Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [44]
“Yeah,” I say. “I told her.”
I watch Nick continue to type, his brow furrowed, and can tell it is a work-related exchange. He finishes abruptly, then pulls on his pajama bottoms, cinching the drawstring at the waist. Do you always sleep topless? I once asked when we first started to date. At which point he laughed and corrected me: Girls wear tops; men shirts. Hence, topless and shirtless. I watch him toss his clothes in the vague vicinity of the hamper, but missing so egregiously he couldn’t really have been trying. It is not like him to be so haphazard, and as I stare down at the pile on the floor, his maroon Harvard baseball cap upside down on the heap, I feel something in me become faintly unhinged. I silently count to ten, waiting for him to say something, anything, and when he doesn’t, I say, “So I printed out the application for Longmere.”
The statement is fully architected to push his buttons, or at the very least engage him in conversation. I feel a tinge of shame for being so manipulative, but feel somehow justified.
“Oh?” he asks, making his way to the bathroom sink. I sit on the edge of the tub and watch the muscles flex in his back as he brushes his teeth with what I’ve always believed to be excessive force. I used to remind him about his gums, how bad his technique is for them, but have given up over the years.
“I think we should get rolling on the process,” I say.
“Yeah?” he says, his tone bored, as if to tell me that this is on the long list of things that aren’t his concern, along with class snacks : and Halloween costumes.
Shit, I think. My mother is right.
“Yes. I’ll put it in your briefcase. Do you think you could take a first crack at the essays? Maybe this week? Rachel said Dex did theirs . . .”
Nick gives me a look in the mirror and then says through a mouthful of toothpaste, “Seriously?”
I give him a blank stare as he spits into the sink, rinses his mouth, iand says, “Okay. Fine. But I have a crazy week coming up. Charlie’s graft is tomorrow.”
“Right,” I say, my annoyance ratcheting up a notch at the mention of his patient’s first name.
A moment later, he is following me to bed.
“So that’s what we’re doing?” Nick asks with a sigh. “We’ve decided to apply to Longmere?”
“It’s a great school,” I say. “It’s where Charlie goes.”
As soon as the words are out, I know I’ve gone too far.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nick says.
“Nothing,” I say with wide-eyed innocence as I adjust the covers around me.
“Okay. What gives, Tess? Are you angry about something?”
“No,” I say as unconvincingly as possible, wanting him to probe one step further, so I can tell him all the things I am feeling, the frustration that approaches anger. Anger that feels justified half the time, paranoid and selfish the rest.
Only he doesn’t probe, doesn’t give me the chance, doesn’t ask any questions at all. Instead, he simply says, “Good. Now, c’mon. Let’s get some rest.”
“Right. I know. You have surgery tomorrow,” I say.
Nick glances over at me, nods, and barely smiles. Then he absentmindedly checks his BlackBerry one last time before turning off his bedside light, clearly as oblivious to my sarcasm as he is to my little black nightgown.
12
Valerie
On Monday morning, while Dr. Russo and a team of five doctors and nurses operate on Charlie, Valerie sits in the waiting room, doing just that—waiting—and nothing more. She waits alone, having insisted to her mother and brother that they come later, after everything is over. Valerie has never been one to want conversation or distraction during times of stress, and can’t understand the psychology of those who cast about for diversions, like her mother who knits when she’s upset or worried. As such, she does not once turn to watch the flat-screen television that is blaring CNN in the corner, or so much as glance at one of the dozens of women