by Emily Giffin
Valerie hesitates, suddenly regretting the call, feeling that she’s just made things even worse, that she has no right to call his personal cell even though he gave it to her.
“Hi, Nick,” she says. “It’s Valerie.”
“Oh! Hi, Valerie,” he says, his tone transforming into a familiar, friendly one. “Everything okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Everything’s great,” she says, hearing background noise that does not sound like the hospital. “Is this a good time?” she asks, worrying that he might be with his family.
“Yeah,” he says. “What’s up?”
“Well, I just . . . wanted to talk to you about the Halloween party tomorrow,” she stammers.
“What about it?” he asks.
“Listen. It was so nice of you to say you’d come . . . But . . .”
“But what?” he says.
“But it’s Halloween.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sure you need to be somewhere else,” she says. “With your family. Your kids . . . and I just don’t feel comfortable . . .”
“Would it make you feel better to know that I was scheduled to work anyway?” he asks. “So unless you want to call the chief of staff and tell him that you think I should have the day off . . .”
“Are you really scheduled to work?” she replies, now pacing in the hall outside Charlie’s room, feeling simultaneously relieved and foolish for making such a big deal out of the party, and wondering why it never occurred to her that he could have been scheduled to work anyway. That his decision to attend might have nothing to do with them.
“Val—” he says, the first time he has used the abbreviated form of her name, a fact that is not lost on her, a fact that she can’t help liking. “I want to be there. Okay?”
The warm glow returns to her chest. “Okay,” she says.
“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says. “I’m in the middle of buying a Darth Vader costume.”
“Okay,” she says. She feels a silly, uncontrollable grin spread over her face as she hangs up, doing her best not to admit to herself the real reason she just made the call.
19
Tessa
Over the next few days, the marital gods shine upon our house and things start to feel good again. Nick is a model husband—calling from work just to say hello, coming home in time to put the kids to bed, even making me dinner one night. And yet, his effort doesn’t feel valiant or forced. Instead, he simply seems engaged, as if he’s part of our family’s biorhythms, absorbing the small moments that I sometimes feel I’m navigating alone. He’s so attentive, in fact, that I start to blame myself for our fight—which is always something of a relief, if only because it puts you back in control of your own life. Rachel and Cate, both of whom I confide in, agree that I was at least partially to blame for our rough patch, pointing to hormones, boredom, and general paranoia—the hallmarks of motherhood, Rachel jokes.
Our only setback comes on Halloween, mid-afternoon, when Nick calls from the hospital to tell me he likely won’t be able to make it back for trick-or-treating—and will definitely miss the neighborhood gathering at April’s beforehand. I refrain from reminding him that to children, Halloween is the second most sacred night of the year (perhaps the most sacred to Ruby, who has an epic sweet tooth), and that although I try not to subscribe to gender-role parenting, I believe trick-or-treating falls squarely in a father’s domain. Instead, I focus on the fact that he took Ruby to school this morning, staying to videotape her costume parade through the preschool hallways, then coming home to spend time with Frank before he left for work.
“Are you all right?” I ask calmly, supportively.
“Yeah, yeah. Just a lot going on here,” he says, sounding stressed and distracted but also disappointed, which has a way of mitigating my own disappointment. Then he asks if we’ll be okay without him, as far as handing-out-candy logistics go.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll just leave a bowl on the porch. We won’t be out very long. No big deal.”
And it really isn’t a big deal, I tell myself as Ruby, Frank, and I walk up the hill to April’s house just before dark and arrive to find her tying a cluster of orange and black balloons to her mailbox. I can tell at one glance that she’s already had several glasses of wine, and I suddenly feel in the mood for one myself. She blows me a kiss and then raves about how adorable Sharpay and Elmo are, her voice and gestures boisterous.
“Thanks,” I say, thinking that although they do look cute, her compliments are often over the top and that there’s nothing that cute about two store-bought costumes—one utterly predictable, the other slightly tacky.
