Heart of the Matter (37 page)

Then I say, “I know you’re going to want to tell Rachel. And that’s fine. But please don’t say anything to Mom, I want to tell her myself.”

“You got it, Tess,” Dex promises. Then he exhales loudly and says, “Dammit.”

“I know.”

“I can’t fucking
believe
he did this.”

His loyalty, so fierce and unwavering, makes my eyes water, my heart ache. I tell myself I can’t cry. Not right before going home. Not on Christmas Eve.

“It’s going to be okay,” I say as I pass the Church of the Advent where families are mingling on the sidewalk, a service just over or one about to begin.

“Can I call him?” he says.

“I don’t know, Dex . . .” I say, wondering what good could possibly come from it. “What would you say?”

“I just want to talk to him,” he says, making me think of a mobster going to “talk” to someone with a pistol tucked into his waistband.

I drive along Charles, its storefronts closed and dark, and say, “There’s no point really . . . I think I’ve made my decision.”

“Which is?”

“I think I’m leaving him . . . I don’t want to live a lie,” I say, thinking of April, suddenly deciding that her way is not an option for me.

“Good,” he says. “You should.”

I am surprised by his definitive answer, especially because of how much he has always liked Nick.

“You think he’d do it again, don’t you?” I ask, thinking of our father, certain that Dex is, too.

“I don’t know. But I don’t think you should stick around and find out,” Dex says.

I swallow hard, wondering how I could feel so conflicted by his sure advice. Although I am comforted by his black-and-white stance, I also feel the urge to soften it, force him to acknowledge that this is murky terrain.

“You would never do this to Rachel,” I say. “Would you?”

“Never,”
he says with all the certainty in the world. “Absolutely never.

“But. . . you—”

“I know,” he says, cutting me off. “I know I cheated before. But not on
Rachel.”
He stops suddenly, likely realizing his painful implication. That he wouldn’t cheat on his wife, the love of his life. That people don’t cheat on their true love.

“Right,” I say.

“Look,” Dex says, trying to backtrack. “I’m not saying Nick doesn’t love you. I’m sure he does . . . But
this . . .
This is just. . .”

“What?” I say, bracing myself.

“This is just
unforgivable,”
Dex says.

I nod, my eyes filling with tears as I replay the word in all of its forms—
unforgivable, forgive, forgiven, forgiveness.
It is the word that echoes in my head as my brother and I exchange
I
love yous
and
good-byes
and I drive back to Wellesley, past April’s house, its windows trimmed with scarlet-bowed wreaths, then into my own driveway where I see Carolyn’s white Saab parked in Nick’s usual spot. I can still hear it as the kids and I put sugar cookies and eggnog out for Santa and while I sit in the basement, wrapping presents, reading leaflets of small-print instructions, and assembling plastic parts.
Can I forgive Nick?
I think with every ribbon curled, every turn of the screwdriver.
Can I ever forgive him?

There are other questions, too—more than I can possibly keep track of, some that seem to matter, others that don’t at all but still can’t be silenced.
What would my friends do? What will my mother say? Do I still love my husband? Does he love me, or another woman, or both of us? Does she love him? Is he truly sorry? Was it really only once? Would he ever do it again? Does he want to do it again? What does she have that I don’t? Did he confess out of guilt or loyalty? Did he really end things—or did she? Does he truly want to come home or does he simply wish to keep his family together? What is best for the kids? What is best for me? How would my life change? Would I be okay? Will I ever be okay again?

40

Valerie

Valerie can never decide whether New Year’s Eve is more about looking backward or ahead, but this year, both make her think of Nick, both make her equally miserable. She misses him terribly, and is certain she still loves him. But she is angry, too, especially tonight. She feels sure he never confessed a thing to his wife, and can’t shake the romantic, cozy images of the two of them, ushering in the new year with champagne toasts and lingering kisses and grand plans for their future—perhaps a new baby so that Nick can really wipe last year’s slate clean.

At one point, she becomes so convinced that he has forgotten her altogether, that she nearly breaks down and sends him a text, an innocuous one-line happy-new-year greeting, if only to spoil his evening and remind him of what he did.

