Heart of the Matter (15 page)

April pauses for a few seconds and then says, “Valerie Anderson.
I was right about Valerie Anderson.
What a bitch”

“What happened?” I say, bracing myself for the story to come, wondering if April somehow knew that Charlie was having surgery this morning.

“You won’t believe it,” April says, gearing up for her tale. Always colorful with anecdotes, even those involving minutiae of her life, April carefully sets the scene, describing the third-try care package that she and Romy so lovingly put together, how they had carefully selected the most exquisite bottle of wine from Romy’s wine cellar and the perfect bouquet from Winston Flowers.

Careful not to sound vitriolic, I say, “I thought you were going to lay off with that stuff? Give her some time and space?”

“We did. We waited a week or so, just like you suggested . . .And then Romy thought she’d give it one last college try.”

I toss a box of raisin bran into my cart, thinking that the expression
college try
really should be reserved for hitting on girls in bars, or negotiating a good deal on a used car, or running a six-minute mile. Not contacting the mother of a hospitalized child when she clearly doesn’t want to be contacted. I am also thinking that giving advice to April is like giving advice to Ruby—in one ear, out the other. The only difference is, April pretends to listen first.

“You know, extend the olive branch,” April says.

“Hmm,” I say, thinking this, too, is a very telling expression—and something of a contradiction to Romy’s spin that her efforts to reach out to Valerie are about sympathy and support for a fellow mother, rather than a blatant and unabashed quest to absolve herself.

“So Valerie didn’t take kindly to the gesture?” I ask.

“That’s the understatement of the decade,” April says, going on to give me a verbatim account of their exchange. How Valerie had refused the basket, telling Romy to use it for her next party. “She was so snide,” April says. “A complete bitch.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I say, choosing my words carefully and realizing that this might be the hallmark of a genuine friendship: how freely you speak.

“Yeah. And the more I think about it, the more I think it’s really pretty sad. I feel sorry for her.”

“You mean what happened to her little boy?” I ask purposefully, thinking that
this
is the understatement of the decade.

“Well, yes, there’s that. And the fact that she clearly has no friends.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“Well, for one, how could she have friends with such a bad attitude? And for another, why else would she be sitting in the waiting room alone? I mean—can you imagine if it were one of our children in this situation? We’d be surrounded by loved ones.”

I start to remind April of my initial premise—that perhaps Valerie
wants
to be alone—but she cuts me off and says, “She just strikes me as one of those bitter single women who hates the world. I mean, wouldn’t you think she’d be grateful? At least for Charlie’s sake? Our children are in the same class!”

“I guess so,” I say.

“So that’s that,” April says. “We officially give up. She’s on her own.”

“She might still come around,” I say.

“Well, she’ll have to ‘come around’ on her own. We’re done.”

“Understandable,” I say.

“Yeah . . . Oh—and we ran into your sweet husband on our way out.”

I stop in my tracks, praying that he wasn’t abrupt or chilly with them. “Oh?” I say. “Did he know why . . . you were there?”

“Probably,” she says. “But we didn’t discuss it . . . I didn’t want to put him in an awkward situation . . . So we just chitchatted. Talked about Longmere. And Romy made him the most generous offer to write Ruby a letter of recommendation. Told Nick she would be honored to do it. With a letter from a board member, you’re a virtual shoo-in.”

“Wow. That’s really nice,” I say.

“And I swear I didn’t raise the subject with her—it was all her idea. Isn’t she the
best!”

“Yes,” I say, feeling sickened by my two-facedness. “The
best.”

***

Four errands in the rain later, I return home to a disheartening domestic scene. Dirty dishes and peanut butter and jelly remnants are strewn all over the kitchen, and our family room is an explosion of dolls, puzzle pieces, and miscellaneous plastic parts. Ruby and Frank sit comatose, inches in front of the television, watching cartoons, and not the wholesome variety, but the kind rampant with lasershooting and sexism—men saving the day and helpless women with hourglass figures. There is a smear of grape jelly across Frank’s cheek, dangerously close to the arm of a taupe chair I knew I should have ordered in a darker shade, and Ruby is sporting a terry-cloth beach cover-up, despite the forty-degree, rainy day.