“Where’s Nick?” she says, peering around, as if expecting him to jump out of the bushes and surprise her.
“He had to work,” I report with my usual mix of pride and regret that comes with being married to a surgeon.
“Bummer,” she says sympathetically.
“Yeah. What can you do?” I shrug, then glance up at her house, admiring her extensive decorations—the scarecrows lining the driveway, the little ghosts strung from trees, and the elaborately carved jack-o’-lanterns clustered on her front porch. I tell her everything looks beautiful, hoping to change the subject, if only for Ruby and Frank’s sake, seeing no point in drawing attention to their father’s absence.
“Thanks!” she says. “There’s a face painter in the backyard . . . And I’m on the fence about bobbing for apples. Do you think it’s too cold? Too much trouble?”
“Yeah. Keep it simple,” I say, recognizing that this advice is rather like telling Madonna to keep a low profile or Britney Spears to make good relationship decisions.
I tell her this and she laughs, linking her arm through mine and announcing that she’s missed me—when what I think she means is that she’s missed talking about something other than the Romy drama.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I say, feeling content as we walk up the driveway. We watch Ruby and Frank greet Olivia with exuberant hugs, feeling a rush of satisfaction that comes from successfully engineering your children’s friendships.
My good mood continues over the next hour, as I mingle with friends and catch up with neighbors, discussing the usual topics—how quickly the year is flying by, how much the kids are liking school, how we really should get together for a playdate soon. All the while, I do my best not to think of Nick’s conspicuous absence from the group of fathers huddled with their red wagons filled with trick-or-treat bags for their kids and bottled beer for themselves, even when I’m asked, no fewer than a dozen times, where he is tonight. I can tell many are thinking of Romy, but only Carly Brewster has the nerve to directly raise the subject. Ironically, Carly is one of the most talked-about and least liked women in the neighborhood. A former consultant with an M.B.A. from Wharton, she seems utterly bored in her role as stay-at-home mother of four boys, compensating by inserting her nose in everyone’s business and starting unnecessary battles in PTA and neighborhood association meetings. Last spring, she actually suggested that a leash law be enacted for cats.
In any event, she begins her inquiry nonchalantly while expertly bouncing her youngest in a Björn carrier. “How’s that little boy doing?” she asks as if the story is vague in her mind. “The one who was burned at the Crofts’?”
“He’s fine,” I say, my eyes resting on the line of demarcation between her ash-blond hair and dark roots.
“Is your husband with him tonight?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t ask,” I say pointedly, knowing she won’t take the hint.
Sure enough, she inhales dramatically, looks around, and drops her voice to a hushed whisper. “My husband works with his mother. Valerie Anderson. They’re at the same law firm.” Her eyes light up as she continues, “And he says she hasn’t been to work in weeks . . .”
“Hmm,” I say noncommittally, and then do my best to divert her attention to her own children, the only topic she’s guaranteed to enjoy more than speculation about another. “How
are the boys?” I say.
“Crrazy,” she says, rolling her eyes, as she watches her second oldest, dressed as Winnie-the-Pooh, systematically pluck chrysanthemums from April’s flower bed. Clearly, she is cut from the “my child can do no wrong” mold, as she lets him continue to pick away, saying, “Yeah. They are all boy.”
As opposed to Frank, I think, who routinely clamors for my lip gloss, plays with Ruby’s dolls, and recently announced that he wants to be a hairdresser when he grows up. I offer these details to Carly, who gives me a sympathetic head tilt and a lilting, “I wouldn’t worry too much.”
Her implication is clear—I should be gravely worried.
I watch Winnie-the-Pooh stomp on the crushed petals, smearing streaks of purple and pink along the driveway, feeling sure he kills bugs with the same diligence and thinking that I’d rather my son be gay than the testosterone-driven frat boy her son seems destined to become.