But she decides against it, both because she is too proud and because she doesn’t really mean it. She doesn’t want his new year to be happy. She wants him to suffer as much as she does. She is ashamed of this, and ponders whether you can truly love someone you wish misery upon. She is not sure of the answer, but decides it doesn’t much matter, because the answer won’t change anything. There is
nothing
she can do to change anything, she thinks, as she sits down at the kitchen table with Charlie and suggests that they write down resolutions for the coming year.

“What’s a resolution?” Charlie asks, as she slides a sheet of lined yellow notebook paper toward him.

“It’s like a goal... A promise to yourself,” she says.

“Like promising to practice the piano?” he asks, something he hasn’t done much since the accident.

“Sure,” she says. “Or resolving to keep your room clean. Or make new friends. Or work
really
hard in therapy.”

He nods, gripping his pencil and asking her how to spell
therapy.
She helps him sound out the word, then writes on her own paper:
Eat fewer processed foods, more fruits and vegetables.

For the next thirty minutes, they continue like this, concentrating, spelling, discussing, until they’ve each come up with five resolutions—all practical and predictable and utterly doable. Yet as she tapes their lists to the refrigerator, she knows that the exercise, while productive, was something of a sham—that there is only one resolution that matters to both of them right now:
get over Nick.

To that end, she makes the night as fun and festive as possible, playing endless rounds of go fish, watching
Star Wars,
and letting Charlie stay up until midnight for the first time ever. As the ball drops in Times Square, they drink sparkling cider out of crystal flutes and toss handfuls of confetti that they made with a hole punch and construction paper. Yet all the while, she can feel the hollow, forced joy in her efforts, and worse, she senses it in Charlie, too, especially as she tucks him into bed that night. His expression is too earnest, his hug around her neck too tight, his words too formal as he tells her how much fun he had, actually
thanking
her.

“Oh, sweetie,” she says, thinking that she must be the only mother in the world who wishes her son would
forget
to say thank you. “I love spending time with you. More than anything.”

“Me too,” he says.

She pulls the covers up to his chin and kisses both of his cheeks and his forehead. Then she says good night and goes to her own bed, checking her phone one last time before she falls asleep and wakes up to the new year.

***

She has always hated January for all the usual reasons—the postholiday letdown, the short, dark days, and the miserable Boston weather that, despite having never lived elsewhere, she knows she will never get used to. She hates the nor’easter gales, the ankle-deep gray slush, the endless stretches of painful, single-digit cold—so bitter and biting that thirty-degree days actually feel like a reprieve, a tease for spring, until the rain comes and the temperature drops like a stone, freezing everything solid once again.

But this year,
this
January, is especially unbearable. And as the days pass, she starts to worry that she will never emerge from her funk. She feels profound disappointment over Nick, along with near-constant worry for Charlie, both coagulating in her heart, fading into plain old bitterness, a state of being she has always guarded against, even at her lowest.

One afternoon toward the end of the month, Summer’s mother calls her while she is at work. She feels a spike of negativity, remembering her daughter’s words on the playground, bracing herself to hear about another incident.

But Beverly’s voice is warm and breezy, no hint of trouble anywhere. “Hi, Valerie! Did I catch you at a bad time?” she asks.

Valerie glances at the pile of documents on her desk, her stomach in knots as she replies, “No. Not at all . . . It’s nice to have a break from the fascinating world of insurance recovery.”

“Sounds only slightly better than the fascinating world of accounting,” Beverly says, laughing robustly, reminding Valerie that, against all odds, she actually
likes
this woman. “So how’ve you been? Did you have a good holiday?” she continues.

“Yeah,” Valerie lies. “It was good. How was yours?”

“Oh—it was okay, but absolute
chaos.
We had my husband’s kids this year—all four of them—
and
his former in-laws . . . which is a long, totally bizarre story I won’t bore you with . . . So to tell you the truth, I was really ready to go back to work. And I don’t even
like
my job.” She laughs again as Valerie decides, with relief, that if something went wrong at school today, it can’t be all that dire.

