by Emily Giffin
She wants this so desperately that she does the very thing she once vowed she’d never do. She makes a phone call—and she makes it from the waiting room at the hospital while Charlie is in his second hour of surgery with his new surgeon. She listens to the phone ring, her throat constricting as she hears the apprehensive hello on the other line.
“Is this Romy?” she asks, her heart pounding.
The woman replies yes, and Valerie feels herself hesitate, thinking of the night of the accident and what she is still sure was Romy’s negligence; then Charlie’s last surgery when Romy barged, uninvited, into this very room; then the afternoon in the school parking lot when Romy spotted her with Nick.
Despite these images, she stays on course, saying, “This is Valerie Anderson.”
“Oh! Hello. How are you? How is Charlie?” Romy asks, a gentleness in her voice that was either missing in prior exchanges or that Valerie had simply overlooked.
“He’s doing well. He’s in surgery now,” she says.
“Is he okay?” Romy asks.
“No. No . . . I didn’t mean . . . I mean, yes, he is fine. It’s a routine surgery to refine an earlier graft. He’s good. He really is,” Valerie says, realizing that she is no longer nervous about Charlie’s face or hand or heart. Not in the way she once was.
“Thank goodness,” Romy says. “I’m so happy to hear it. So happy. You just don’t know.”
Valerie feels herself choke up as she continues, “Well. I just wanted to call and tell you that. That Charlie is doing well . . . And that . . . Romy?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t blame you for what happened.”
It’s not exactly the truth, Valerie recognizes, but is close enough.
She doesn’t remember the rest of the conversation, or exactly how she and Romy leave things, but as she hangs up, she feels a heavy burden being lifted from her heart.
And it is in that moment that she decides she has another phone call to make, one that is six years overdue. She does not yet know what she will say, whether she will even be able to find him, or whether forgiveness will flow in either direction. But she knows that she owes it to him, and to Charlie, and even to herself, to try.
45
Tessa
When I return home from the bookstore, I find my mother sitting on the couch, reading a magazine and eating Godiva chocolates.
I sit beside her, and carefully select a dark, heart-shaped piece. “Well, look at me,” I say. “The angry housewife eating bonbons.”
My mother lets out a snort of laughter, then quickly sobers and asks me how it went.
I shrug, indicating that I do not want to discuss all the gory details, then say, “She wasn’t what I expected.”
“They never are,” she says with a long sigh.
We eat in silence for another moment before my mother continues her train of thought. “But it’s really not about them, is it?”
“No,” I say, realizing that I might finally stop obsessing over the “other woman,” now that I’ve met her. “It really isn’t.”
My mom’s face brightens as if thrilled for my potential breakthrough. Then she gives me a sideways glance and tells me that she is taking the kids to the city for the weekend, that she’s already discussed it with my brother. “You need time to yourself,” she says.
“No, Mom. That’s too much for you,” I say, picturing her on the train, frantically corralling Ruby and Frank.
She shakes her head and insists that she has it under control—and that Dex is meeting her at Penn Station so she won’t have to maneuver through the city alone.
I start to protest again, but she cuts me off, saying, “Dex already told Julia and Sarah that their cousins are coming for the weekend. And I already told Frank and Ruby. We can’t disappoint the kids, now can we?”
I bite my lip, and acquiesce. “Thanks, Mom,” I say, feeling closer to her than I have in a long time.
“Don’t thank me, sweetie. I just want you to do this. I just want you to face this head-on and figure out what is right for you.”
I nod, still afraid and still very angry, but finally, almost ready.
The next morning, after my mother and children have departed for New York, I am in my kitchen, drinking coffee, with the frantic, dawning realization that there is nothing left to be done. There is no family left to tell or opinions to garner. There are no discoveries to be had or facts to uncover. It is time to talk to Nick. So I pick up the phone and call my husband of seven years, more nervous than when I phoned a perfect stranger the night before.
He answers on the first ring, breathlessly, as if he had been expecting this call, at this very moment. For a second, I wonder if my mother—or Valerie—prepared him.
But when he asks me if everything is okay, I hear sleep in his voice and realize that I must have just awakened him; that is all.
“I’m fine,” I say, taking a deep breath, making myself continue as I unwittingly picture him, shirtless, in whatever bed he’s been sleeping in for all these weeks. “I just want to talk . . . I’m ready to talk. Could you come home?”
“Yes,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
Fifteen minutes later, he is standing on the porch, knocking on his own front door. I open it, and find him unshaven and bleary-eyed in an old pair of scrubs and a faded baseball cap.
I let him in, avoiding eye contact and mumbling, “You look dreadful.”
“You look beautiful,” he says, sounding as sincere as he ever has, despite the fact that I’m wearing jeans and a T-shirt, my hair still damp from my shower.
“Thanks,” I say, leading him to the kitchen, taking my usual seat at the table and pointing to his spot, across from me.
He sits, takes off his cap, and tosses it onto Ruby’s chair. Then he runs his hand through his hair, longer than I’ve ever seen it.