Meanwhile, our usual babysitter, Carolyn, a twenty-four-year-old Jessica Simpson look-alike, double Ds and all, is reclined on the couch, filing her nails and laughing into her iPhone. As I listen to her brainstorm nightclub venues for a friend’s birthday party, I marvel at her seeming inability to actually
work
during her measly ten hours a week in our home (as opposed to socialize, groom, snack, and obsessively e-mail and tweet) and feel a familiar brand of fury rising in my chest—an emotion I experience all too often since becoming a mother. It occurs to me to take my usual path of least resistance, nonchalantly head upstairs, pretending nothing is wrong, before speed-dialing Cate or Rachel with my standard Carolyn complaints.

But after my conversation with Nick last night, and the one with April earlier, I am in no mood to disguise my true feelings. Instead, I walk briskly past Carolyn and begin chucking toys into a wicker basket in the corner of the room. Clearly startled by my arrival, Carolyn hurries off her call, stows her nail file in the back pocket of her tight, skinny jeans, and straightens her posture. She does not, however, apologize for the mess or pitch in with my pointed cleanup effort, let alone sit up straight.

“Hi, Tessa,” she says cheerfully. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” I say, wishing I had enforced a little formality when she started working for us four months ago—maybe if I were “Mrs. Russo” she’d take her job a little more seriously. I grab the remote control from the coffee table and snap off the television to a chorus of protests.

“I don’t want to hear it,” I tell the kids with my sternest voice—which of course, only makes me feel worse. It’s not their fault that their babysitter is such a slouch.

Wide-eyed and still staring at the now-black television screen, Frank thrusts his thumb into his mouth, and Ruby sniffs and says, “It was almost over.”

“I don’t care. You’re not supposed to be watching television,” I say, more for Carolyn’s benefit.

“Carolyn said we could,” Ruby retorts, an answer I couldn’t have scripted better.

I turn and give Carolyn a raised-brow look as she flashes me an innocent, aw-shucks smile.

“They were being so
good.
And they ate every last green bean on their plates. I just thought I’d give them a special treat,” she says, playing good cop in a way that enrages me further.

“Right, right. . . But next time, let’s stick with Disney or Nickelodeon,” I say, smiling brightly, knowing that I am enforcing a double standard. That when I’m on the phone, I’ll let them watch most anything if it means a little peace. Then again, I am not financing Carolyn’s club-hopping and extravagant shopping sprees at French Lessons so that she can be
me.

“All right. Sure,” Carolyn says, as I think back to the day we interviewed her—or more accurately,
I
interviewed her while Nick sat distracted in the corner, pretending to be engaged in the process.

Afterward, he gave her two thumbs up, calling her “sweet and smart enough,” and accused me of being overly picky when I pointed out the red flags—namely her Rolex, Jimmy Choo sandals, and oversized Vuitton tote, along with her proclamation that housework wasn’t really her “thing.”

But I had to admit, she did have a good rapport with the kids, especially Ruby, who seemed to instantly adore her—or at least adored her long hair and magenta toenail polish. And she is better than the last three sitters we interviewed. One spoke little English; the next was a vegan who refused to even touch meat; the third an ideal Mary Poppins with clearly fictional references. And at this point, Carolyn is my only path to freedom—or at least freedom for ten hours a week. So I say her name as calmly as I can.

“Uh-huh?” she says, cracking her gum, as I plan my “I told you so” speech to Nick.

“I need to go upstairs and do a few things before you go. Would you please read them a book?”

“Sure,” Carolyn says perkily.

“And put some warmer clothes on Ruby?”

“Sure,” she says again. “No problem.”

“Thank you
very
much,” I say with exaggerated patience. Then I give both kids a perfunctory kiss, which only Frank reciprocates, and head up to my office, which is really more of a small alcove off our bedroom. It is one of the many things I wish I could change about our house, a Tudor built in 1912 that is long on charm but short on functional space.

