Heart of the Matter (9 page)

Valerie nods, reaching over to apply the pale pink stick to his lips. He briefly puckers for her and then continues, “But in my dream, the water was
really
warm. Like a bathtub. And I even got to ride one of them . . . I was sitting right up on his back.”

“That sounds wonderful, sweetie,” Valerie says, basking in the feeling of normalcy even as they sit in the hospital together.

But one beat later, Charlie’s expression becomes faintly troubled. “I’m thirsty,” he says.

Valerie feels relieved that his complaint involves thirst rather than pain, and quickly grabs a juice box from the refrigerator in the corner of the room. Gripping the waxy container, she angles the straw toward his lips.

“I can do it,” Charlie says with a frown, as Valerie remembers Dr. Russo’s advice the day before, to try to let him do things for himself, even when it’s difficult.

She releases her hold, watching his expression become gloomy as he awkwardly grips the box with his left hand. His right hand remains still, in a medicated splint, elevated on a pillow.

Valerie feels herself hovering, but is unable to stop herself. “Can I get you anything else?” she says, an anxious knot growing in her chest. “Are you hungry?”

“No,” Charlie says. “But my hand itches so
bad”

“We’ll change the dressing in a minute,” she says, “And put on your lotion. That will help.”

Charlie says, “Why does it itch so much?”

Valerie carefully explains what he’s been told several times already—that the glands that produce oil to lubricate his skin were damaged.

He glances down at his hand, frowning again. “It looks terrible, Mommy.”

“I know, honey,” she says. “But it is getting better all the time. The skin just needs a while to heal.”

She considers telling Charlie about his next skin graft—his first for his face—which is scheduled for Monday morning, when he asks a question that breaks her heart. “Was it my fault, Mommy?” he whispers.

Valerie’s mind races as she tries to recall specific articles about the psychology of burn victims, as well as warnings from Charlie’s psychiatrists—
There will be fear, confusion, even guilt.
She pushes all of the words and advice aside, realizing that she doesn’t need anything other than her own maternal instincts.

“Oh, honey. Of
course
it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” she says, thinking about Romy and Daniel and how much she actually blames them for what happened, a feeling she hopes she will never reveal to Charlie. “It was just an accident.”

“But why?” he asks, his big eyes wide and unblinking. “Why did I have to have an accident?”

“I don’t know,” she says, studying every curve and angle of his perfect, heart-shaped face. His broad forehead, round cheeks, and little, pointed chin. Sadness wells up inside her, but she does not flinch or falter. “Sometimes bad things just happen—even to the best people.”

Realizing that this concept does not satisfy him any more than it does her, she clears her throat and says, “But you know what?”

She knows she is speaking with the voice of false cheer, the one she uses to, say, make a promise of ice cream in exchange for good behavior. She wishes she had something to offer him now, something—
anything
—to make up for his suffering.

“What?” Charlie asks, looking hopeful.

“We will get through this together,” she says. “We’re a great, unstoppable team—and don’t forget it.”

As she swallows back tears, Charlie takes another sip of juice, gives her a brave smile, and says, “I won’t forget it, Mommy.”

***

The next day, after a painful round of occupational therapy for his hand, Charlie is on the verge of frustrated tears when he hears Dr. Russo’s trademark hard double knock on the door. Valerie watches her son’s face clear and feels her own spirits lift, too; it is a close call as to who looks forward to his visits more.

“Come in!” Charlie calls out, smiling as his doctor strolls into the room. Valerie is surprised to see him dressed not in his usual scrubs and tennis shoes but in dark denim, a light blue shirt open at the collar, and a navy sport coat. He looks casual but elegant, down to his black loafers and silver cufflinks.

Valerie suddenly remembers that it is Friday night—and assumes he has dinner plans with his wife. Valerie has long since observed the gold band on his left hand, and has slowly gathered details about his life from his many talks with Charlie. She knows that he has two young children, a daughter and a son. She knows the little girl has a stubborn streak—the naughty-Ruby tales are among Charlie’s favorites.

“How’re you feeling today, buddy?” Dr. Russo asks as he musses Charlie’s curly blond hair, in dire need of a cut. Valerie remembers thinking he needed a trim the day of Grayson’s party.

