So it is no surprise that he handles things now, too, bringing Valerie toiletries and clothing, phoning Charlie’s school and her boss at the law firm, explaining that she will need an indefinite leave of absence, and, just this morning, picking up their mother at Logan Airport. Valerie can hear him debriefing Rosemary, gently suggesting the right and wrong things to say. Not that it will do much good, for despite the best intentions, their mother has an uncanny knack for saying the exact wrong thing, especially to her daughter.
So it is no surprise that when Rosemary and Jason return from the airport and find Valerie in the cafeteria, staring into the distance with a fountain soda, an untouched burger, and full plate of crinkly fries before her, her mother’s first words are critical rather than comforting.
“I can’t believe a hospital serves such junk food,” she says to no one in particular. It is an understandable position after losing two husbands to heart disease, but Valerie is not in the mood to hear it now, especially when she has no intention of eating anything anyway. She pushes the red plastic tray away and stands to greet her mother.
“Hi, Mom. Thanks for coming,” she says, already feeling exhausted by the conversation they have not yet had.
“Val, honey,” Rosemary says. “There is no need to thank me for coming to see my only grandson.”
It is the way she always refers to Charlie—which Jason once joked is the saving grace of Valerie’s single motherhood. “Charlie might be a bastard,” he said, “but he’ll get to pass on the family name.”
Valerie laughed, thinking that she would not have tolerated that word from anyone else in the world. But Jason had a free pass, good for life. She could count on one hand the number of times he had angered her. Lately, the opposite seemed to be true of her mother. She initiates a reluctant hug with her now, one that Rosemary awkwardly reciprocates. The two women, with their willowy builds, are mirror images of one another, both self-contained and stiff.
Jason rolls his eyes, having recently posed the question of how two people who love each other could have such a hard time showing it. Valerie feels a wave of envy toward her brother, remembering the first time he brought a boyfriend (a handsome stockbroker named Levi) home to meet the family, and how taken aback she felt watching the two casually touch, hold hands, even, at one point, hug. Valerie’s surprise had nothing to do with her brother being gay, which she had known for years, maybe even before Jason knew it himself, but rather his ability to show such easy, natural affection.
She remembers Rosemary glancing away at such moments, seemingly in denial about the nature of their “friendship.” She had stoically accepted Jason’s news when he broke it to her (more stoically than she had received the news of Valerie’s pregnancy) but had not acknowledged it since, other than to offhandedly mention to Valerie that he sure didn’t seem gay, as if hoping there had been some sort of mix-up. Valerie had to admit this was true, that Jason did not hew to the usual stereotypes. He talked and walked like a straight man.
He lived for the Red Sox and Patriots. He had little fashion sense, dressing almost exclusively in jeans and flannel shirts.
“But he is gay, Ma,” Valerie said, recognizing that part of love is acceptance—and that she wouldn’t change a thing about her brother, just as she wouldn’t change a thing about her son.
In any event, Valerie has feared her mother’s reaction to Charlie’s injury, anticipating either breezy denial, a stockpile of guilt, or endless if onlys.
She picks up her tray now, dumping the contents into a nearby wastebasket and leading her mother and brother to the cafeteria exit. By the time they’ve arrived at the elevator, Rosemary has asked her first loaded question. “I’m still a little hazy here . . . How in the world did this happen?”
Jason gives his mother an incredulous look, as Valerie sighs and says, “I don’t know, Ma. I wasn’t there—and I obviously haven’t talked to Charlie about it yet.”
“What about the other little boys at the party? Or the parents? What did they tell you?” Rosemary asks, her angular face moving back and forth like an old-fashioned windup toy.
Valerie thinks of Romy, who has left her multiple voice mails and has been by the hospital twice, dropping off handmade cards from Grayson. Despite her desire to know every detail about that night, she cannot bring herself to see Romy, or even call her back. She is not ready to hear her excuses or apologies, and she is certain that she will never forgive. Valerie and her mother have this in common, too, Rosemary holding grudges more firmly than anyone she’s ever known.
“Well, let’s go see him,” Rosemary says, exhaling ominously.
Valerie nods, as they ride the elevator up two floors and then walk in silence to the end of the hall. As they approach Charlie’s room, Valerie hears her mother mumble, “I really wish you had called me straightaway.
“I know, Ma . . . I’m sorry . . . I just wanted to get through those first hours . . . Besides, there was nothing to be done long-distance.”
“Prayer,” Rosemary says, lifting one eyebrow. “I could have prayed for him . . . What if, God forbid . . .” Her voice trails off, a wounded expression on her heavily lined face.