him that it’s not a good idea, that Friday night was a mistake, and that she can’t afford to make another one. But she can’t do it. She can’t make herself shut the door completely. Instead, she opens her mouth and tells him she was just about to go for a walk in the Common, that he is welcome to join her.

“Where?” he says. “Where can I meet you?”

“By the Frog Pond,” she says as nonchalantly as she can, pretending that it isn’t a hopeful, sentimental choice. That it isn’t because she wants to walk with him in a place she loves, breathing in the cold winter air together. That it isn’t because she imagined the two of them taking Charlie there, ice-skating and drinking hot chocolate afterward. That it isn’t to create a vivid backdrop to the memory she hopes he wants to make. The explanation, the affirmation, the promise of what’s to come.

***

Minutes later, after touching up her makeup, running a brush through her hair, and telling her secretary she has to step out for an appointment, she is bundled up in her heavy black trench coat, making her way past the wharfs, emptied of their boats for the winter. She inhales the sharp, cold air, her eyes fixed on South Station looming ahead, set against a colorless sky. She crosses into the gritty downtown, passing electronics shops and Laundromats, dive bars and ethnic restaurants, falafel stands and roasted nut vendors. She keeps walking, amid throngs of holiday shoppers and aimless tourists, turning down Franklin Street, lined with its stately gray buildings, and finally reaching Tremont Street, with its view of the State House and the historic, cobblestone section of town. All the while, the wind whips in from the harbor, taking her breath away, slicing through her.

As she crosses the street and approaches the Common, she sees the infamous old homeless man, known by many as Rufus. He has been around for as long as she can remember, but hasn’t appeared to age, his dark skin lined with no more wrinkles than it was a dozen years ago, the gray hair only at his temples. She makes eye contact with him and thinks what she always thinks when she sees him in the cold winter months,
Why not move to Florida, Rufus?