“Come in!” Charlie calls out, smiling as his doctor strolls into the room. Valerie is surprised to see him dressed not in his usual scrubs and tennis shoes but in dark denim, a light blue shirt open at the collar, and a navy sport coat. He looks casual but elegant, down to his black loafers and silver cufflinks.
Valerie suddenly remembers that it is Friday night—and assumes he has dinner plans with his wife. Valerie has long since observed the gold band on his left hand, and has slowly gathered details about his life from his many talks with Charlie. She knows that he has two young children, a daughter and a son. She knows the little girl has a stubborn streak—the naughty-Ruby tales are among Charlie’s favorites.
“How’re you feeling today, buddy?” Dr. Russo asks as he musses Charlie’s curly blond hair, in dire need of a cut. Valerie remembers thinking he needed a trim the day of Grayson’s party.
“I’m great. Look, Dr. Nick, I got an iPod from my uncle Jason,”
Charlie announces, holding up the tiny silver device he received the week before. It is the sort of expensive gift Valerie never would have allowed before the accident. She knows that many things will become measured and categorized like this: before the accident, after the accident.
Charlie hands his iPod to Dr. Russo, who flips it over in his hand. “Very cool,” he says admiringly. “It’s much smaller than mine.”
“And it holds a thousand songs,” Charlie says, watching proudly as his doctor scrolls through his playlist.
“Beethoven. Tchaikovsky. Mozart,” he says and then whistles. “Who-ah. Buddy, you’ve got some sophisticated taste in music.”
“My uncle Jason downloaded all my favorites,” Charlie says, his words, voice, and expression transforming into those of a much older child. “They’re relaxing.”
“You know what? . . . I feel the same way. I love listening to classical music—especially when I’m worried about something,” Dr. Russo says, still scrolling along. At some point, he pauses, glancing over at Valerie for the first time since entering the room, and mouths hello. She smiles back at him, hoping he knows how much she appreciates the way he addresses her son first, before her. And more important, how much she appreciates his effort to connect with Charlie in ways that have nothing to do with his injuries, always making him feel important, an effect that lingers long after he’s departed.
“I just listened to the Jupiter Symphony on the way over here,” Dr. Russo says. “You know it?”
Charlie shakes his head no.
“Mozart,” Dr. Russo says.
“Is he your favorite composer?”
“Oh, boy. That’s a tough one. Mozart’s awesome. But I also dig Brahms, Beethoven, Bach. The three 5s,” Dr. Russo says, taking a seat on the edge of Charlie’s bed, his back now to Valerie. She watches the two huddled together and feels a pang of sharp sadness, wishing Charlie had a father. She has long since accepted her situation, but at moments like this one, she still finds it astonishing that Charlie’s father knows absolutely nothing about his son. Not his love of classical music or Star Wars or blue whales or Legos. Not the funny way he has of running with one arm straight at his side or the happy, crinkly lines that form around his eyes when he smiles—the only child she’s ever seen with crow’s-feet. Not the fact that he is in a hospital now, discussing composers with his plastic surgeon.
“Do you like ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’?” Charlie asks breathlessly as Valerie fights back unexpected tears.
“Of course,” Dr. Russo says, then belts out a few loud, staccato notes, as Charlie joins in with the English lyrics, singing in his high, sweet voice, “ ‘Drawn by Thee, our souls, aspiring! Soar to uncreated light!’”
Dr. Russo turns to give Valerie another smile and then says, “Who taught you all this about music, buddy? Your mom?”
“Yeah. And my uncle Jason,” Charlie says.
Valerie thinks that she can take no credit for this one—it is all Jason—although she remembers playing classical music when she was pregnant, holding the CD player up to her belly.
Dr. Russo nods, handing the iPod back to Charlie, who reaches across his body to accept it with his good hand, then rests it on his thigh and scrolls with his left thumb.
“Try your right hand, buddy,” Dr. Russo says softly. Charlie frowns, but obeys, the web of purple skin between thumb and forefinger stretching taut as he clicks through the songs.
“Here ya go,” Charlie finally says, pushing the play button and turning the volume dial up. Keeping one of the earbuds, he hands Dr. Russo the other and they listen together. “I like this one.”
“Ahh. Yes. I love this one,” Dr. Russo says.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” Charlie asks intently.
Several soft seconds pass. “Yes,” Dr. Russo says. “It’s beautiful. . . And those horns—they sure sound happy, don’t they?”