“I’m great. Look, Dr. Nick, I got an iPod from my uncle Jason,”

Charlie announces, holding up the tiny silver device he received the week before. It is the sort of expensive gift Valerie never would have allowed before the accident. She knows that many things will become measured and categorized like this:
before the accident, after
the accident.

Charlie hands his iPod to Dr. Russo, who flips it over in his hand. “Very cool,” he says admiringly. “It’s much smaller than mine.”

“And it holds a
thousand
songs,” Charlie says, watching proudly as his doctor scrolls through his playlist.

“Beethoven. Tchaikovsky. Mozart,” he says and then whistles. “Who-
ah
. Buddy, you’ve got some sophisticated taste in music.”

“My uncle Jason downloaded all my favorites,” Charlie says, his words, voice, and expression transforming into those of a much older child. “They’re relaxing.”

“You know what? . . . I feel the same way. I love listening to classical music—especially when I’m worried about something,” Dr. Russo says, still scrolling along. At some point, he pauses, glancing over at Valerie for the first time since entering the room, and mouths hello. She smiles back at him, hoping he knows how much she appreciates the way he addresses her son first, before her. And more important, how much she appreciates his effort to connect with Charlie in ways that have nothing to do with his injuries, always making him feel important, an effect that lingers long after he’s departed.

“I just listened to the
Jupiter
Symphony on the way over here,” Dr. Russo says. “You know it?”

Charlie shakes his head no.

“Mozart,” Dr. Russo says.

“Is he your favorite composer?”

“Oh, boy. That’s a tough one. Mozart’s awesome. But I also dig Brahms, Beethoven, Bach. The three 5s,” Dr. Russo says, taking a seat on the edge of Charlie’s bed, his back now to Valerie. She watches the two huddled together and feels a pang of sharp sadness, wishing Charlie had a father. She has long since accepted her situation, but at moments like this one, she still finds it astonishing that Charlie’s father knows absolutely nothing about his son. Not his love of classical music or
Star Wars
or blue whales or Legos. Not the funny way he has of running with one arm straight at his side or the happy, crinkly lines that form around his eyes when he smiles—the only child she’s ever seen with crow’s-feet. Not the fact that he is in a hospital now, discussing composers with his plastic surgeon.

“Do you like ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’?” Charlie asks breathlessly as Valerie fights back unexpected tears.

“Of course,” Dr. Russo says, then belts out a few loud, staccato notes, as Charlie joins in with the English lyrics, singing in his high, sweet voice, “ ‘Drawn by Thee, our souls, aspiring! Soar to uncreated light!’”

Dr. Russo turns to give Valerie another smile and then says, “Who taught you all this about music, buddy? Your mom?”

“Yeah. And my uncle Jason,” Charlie says.

Valerie thinks that she can take no credit for this one—it is all Jason—although she remembers playing classical music when she was pregnant, holding the CD player up to her belly.

Dr. Russo nods, handing the iPod back to Charlie, who reaches across his body to accept it with his good hand, then rests it on his thigh and scrolls with his left thumb.

“Try your right hand, buddy,” Dr. Russo says softly. Charlie frowns, but obeys, the web of purple skin between thumb and forefinger stretching taut as he clicks through the songs.

“Here ya go,” Charlie finally says, pushing the play button and turning the volume dial up. Keeping one of the earbuds, he hands Dr. Russo the other and they listen together. “I like this one.”

“Ahh. Yes. I love this one,” Dr. Russo says.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Charlie asks intently.

Several soft seconds pass. “Yes,” Dr. Russo says. “It’s beautiful. . . And those horns—they sure sound happy, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Charlie says, beaming. “Very,
very
happy.”

A beat later, Rosemary arrives unexpectedly, along with a bag of dollar-store gadgets for Charlie and a plastic container of her famous chicken tetrazzini. Valerie knows how hard her mother is trying, how much she wants to be there for them both. Yet she finds herself wishing she had not come, at least not at this moment, and marvels at how her mother manages to suck the peaceful feeling out of the room by her mere presence.

“Oh! Why, hello,” Rosemary says, staring at Dr. Russo. They have not yet met, but she has heard much about him, mostly from Charlie.

