Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [25]
“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