Read Heart of the Matter Online
Authors: Emily Giffin
Tags: #Psychological, #Life change events, #Psychological Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Single mothers, #Fiction, #Fiction - General, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #American Contemporary Fiction - Individual Authors +, #Stay-at-home mothers, #General, #Pediatric surgeons
Heart of the Matter (8 page)
***
The following morning, while Charlie is still dozing, Dr. Russo comes to examine his hand. Valerie can tell right away that something is wrong despite his impassive expression and slow, deliberate movements.
“What’s wrong?” she says. “Tell me.”
He shakes his head and says, “It’s not looking good. His hand. There’s too much swelling . . .”
“Does he need surgery?” Valerie asks, steeling herself for bad news.
Dr. Russo nods and says, “Yeah. I think we need to go in there and release the pressure.”
Valerie feels her throat constrict at the thought of what “going in there” entails until he says, “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. We just need to release the pressure and do a graft on his hand.”
“A graft?” she says.
“A skin graft, yes.”
“From where?”
“His leg—the thigh area. Just a little strip of skin is all we’ll need . . . Then we’ll put it in a meshing machine and expand it—and secure it to his hand using a few surgical staples.”
She can feel herself wince as he continues, telling her the whole graft will be nourished by a process called plasmatic imbibition—which means that the graft literally drinks plasma, then grows new blood vessels into the transplanted skin.
“You make it sound easy,” she says.
“It
is
pretty easy,” he says, nodding. “I’ve done thousands.”
“So there’s no risk?” she asks, wondering if there’s a judgment call involved, whether she should seek a second opinion.
“Not really. The main concern is fluid accumulation under the graft,” he continues. “To prevent this from happening, we’ll mesh the graft with tiny rows of short, interrupted cuts.” He makes a small cutting motion in the air and continues. “Then, each row will be offset by half a cut-length, like bricks in a wall. In addition to allowing for drainage, this allows the graft to both stretch and cover a larger area . . . and more closely approximate the contours of the hand.”
She nods, feeling queasy but reassured by the precise science of it all. “I’ll also be using VAC therapy—Vacuum Assisted Closure—which does pretty much what it sounds like it does. I’ll place a section of foam over the wound, then lay a perforated tube onto the foam, securing it with bandages. A vacuum unit then creates negative pressure, sealing the edges of the wound to the foam, and drawing out excess blood and fluids. This process helps to maintain cleanliness in the graft site, minimizes the risk of infection, and promotes the development of new skin while removing fluid and keeping the graft in place.”
“Okay,” she says, taking it all in.
“Sound good?” he asks.
“Yes,” she says, thinking she does not want a second opinion, that she trusts him completely. “And then what?”
“We’ll keep his hand immobilized in a splint for four or five days, then continue therapy and work on function.”
“So . . . you think he’ll be able to use it again?”
“His hand? Absolutely. I’m very optimistic. You should be, too.”
She looks at Dr. Russo, wondering if he can tell that optimism has never been her go-to emotion.
“Okay,” she says, resolving to change that.
“Are you ready?” he asks.
“You’re going to do the surgery
nowT
she asks nervously.
“If you’re ready,” he says.
“Yes,” she tells him. “I’m ready.”
Tessa
The
accident seems to be all anyone can talk about—at least among the stay-at-home mothers in town, the ranks of whom I’m slowly infiltrating. The subject arises at Frank’s playgroup, Ruby’s ballet class, on the tennis courts, even in the grocery store. Sometimes the women know of Nick’s connection to the boy, openly giving their condolences to pass along. Sometimes they have no clue, relaying the story as if it were the first time I’d heard it, exaggerating the injuries in ways I’d discuss with Nick later. And sometimes, in the most annoying instances, they know, but pretend not to, transparently hoping that I will divulge some inside information.
In almost all cases, they speak in hushed voices with grave expressions, as if, on some level, relishing the drama. “Emotional rubbernecking,” Nick calls it, disdainful of anything smacking of gossip. “Don’t these women have anything better to do with their time?” he asks when I report happenings on the grapevine, a sentiment I tend to agree with, even when I am a guilty participant in the chatter, speculation, and analysis.