For thirty minutes, I answer a few e-mails, order several long-overdue baby gifts, and download several hundred photos. Then, something compels me to open an old document, a syllabus for a class I taught called “Games and Sport in the Victorian Novel.” It was only two years ago, but it seems much longer, and I feel a sudden wistfulness for the discussions I led, the lectures covering chess and sexual politics in
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall,
social game-playing in
Vanity Fair,
and outdoor sports and the genteel dance in
The
Mayor of Caster bridge.

Then, as I hear a loud shriek from Ruby that I determine is one of glee not pain, I am overcome with a feeling of regret, an intense pang of missing my old life. The oasis of calm in my on-campus office, the afternoons I had to meet with my students, the intellectual stimulation and, frankly, the escape from my mundane world. A sense of loss washes over me, and I tell myself to get a grip. I’m just having a bad day. I’m just upset about the fight with Nick last night, the unsettling conversation with April, the chaos downstairs. Which is how life goes—when there is discord in one sphere, it spills over to all others.

I pick up the phone to call Cate, to get a much-needed pep talk. But all Cate wants is what I have—at least that’s what she thinks she wants—and I don’t really want someone telling me how great I have it. I’m not even in the mood to talk to Rachel, who always knows the right thing to say, perhaps because, as much as she complains, I think at core she loves being a stay-at-home mother. I even consider calling Nick, just to clear the air and vent about April, but I know he won’t be available to talk. And besides, I can just hear his neat solution to the problem, something like
Get your job back
or
Find
new friends or Fire Carolyn.

As if it’s that simple or straightforward, I think. As if
anything
in
life is ever that simple or straightforward.

14

Valerie

Nick
returns to check on Charlie every hour on the hour, until his last visit of the day when he shows up wearing Levi’s and a gray turtleneck sweater, a black bag and wool coat slung over his shoulder, clearly on his way home.

“How’s everyone doing?” he asks in a soft voice, glancing from a sleeping Charlie, to Jason, then finally to Valerie.

“We’re fine,” she whispers as Jason interrupts and says, “Hey, Doc. I was just telling Val she needs to get out. Go get some fresh air. Don’t you agree?”

Nick shrugs, feigning helplessness, then says, “Yes. But she never listens to me.”

“Yes I do,” Valerie says in a tone that sounds more girly than she intended. She looks away, feeling transparent, exposed, as she pictures Nick’s house and that golden light in the upstairs bedroom window.

“Oh, yeah?” Nick asks with a coy smile. “So you get plenty of sleep? And you eat three meals a day? And you avoid reading worst-case scenarios on the Internet?”

She blushes, mumbling, “Fine. I’ll go. I’ll go.” Then she stands, puts on her coat, and grabs her purse from her rocking chair.

“Where’re you going?” Jason asks.

“Not sure,” she replies self-consciously, aware that Nick is listening and watching her. “I’ll probably just pick up some takeout. Do you want something? Mexican?” she asks her brother.

Jason makes a face. “Nah. Never thought I’d say this—but I’m sick of burritos.”

“Have you tried Antonio’s?” Nick asks them both.

Valerie shakes her head and says, “No. Is it nearby?”

“Yeah. Right across the street. On Cambridge. It’s a little hole-in-the-wall—but the food is amazing. Better than anything on the North End. Best chicken and broccoli I’ve ever had—including my mom’s,” Nick says, patting the front pocket of his jeans as if checking for his keys.

“Sounds good,” Jason says, pointing decisively at Nick. He turns to Valerie and says, “Could you pick me up a piece of lasagna?”

“Sure,” she says.

“But take your time,” he says. “Eat there. I’m not that hungry.”

“That’s a first,” Valerie banters, realizing that on the contrary, she, for once, is famished. She kisses Charlie, now snoring, on his good cheek, then walks out the door, feeling Nick trail several steps behind her.

“I’m on my way out, too,” he says once they are alone in the hall. “I’ll walk you over there?”

It is a tentative offer, and Valerie opens her mouth to refuse, not wanting to be any trouble. But at the last second, she changes her mind and says, “I’d like that.”

Moments later, they are leaving the hospital together, entering a night so sharp and cold that it becomes an instant subject of conversation.

“Ugh,” Valerie says, pulling her scarf around her face as they fall into a quicker stride. “It’s freezing out here.”

“Yeah. We didn’t get much of a fall this year,” he says.