“And this is Piglet, I presume?” I say, smiling at the infant in her arms, wearing a hot-pink striped onesie and a little snout on his nose, and glancing around for Tigger and Eeyore.
She nods and I murmur, “Adorable.”
“He’s not so adorable at three in the morning,” she says wearily, wearing her fatigue as a badge of honor. “I have a baby nurse—but I still get up to nurse every couple hours. So it really does no good.”
“That’s rough,” I say, thinking that she just masterfully made two points: she’s privileged enough to have outside help, yet committed enough to get up and nurse her child anyway.
“Yeah. It is. But so worth it . . . Did you nurse?”
None of your business, I think, as it occurs to me to lie as I have many times in the past. Instead I blurt out the truth, feeling liberated that I no longer guard the fact as a guilty secret. “For a few weeks. It didn’t work out so well for me. I quit. We were all better off.”
“Poor milk production?” she whispers.
“No. I just went back to work—and pumping was too hard,” I say, spotting Ruby, who is doing her best to push a squawking Frank out the back window of a lavender Cozy Coupe.
“Hey! Ruby! Knock it off!” I shout across the lawn.
“It’s my turn,” Ruby yells back at me, a hysterical edge to her voice. “He won’t share.”
“He’s two,” I say. “You’re four.”
“Two is old enough to share!” she shouts, which, unfortunately, is a decent point.
“I better go handle this one,” I say, grateful to excuse myself.
“This is when you wish their father was around, huh?” Carly says, giving me her very best “my life is better than your life” smile.
Later that night, after the kids are asleep, our porch lights are turned off, and I’m trying to resist candy, my mind returns to Carly’s smug smile. I wonder whether it was in my head—whether I’m being oversensitive or defensive about Nick’s work, projecting my own dissatisfaction. It occurs to me that she is not unique—that all women compare lives. We are aware of whose husband works more, who helps more around the house, who makes more money, who is having more sex. We compare our children, taking note of who is sleeping through the night, eating their vegetables, minding their manners, getting into the right schools. We know who keeps the best house, throws the best parties, cooks the best meals, has the best tennis game. We know who among us is the smartest, has the fewest lines around her eyes, has the best figure—whether naturally or artificially. We are aware of who works full-time, who stays at home with the kids, who manages to do it all and make it look easy, who shops and lunches while the nanny does it all. We digest it all and then discuss with our friends. Comparing and then confiding; it is what women do.
The difference, I think, lies in why we do it. Are we doing it to gauge our own life and reassure ourselves that we fall within the realm of normal? Or are we being competitive, relishing others’ shortcomings so that we can win, if only by default?
The phone rings, saving me from my runaway thoughts and an unwrapped Twix bar. I see that it’s Nick and answer hurriedly.
“Hey!” I say, feeling as if we haven’t talked in days.
“Hey, honey,” he says. “How’d it go tonight?”
“It was fun,” I say, sharing the highlights of the evening—how Frank kept saying, “Treat or treat.” How Ruby would remind him to say thank you. How proud she was whenever the big girls complimented her costume. “But of course it wasn’t the same without you. We missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” he says. “All three of you.”
I take one small bite of chocolate, knowing that I’m screwed with this fatal, first bite. “Are you coming home now?”
“Soon.”
“How soon?”
“Pretty soon,” Nick says. “But don’t wait up . . .”
I swallow, feeling a wave of disappointment and defeat, followed by guilty relief that I have no witnesses to observe the look on my face now, as I hang up the phone, finish my candy bar, and go to bed alone.
20
Valerie
Valerie knows she’s in trouble on Halloween. Not because of her deep-down knowledge that she called Nick, in part, just to hear his voice, and in part, so that he’d have her number. And not because he insisted on coming to the party, arriving in full Darth Vader garb. And not even because he stayed in their room long after Charlie fell asleep, leaning on the windowsill, talking in a hushed voice as they both lost track of time. Of course, all of those things were signs of trouble, especially the following morning when she played the reel back.