“I know. I know,” he says. “I need a cut. You didn’t give me much of a warning here . . .”
I shake my head, indicating that his grooming is the least of my concerns, then burst out with it. “I met her last night. I called her,” I say. “I needed to see her.”
He furrows his brow and scratches his jaw. “I understand,” he says, and then stops short of asking any questions, which seems to require a certain measure of restraint.
“She was nice,” I say. “I didn’t hate her.”
“Tessa,” he says, his eyes begging me to stop.
“No. She was . . . She was honest, too. She didn’t try to deny anything, like I thought she would . . . In fact, she actually admitted that she’s in love with you,” I say, unsure of whether I’m baiting him, punishing him, or simply telling the truth. “Did you know that? I’m sure she told you, too . . .”
He shakes his head, rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, and says, “She’s not in love with me.”
“She was.”
“No. She never was.”
“She told me she was, Nick,” I say, my anger ebbing and flowing by the second, with his every word, every fleeting expression.
“She thought she was,” he says. “But . . . she wasn’t. Love doesn’t work like that.”
“Oh?” I say. “How does it work, Nick?”
He stands and rotates to Frankie’s seat, now next to me, where he reaches for my hand. I shake my head in refusal but when he tries again, I reluctantly give it to him, my eyes welling with his touch.
“Love is sharing a life together,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Love is what we have.”
“And what did you have with her?”
“That was . . . something else.”
I stare at him, struggling to make sense of his words. “So you didn’t love her?”
He sighs, glances at the ceiling, and then looks at me again. I say a prayer that he doesn’t lie to me, that he doesn’t issue a flat-out denial when I know he loved her. Or at least thought he did.
“I don’t know, Tess,” he begins. “I really don’t . . . I wouldn’t have don
e what I did if I didn’t have strong feelings for her. If it wasn’t something at least approaching love, something that looked and felt like love . . . But those feelings—they don’t compare to my love for you. And the moment I came home and looked into your eyes and told you what I had done, I knew that . . . Tessa, I messed up so bad. I risked everything—our marriage, my job, this home. I still don’t know why I let it happen. I hate myself for letting it happen.”
“You didn’t let it happen, Nick,” I say, pulling my hand away from him. “You made it happen. It took two. It took both of you.”
As I say the words, though, I am struck by how much they apply to us, as well. That it took two to get us here. That it always takes two. For relationships to work, for them to break apart, for them to be fixed.
“I know,” he says. “You’re right. I’m not trying to shift the blame to anyone else . . . I’m just trying to tell you how much I love you.”
“Then how could you do it?” I say, my voice soft now. It is a question—not an accusation.
He looks at me, struggling for words. “I think . . . I think . . . I was looking for something I thought I needed.”
“And what was that? What was it that you weren’t getting here? From me?” I ask as I begin to answer the question for myself. I refuse to accept any blame for his infidelity, and yet I can’t deny that things have changed between us. That I’ve changed. And that, in many ways, I’m not the person he married. I think of Nick’s recent accusations, as well as my mother’s observations. That I am never happy; that I have lost some of my passion; that I focus on things that don’t matter, rather than our relationship, the bedrock of everything else. “What did she give you?”
He shakes his head. “It wasn’t like that . . . It was more . . .” He glances up at the ceiling, searching for words, then looks at me and says, “the way I felt when I was around her reminded me of the way I felt for you in the beginning.”
My heart breaks hearing the two of us compared, yet there is comfort in his honesty, in the pain on his face, how much he also wishes it weren’t true.
He continues, “And there were other things, too . . . I felt . . . I felt this need to fix things for that little boy—a need that got convoluted and somehow extended to his mother . . . Part of it was probably my ego . . . wanting that feeling—that feeling of being young . . . of being needed and wanted.” His voice trails off, as I remember how vulnerable I was on the subway the day we met.
“I needed you. I wanted you,” I say, using the past tense, even though a big part of me still needs him, still wants him. “But maybe you’re no longer . . . attracted to me?”
I look at him, knowing that he will deny this accusation, but hoping he can do so convincingly.
“No,” he says, letting one clenched fist fall to the table. “That’s not it. It’s not about sex. Except for maybe the feeling of being connected that sex can give you . . . It’s just . . . It’s not that simple, Tess . . . It’s no one thing you can point to.”
I nod, thinking of how difficult marriage can be, how much effort is required to sustain a feeling between two people—a feeling that you can’t imagine will ever fade in the beginning when everything comes so easily. I think of how each person in a marriage owes it to the other to find individual happiness, even in a shared life. That this is the only real way to grow together, instead of apart.
He continues, as if reading my mind. “Life can be tough. And monotonous . . . and exhausting. And it’s not the romantic ride you think it’s going to be when you start out, in the beginning . . . But that doesn’t mean . . . that doesn’t give anyone the right . . . It didn’t give me the right to do what I did . . . Look, Tess. Whatever the reason, it wasn’t a good one. And lately, I think there was no reason at all. Which might be worse. But it’s the truth. And it’s all I have to give you.”