Even more striking to me, though, is the distinct sense that most of the women seem to identify more with Romy than the little boy’s mother, saying things like, “She shouldn’t be so hard on herself. It could happen to anyone.” At which point, I nod and murmur my agreement, both because I don’t want to make waves and because, in theory, I believe it’s true—it
could
happen to anyone.
But the more I hear talk of how poor Romy hasn’t slept or eaten for days, and what happened in her backyard wasn’t really her fault, the more I begin to think that it
is
her fault—and that she and Daniel
are
to blame. I mean, for chrissake, who lets a bunch of sixyear-old boys play with fire? And if you
are
responsible for such an egregious lapse of judgment and plain common sense, well, I’m sorry, you probably
should
feel guilty.
Of course I downplay these feelings to April, who has become understandably obsessed with Romy’s emotional (and potential legal and financial) plight, sharing all the details with me in the way that close friends always share details about other close friends. I do my best to be sympathetic, but one afternoon, when I meet April for lunch at a little bistro in Westwood, I can feel myself losing patience when she starts in with an indignant tone. “Valerie Anderson still refuses to speak to Romy,” she says, seconds after our lunch arrives.
I look down at my salad as I smother it with blue cheese dressing which, I realize, defeats the point of ordering the salad—and certainly of ordering dressing on the side.
April continues, her tone becoming more impassioned. “Romy’s been by the hospital with artwork from Grayson. She’s also sent Valerie several e-mails and left her a couple of messages.”
“And?”
“And nothing back. Absolute stone-cold silence.”
“Hmm,” I say, poking a crouton with my fork.
She takes a dainty bite of her own salad, tossed with fat-free balsamic, then chases it with a liberal gulp of chardonnay. Liquid lunches are April’s favorites—the salad an afterthought. “Don’t you think that’s rude?” she finishes.
“Rude?” I repeat, gazing back at her.
“Yes,” April says emphatically.
“Rude.”
Choosing my words carefully, I say, “I don’t know. I suppose so ... But . . . at the same time . . .”
April absentmindedly reaches up to shift her long ponytail from one shoulder to the other. Her looks, I have always thought, do not match her true personality. Her curly auburn hair, combined with her smattering of freckles, perky nose, and athletic build, conjure a laid-back, outdoorsy type—a former field-hockey player turned gowith-the-flow soccer mom. When, in fact, she is as uptight and
indoorsy
as they come—her idea of camping is a four-(rather than five-)star hotel; and to her, ski trips are about fur coats and fondue.
“But at the same time, what?” she asks, pressing me to put into words what I’d rather leave to implication.
“But her son’s in the hospital,” I say bluntly.
“I know that,” April says, giving me a blank stare.
“Well, then?” I make a gesture that would be captioned,
Well, then, what is your point?
“Okay,” April says. “I’m not saying Valerie should be all buddy-buddy with Romy or anything . . . but would it kill her to return a simple phone call?”
“I suppose that would be the right thing to do—at least the
nice
thing to do,” I say reluctantly. “But I don’t think she’s really thinking much about Romy. And I don’t think we really know what this woman is going through.”
April rolls her eyes. “We’ve all had sick children,” she says. “We’ve all been to the ER. We all know what it’s like to be scared.”
“C’mon,” I say, appalled. “Her kid’s been in the hospital for
days.
He has third-degree burns on his face. His right hand—the hand he uses to write and throw a ball—is totally messed up. He’s had one surgery already and there will be more to come. And he will probably
still
have some functional impairment. And scars. For the rest of his life.”
I almost stop there, but can’t help adding a footnote. “You know what that’s like? You know that kind of worry? Really?”
April finally looks sheepish. “He’s going to have scars for the rest of his life?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say.
“I didn’t know . . .” she says.
“C’mon. He’s a burn victim. What did you think?”
“I didn’t think they were that bad. The burns. You didn’t tell me.”
“More or less I did,” I say, thinking of the numerous times I’ve given April vague updates.
“But I’ve heard Nick say he can do skin grafts that are . . . unnoticeable. That burn surgery has become totally sophisticated.”
“Not
that
sophisticated . . . I mean, yes, they’ve made a ton of progress over the years—and yeah, I’m sure you’ve heard him talking his big surgeon game about how seamless his grafts are ... But still. As good as Nick is, he’s not
that
good. That little boy’s skin was still badly burned in places. As in burned
off.
Gone.”