But the moment of certainty came when he called her on the way home to tell her “one more thing.” It was something about Charlie—that much she would remember later—but all professional pretenses were erased by the hour of the call, and the fact that they didn’t hang up when that one thing was communicated. Instead, they talked until he pulled into his driveway, some thirty minutes later.
“Happy Halloween,” he whispered into the phone.
“Happy Halloween,” she whispered back. Then she forced herself to hang up, feeling a mix of melancholy and guilt as she pictured his house and the three people inside. Yet she still went to sleep that night hoping that he’d call her in the morning.
Which he did. And then every day after that, except for the days when she called him first. They always began their conversation with a discussion of Charlie’s graft or his pain meds or his mood—but they always ended with one more thing, and often one more thing after that.
And here it is, six days later, the phone ringing again.
“Where are you?” he begins, no longer announcing himself.
“Here,” she says, watching Charlie sleep. “In the room.”
“How is he?” Nick asks.
“He’s good . . . asleep . . . Where are you?”
“Five minutes away,” he says, talking to her until she can hear his voice in the hall.
“Hey,” he says, rounding the corner, sliding his BlackBerry into his pocket, a broad smile on his face as if they’ve just shared an inside joke.
“Hi!” she says, feeling herself grin back, overcome with gladness.
But ten minutes of light conversation later, Nick’s expression becomes grave. At first Valerie worries that something has gone wrong with Charlie’s graft, but then realizes that the opposite is true, that it is simply time for Charlie to go home. She remembers Nick telling her it would be about a week for the new skin to adhere, remembers how he kept his eyes fixed on hers as if offering a guarantee. Yet she still feels shocked and overwhelmed, as if she never saw this moment coming.
“Today?” she asks, her heart racing with dread and the dawning, shameful realization that she does not want to go home. She tells herself it is only the place—the security of a hospital—but deep down, she knows that there is more to it than that.
“Tomorrow,” Nick says, a fleeting look crossing his face that tells Valerie he feels the same way. But he quickly falls into his medical mode,
talking about Charlie’s progress and therapy, his long-term surgical plan, as well as his short-term outpatient plan, rattling off instructions and assurances.
“He can go back to school in another week or so. Ideally, he still needs to wear his mask about eighteen hours a day. But it can come off occasionally—unless, of course, he’s playing sports, that sort of thing . . . And he needs to sleep with it, too. Same goes for the splint on his hand.”
She swallows and nods, forcing a smile. “That’s great. Great news,” she says, feeling like a decidedly bad mother to receive the report with anything short of unbridled joy.
“I know it’s scary,” Nick says. “But he’s ready.”
“I know,” she says, biting her lip so hard that it hurts.
“And so are you,” he tells her, so convincingly that she nearly believes him.
The following afternoon, as Valerie works her way through all the paperwork and packing, she finds herself remembering the first time she left the hospital with Charlie, when he was just three days old. She has the same feeling of impending failure now, the fear that she will be revealed as a fraud once home alone with her child. The only thing that tempers her trepidation is Charlie’s palpable excitement as he skips through the halls, handing out illustrated cards he made for everyone last night. Everyone but Nick, that is, who is nowhere to be found.
Valerie keeps expecting him to show up, or at least call, and feels herself stalling, signing the discharge papers and loading the cart with their belongings as slowly as possible. At one point, Valerie even asks Leta, a matronly, soft-spoken nurse who has been with them since the beginning, if they should wait to see Dr. Russo before leaving.
“He’s off today, sugar,” Leta says, even more gently than usual, as if she’s worried the news will upset Valerie. “He signed the order last night.” She flips through Charlie’s chart as if looking for some consolation, smiling brightly when she finds it. “But he wants to see you back in a few days,” she says. “Call this number here,” she says, circling Nick’s office number on a form and handing it to her.