Dr. Russo abruptly turns and stands with a polite, expectant smile, as Valerie makes an introduction that feels both awkward and somehow revealing. Since their arrival at the hospital, Valerie and Charlie have made a few friends, but she has remained a vigilant gatekeeper of all personal information. Only occasionally has a detail slipped out, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes by necessity. Dr. Russo knows, for example, that there was only one parent signing consent forms—and anyone can easily observe that there are no male visitors other than Jason.

“Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Anderson,” Dr. Russo says, as he extends his hand toward Rosemary.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, too,” she says, shaking his hand with a flustered look of awe, the same expression she wears after church when talking to the priests, especially the young, handsome ones. “I just can’t thank you enough, Dr. Russo, for everything you’ve done tor my grandson.”

It is an appropriate thing to say, and yet Valerie still feels annoyed, even embarrassed by the slight tremor in her mother’s voice. More important, she is conscious of Charlie, listening intently, and resents her mother’s melodramatic reminder of why they all are here. Dr. Russo seems to be aware of this dynamic, too, because he quickly murmurs, “You’re welcome.” Then he turns back to Charlie and says, “Well, buddy, I’ll let you visit with your grandma . . .”

Charlie’s face scrunches into a frown. “Aww, Dr. Nick, can’t you stay a little longer? Please?”

Valerie watches Dr. Russo hesitate, and then rushes in to save him. “Charlie, honey, Dr. Russo needs to go now. He has a lot of other patients to see.”

“Actually, buddy, I need to talk to your mom for a few minutes. If that’s okay with her?” Dr. Russo says, shifting his gaze to Valerie. “Do you have a minute?”

She nods, thinking of how much her life has slowed since they came here. Always before, she was rushing everywhere; now she finds herself with nothing but time.

Dr. Russo squeezes Charlie’s foot and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.

Okay, buddy?”

“Okay,” Charlie says reluctantly.

Valerie can tell Rosemary’s feelings are hurt by her secondfiddle status and she overcompensates with forced exuberance. “Look! I brought a seek-and-find book!” she shrills. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Valerie has always maintained that searching for words in a grid of letters is among life’s most boring games, and she can tell from her son’s lackluster reaction that he agrees. His grandmother might as well have just asked him to count the dimples on a golf ball. “I guess so,” he says, shrugging.

Dr. Russo gives Rosemary a nod good-bye before exiting the room. Valerie follows him, remembering the night they met, and their first conversation out in a sterile hall just like this one. She thinks of how far she and Charlie have come, how much her fear and horror have subsided, replaced by a large measure of stoic resignation and a dash of hope.

Now alone, they stand face-to-face for a few beats of silence before Dr. Russo says, “Would you like to get a cup of coffee? In the cafeteria?”

“Yes,” she says, feeling her pulse quicken in a way that both surprises and unsettles her. She feels nervous, but doesn’t know why, and hopes that he can’t sense her uneasiness.

“Great,” he says, as they turn and walk toward the elevators. They do not speak along the way, other than an occasional hello to nurses. Valerie carefully studies their faces, their reactions to him, as she has for several weeks now. She has long since determined that Dr. Russo is admired, almost
revered,
in marked contrast to many of the other surgeons she’s heard grumblings about, accusations of their being condescending or arrogant or downright rude. He is not overly friendly or chatty, but has a warm, respectful manner that, coupled with his rock-star reputation, makes him the most popular doctor at the hospital.
He is the best in the country,
she’s heard again and again.
But still so nice. And quite the looker, too,

All of this makes the invitation even more flattering to Valerie. She is certain he merely wants to discuss Charlie’s upcoming skin graft or his overall progress, but has the sense that he rarely does so over coffee, particularly on a Friday evening.

A few seconds later, they arrive at the elevator, and when the doors open, Dr. Russo motions for her to go first. Once inside, they both stare ahead, silently, until he clears his throat and says, “He’s a great kid.”

“Thank you,” Valerie says, believing him. It is the only time she is good at accepting compliments.

They exit the elevator and round the corner to the cafeteria. As Valerie’s eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights, Dr. Russo asks, “When did he start getting so interested in classical music?”