I bite my tongue from contrasting this to Olivia’s fall off her front porch last year, when she chipped a baby tooth, reducing April to tears for weeks, as she lamented all the many photographs that would be ruined before her adult tooth came in and Googled “gray, discolored dead teeth” ad nauseam. A cosmetic blip as far as injuries go.
“I didn’t know,” she says again.
“Well,” I say softly, carefully, “now you do. And you might want to pass the word along to Romy and tell her that maybe . . . maybe this woman just needs some time to herself. . . And Jesus, she’s a single mother on top of it. Can you imagine dealing with this kind of crisis without Rob?”
“No,” she says. “I can’t.”
She purses her lips and looks away, out the window next to our table to a very pregnant woman strolling along the sidewalk. I follow her gaze, feeling the same twinge of envy that I always feel when I see a woman about to have a baby.
When I turn back to her, I say, “I just don’t think we should judge this woman unless we’ve walked in her shoes. And we certainly shouldn’t be vilifying her . . .”
“Okay, okay,” April says. “I hear you.”
I force a smile. “No hard feelings?”
“Of course not,” April says, dabbing her lips with the white cloth napkin.
I take a long sip of coffee, eyeing my friend, and wondering whether I believe her.
8
Valerie
As
the days pass, Charlie slowly begins to understand why he is in the hospital. He knows that he was in an accident at his friend Grayson’s house and that his face and hand were burned by the fire. He knows that he’s had surgery on his hand and that he will soon have one on his face. He knows that his skin needs time to heal, and then lots of therapy, but that in time he will return to his own bed and school and friends. He has been told these things by many—nurses, psychiatrists, occupational and physical therapists, a surgeon he calls Dr. Nick, his uncle and grandmother, and most of all, his mother, who is constantly at his side, day and night. He has seen his face in the mirror, and studied his naked hand with worry, fear, or mere curiosity, depending on his mood. He has felt the pain of his injuries ebb and flow along with his doses of morphine and other painkillers, and has cried in frustration during therapy.
Still, Valerie has the troubled sense that her son does not fully grasp what has happened to him—either the gravity of his injury or the implications for the months, maybe years to come. He has not interacted with anyone outside of the hospital bubble and has yet to encounter any stares or questions. Valerie worries about all of this, and spends much mental energy preparing for what lies ahead, for the lucid moment of truth when Charlie asks the inevitable question she has asked herself again and again:
Why?
The moment comes early Thursday morning, nearly two weeks after the accident. Valerie is standing at the window, watching the first snow flurries of the season, anticipating Charlie’s excitement when he awakens. She can’t remember ever seeing snow—even a few flakes—in the month of October. Then again, it might be the sort of thing one overlooks when bustling about in the world, hurrying to get to one thing or another. She lets out a long sigh as she contemplates taking a shower or at least having a cup of coffee. Instead, she shuffles back to her rocking chair, her slippers making a whispering noise on the hard, cold floor. Then she sits very still and stares at images flashing on the small, muted television bolted to the wall above Charlie’s bed. Al Roker is spreading cheer out on Rockefeller Plaza, chitchatting with all the ebullient tourists who are holding their handmade signs up for the cameras. HAPPY SWEET SIXTEEN, JENNIFER . . . HELLO, LIONVILLE ELEMENTARY . . . CONGRATULATIONS, GOLDEN GOPHERS.
Valerie wonders when she will feel such simple, sign-waving joy again when she hears Charlie softly call her. She quickly glances away from the TV to find him smiling at her. She smiles back at him as she stands and walks the few steps over to his bed. She lowers the side rail on his bed, sits on the edge of his mattress, and strokes his hair. “Good morning, sweetie.”
He licks his lips, the way he does when he’s excited or about to tell her something good. “I had a dream about whales,” he says, kicking off his covers and tucking his knees up toward his chin. His voice is sleepy and a little hoarse, but he no longer sounds drugged. “I was swimming with them.”
“Tell me more,” Valerie says, wishing her own dreams had been as peaceful.
Charlie licks his lips again, and Valerie notices that the bottom one is chapped. She leans over to retrieve a tube of Chap Stick in the drawer next to his bed as he says, “There were two of them . . . They were
huge.
The water looked freezing cold like the pictures in my whale book. You know the one?”
