Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [131]
***
I awaken to find my mother sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me.
“What time is it?” I murmur as my eyes flutter open. “A little after six. The kids have eaten—and your dad gave them a bath. They’re in the playroom now.”
Startled, I sit up, realizing that I’ve been asleep for over two hours. “Is he still here?”
“No. He left a while ago. He didn’t want to wake you. He said to say good-bye—and tell you he loves you.”
I rub my eyes, remembering my full dream about Nick and Valerie, more graphic and disturbing than my vision of them in a pedicab.
“Mom,” I say, overwhelmed by the sudden, startling conviction of what I need in order to move on, one way or the other. “I have to know.”
She nods, as if she understands exactly what I’m thinking, what I’m trying to say.
“I need to know,” I say, unable to shut down the images from my sleep. Nick making her laugh in the kitchen while they cook Thanksgiving dinner. Nick reading bedtime stories to her son. Nick soaping her back and kissing her in a beautiful claw-foot tub.
My mom nods again and puts her arms around me as the haunting reel continues. I try to pause it, or at least rewind it, wondering how it all began. Was it love at first sight? Was it a friendship that slowly became physical? Was it an epiphany one night? Did it come from something wrong in our marriage or the truest, deepest feelings or mere empathy for a hurt child and his mother? I need to know exactly what happened in the middle, and how and why it ended. I need to know what she looks like, what she’s like. I need to hear her voice, see the way she moves, look into her eyes. I need to know everything. I need to know the whole, painful truth.
So before I can change my mind, I pick up my phone and dial the number I memorized on Thanksgiving. I am gripped by fear, but undaunted, as I close my eyes, take my mother’s hand, and wait for my discovery to begin.
42
Valerie
She is browsing the shelves at Wellesley Booksmith, while Charlie is at his piano lesson, when she hears her phone vibrate in her bag. Her heart jumps with the dim, unrealistic hope that it could be him, as she balances three novels under her arm and reaches inside her bag to check the caller ID. An unfamiliar local number lights up her screen, and although it could be just about anyone, she has the cold gut feeling that it is her. Tessa.
Everything in her signals a flight instinct, warns her not to answer, and yet she does, whispering a hushed hello into her phone.
She hears a woman’s low, nervous voice say hello back to her, and now she is certain. She takes a gulp of air, desperate for more oxygen, as one of her books tumbles to the floor, landing spine up, pages bent and splayed. A teenaged girl standing near her stoops to pick it up, handing it to Valerie with a smile.
The voice on the other line asks, “Is this Valerie Anderson?”
“Yes,” Valerie replies, filled with fear and guilt. She glances around for a chair, and upon seeing none, sits cross-legged on the threadbare carpet, bracing herself for whatever is to come, knowing she deserves the worst.
“We’ve never met. . . My name is Tessa,” the woman continues. “Tessa Russo. I’m Nick Russo’s wife.”
Valerie replays the word wife, over and over, squeezing her eyes shut, seeing a kaleidoscope of color as she concentrates on breathing.
“I ... I was wondering . . . if we could meet?” she asks without menace or malice, only a trace of melancholy, which makes Valerie feel that much worse.
She swallows and with great reluctance replies, “Okay. Sure. When?”
“Could you do it now?” Tessa asks.
Valerie hesitates, feeling sure she