The accident seems to be all anyone can talk about—at least among the stay-at-home mothers in town, the ranks of whom I’m slowly infiltrating. The subject arises at Frank’s playgroup, Ruby’s ballet class, on the tennis courts, even in the grocery store. Sometimes the women know of Nick’s connection to the boy, openly giving their condolences to pass along. Sometimes they have no clue, relaying the story as if it were the first time I’d heard it, exaggerating the injuries in ways I’d discuss with Nick later. And sometimes, in the most annoying instances, they know, but pretend not to, transparently hoping that I will divulge some inside information.
In almost all cases, they speak in hushed voices with grave expressions, as if, on some level, relishing the drama. “Emotional rubbernecking,” Nick calls it, disdainful of anything smacking of gossip. “Don’t these women have anything better to do with their time?” he asks when I report happenings on the grapevine, a sentiment I tend to agree with, even when I am a guilty participant in the chatter, speculation, and analysis.
Even more striking to me, though, is the distinct sense that most of the women seem to identify more with Romy than the little boy’s mother, saying things like, “She shouldn’t be so hard on herself. It could happen to anyone.” At which point, I nod and murmur my agreement, both because I don’t want to make waves and because, in theory, I believe it’s true—it could happen to anyone.
But the more I hear talk of how poor Romy hasn’t slept or eaten for days, and what happened in her backyard wasn’t really her fault, the more I begin to think that it is her fault—and that she and Daniel are to blame. I mean, for chrissake, who lets a bunch of sixyear-old boys play with fire? And if you are responsible for such an egregious lapse of judgment and plain common sense, well, I’m sorry, you probably should feel guilty.
Of course I downplay these feelings to April, who has become understandably obsessed with Romy’s emotional (and potential legal and financial) plight, sharing all the details with me in the way that close friends always share details about other close friends. I do my best to be sympathetic, but one afternoon, when I meet April for lunch at a little bistro in Westwood, I can feel myself losing patience when she starts in with an indignant tone. “Valerie Anderson still refuses to speak to Romy,” she says, seconds after our lunch arrives.
I look down at my salad as I smother it with blue cheese dressing which, I realize, defeats the point of ordering the salad—and certainly of ordering dressing on the side.
April continues, her tone becoming more impassioned. “Romy’s been by the hospital with artwork from Grayson. She’s also sent Valerie several e-mails and left her a couple of messages.”
“And?”
“And nothing back. Absolute stone-cold silence.”
“Hmm,” I say, poking a crouton with my fork.
She takes a dainty bite of her own salad, tossed with fat-free balsamic, then chases it with a liberal gulp of chardonnay. Liquid lunches are April’s favorites—the salad an afterthought. “Don’t you think that’s rude?” she finishes.
“Rude?” I repeat, gazing back at her.
“Yes,” April says emphatically. “Rude.”
Choosing my words carefully, I say, “I don’t know. I suppose so ... But . . . at the same time . . .”
April absentmindedly reaches up to shift her long ponytail from one shoulder to the other. Her looks, I have always thought, do not match her true personality. Her curly auburn hair, combined with her smattering of freckles, perky nose, and athletic build, conjure a laid-back, outdoorsy type—a former field-hockey player turned gowith-the-flow soccer mom. When, in fact, she is as uptight and indoorsy as they come—her idea of camping is a four-(rather than five-)star hotel; and to her, ski trips are about fur coats and fondue.
“But at the same time, what?” she asks, pressing me to put into words what I’d rather leave to implication.
“But her son’s in the hospital,” I say bluntly.
“I know that,” April says, giving me a blank stare.
“Well, then?” I make a gesture that would be captioned, Well, then, what is your point?
“Okay,” April says. “I’m not saying Valerie should be all buddy-buddy with Romy or anything . . . but would it kill her to return a simple phone call?”
“I suppose that would be the right thing to do—at least the nice thing to do,” I say reluctantly. “But I don’t think she’s really thinking much about Romy. And I don’t think we really know what this woman is going through.”
April rolls her eyes. “We’ve all had sick children,” she says. “We’ve all been to the ER. We all know what it’s like to be scared.”
“C’mon,” I say, appalled. “Her kid’s been in the hospital for days. He has third-degree burns on his face. His right hand—the hand he uses to write and throw a ball—is totally messed up. He’s had one surgery already and there will be more to come. And he will probably still have some functional impairment. And scars. For the rest of his life.”
I almost stop there, but can’t help adding a footnote. “You know what that’s like? You know that kind of worry? Really?”
April finally looks sheepish. “He’s going to have scars for the rest of his life?” she asks.
“Of course,” I say.
“I didn’t know . . .” she says.
“C’mon. He’s a burn victim. What did you think?”