“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.