I swallow and nod. Then, despite my determination not to make this conversation about her, I ask whether he’s spoken to her since the day he came home from his walk in the Common.
“No,” he says.
“So you’re not his doctor anymore?” I ask, avoiding Charlie’s name, right along with his mother’s.
“No.”
“And you’re not going to be in his life?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
“Does that make you sad?”
He sighs, then grimaces. “I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t sad . . . that I don’t miss that little boy and feel tremendous guilt for being part of his life and then abruptly leaving. I feel guilty for any pain I could have caused a child. For breaking the first rule of medicine.”
Do no harm, I think, and then consider all the harm he did.
He continues, “But I feel more guilty about you. I can’t really think beyond you . . . us. My kids. Our family. Most of the time, I can’t think at all. I’m just feeling and remembering and wishing.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, something inside me softening. “What are you feeling and remembering and wishing?”
“I’m feeling . . . the way I felt when I met you on the subway. You were standing there with that ring on your finger, looking so sad. So beautiful . . . And I’m remembering our early days when we were broke and in school and splitting Stouffer’s lasagna for dinner and . . . and when you were pregnant with Ruby and eating two of those lasagnas by yourself.” He stares into space with a faint smile.
“I was eating for two,” I say, the line I used despite the fact that I was actually eating as if pregnant with triplets.
He continues, a faraway look in his eyes. “And I’m wishing . . . I’m wishing that I could somehow get you back. I want you back, Tessa.”
I shake my head, feeling profound sadness for myself and the kids—but also, for the first time, for Nick.
“It won’t be the same,” I say.
“I know,” he replies.
“It will never be the same,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “But maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?” I ask hopefully.
“Maybe it can be better,” he says—which is exactly what I wanted him to say. “Can we try and find out? Can we try for Ruby and Frank? Can we try for us?”
I feel myself start to crumble as he stands and pulls me to my feet, taking both of my hands in his. “Please,” he says.
“I don’t know if I can,” I say, tears spilling down my face. “I don’t know if I can ever trust you. Even if I wanted to.”
He starts to hold me, then stops, as if realizing he hasn’t yet earned that right. Then he whispers my name and says, “Let me help you.”
My tears continue to flow, but I do not tell him no. Which, of course, we both know is very nearly a yes.
“I can’t make any promises,” I say.
“But I can,” he says.
“You did that once,” I say, my voice cracking.
“I know. And I’ll do it again. I’ll do it every day. I’ll do whatever it takes. Just give me one more chance.”
One more chance.
Words that my mother heard, more than once. Words that women debate. Whether you can forgive and whether you should trust. I think of all the judgment from society, friends, and family, the overwhelming consensus seeming to be that you should not grant someone who betrayed you a second chance. That you should do everything you can to keep the knife out of your back, and to protect your heart and pride. Cowards give second chances. Fools give second chances. And I am no coward, no fool.
“I’m so sorry,” Nick says.
I envision him on our wedding day as we exchanged our vows, hearing his words: Forsaking all others as long as we both shall live.
That was the way it was supposed to be.
That didn’t happen.
Yet here we are, two children and a broken promise later, standing before each other, just the way we stood that day at the altar, with equal parts love and hope. And once again, I close my eyes, ready to ta
ke a leap of faith, ready for the long, hard road ahead. I have no idea how it’s going to turn out, but then again, I never really did.
“Can I make you breakfast?” he says. “Eggs, sunny side up?”
I look into his eyes, nod, and nearly smile. Not because I’m happy—or hungry. But because my husband is home. Because he knows that sunny-side-up eggs are my favorite. And because I believe that, buried beneath disappointment and fear, anger and pride, I just might find it in my heart to forgive.
A Reading Group Guide
1. Discuss the opening lines of the novel: “Whenever I hear of someone else’s tragedy…I find myself reconstructing those final ordinary moments. Moments that make up our lives. Moments that were blissfully taken for granted—and that likely would have been forgotten altogether but for what followed. The before snapshots.” Have you had an event in your life with clear before and after snapshots? What were those snapshots for you?
2. Heart of the Matter is told from two points of view. How does this technique affect our view of the characters and their actions? Why do you think the author chose to write in the third person for Valerie and the first person for Tessa?
3. In what ways are Valerie and Tessa different? In what ways are they similar? With whom do you sympathize and identify more? Did you find yourself taking sides as their stories unfolded?
4. We never hear Nick’s point of view, other than what he shares with Tessa and Valerie. What is your perception of Nick? As a husband and father? As a surgeon? Do you think your feelings would have changed had he been given a voice?
5. Valerie has closed herself off from personal relationships, both casual and romantic, claiming to only have time for her son and her career as an attorney. How does meeting Nick change her? Does it affirm what she’s always suspected? What do you think she’ll be like moving forward?
6. In contrast to Valerie, Tessa seems to fit in perfectly in their social circle. Yet she, too, grapples with some of the social issues. In what ways is she different from the women around her?
7. How do money and materialism play a part in this novel? Social standing? Education?