“So did you hear the news?” Beverly asks, amusement in her voice.

“The news?” Valerie says, refraining from telling Beverly that she is not in the social loop at school—or anywhere, for that matter.

“About the latest love connection?”

“No,” Valerie says, unwittingly picturing Nick,
always
picturing Nick.

“Summer and Charlie,” Beverly says, “are an item.”

“Summer and
Charlie?”
Valerie echoes, sure that Beverly has her facts wrong—or perhaps is making some sort of bad joke.

“Yeah. Apparently it’s pretty serious . . . In fact, we should probably sit down and start hammering out the details for the wedding and rehearsal dinner. I think we should keep it low-key. . . don’t you?”

Valerie smiles, slightly disarmed, as she says, “Low-key is always good with me . . . Although, I must confess, I don’t have a lot of experience with wedding plans.”

It is something she wouldn’t ordinarily say, the sort of personal information she always keeps close to the vest, and feels uneasy until Beverly laughs and chimes in with, “No worries. I’ve done it three times. So together we’re just about normal.”

Valerie laughs a real laugh, her first of the year, and says, “Normal would be nice.”

“Normal would be
very
nice. I can’t fathom it, though . . .” Beverly says with merry acceptance. “So anyway. Yes. Charlie and Summer . . . I’m really pleased . . . Wasn’t wild about her last boyfriend. At least, I wasn’t crazy about his mother—which is all that matters, right?”

Valerie asks who her last boyfriend was, feeling a rush of cheap delight when Beverly says Grayson’s name. But she still refrains from making a derogatory comment about Romy, and instead says, “Did they have a ... falling-out?”

“Not really sure of the details. I know they—
she
—called it quits right before Christmas. I think his gift wasn’t up to snuff . . . or at least it couldn’t compete with the beaded bracelet Charlie gave her.”

Valerie’s mouth falls open, as she remembers the bracelet Charlie made in therapy, the one she assumed was for her, but never showed up under the tree. “Really? He didn’t tell me,” she says, shocked—in a good way.

“Yeah. It was purple and yellow—Summer’s favorite colors. . . You’ve clearly taught him well.”

Valerie smiles, appreciating this spin on Charlie’s gesture, appreciating any scrap of approval she can get, especially in the parenting department. “I try,” she says.

“So anyway, I was just calling to see if the two of you wanted to join us this Saturday for a playdate? A chaperoned first date of sorts?” Beverly says.

Valerie turns toward the window, watching dusk and sleet fall upon the city. “That sounds great. We’d love to,” she says, surprised to realize that she actually means it.

***

Later that night, over tacos at Jason’s, she decides to tell Charlie about the playdate with Summer. She is excited for her son, although part of her still wonders if the crush has been manufactured by Beverly, spawned from maternal guilt.

“Oh, Charlie,” she says nonchalantly, spooning diced tomatoes and onions onto her plate in the assembly line Hank has created along the kitchen counter. “Summer’s mother called today.”

Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees Charlie look at her, his small eyebrows arched with curiosity. “What did she say?” he asks.

“She invited you over to play on Saturday. She invited both of us over. I told her yes. Is that okay? Would you like to go?”

She looks at him, awaiting his reaction.

“Yes,” he says, a small srnile flashing across his face, confirming everything.

Valerie smiles back at him, feeling happy to see
him
happy, but also awash with a new brand of protectiveness—the kind that comes when things are going well. It occurs to her that she has always believed in keeping expectations low. You can’t get hurt if you don’t care. Nick has proven that theory.

“Now. Wait. Who is Summer?” Jason asks—even though Valerie is sure that he knows exactly who Summer is — while Hank looks on curiously.

“A girl in my class,” Charlie says, his ears turning a telling shade of pink.

Hank and Jason exchange a knowing smirk and then Hank breaks the ice with a hearty, “Charlie! Do you have a
girl
friend?”

Charlie hides another, broader smile with his taco shell and shrugs.

Jason reaches over and punches him on the shoulder. “Go, Chuck! Is she pretty?”