All of this makes the invitation even more flattering to Valerie. She is certain he merely wants to discuss Charlie’s upcoming skin graft or his overall progress, but has the sense that he rarely does so over coffee, particularly on a Friday evening.
A few seconds later, they arrive at the elevator, and when the doors open, Dr. Russo motions for her to go first. Once inside, they both stare ahead, silently, until he clears his throat and says, “He’s a great kid.”
“Thank you,” Valerie says, believing him. It is the only time she is good at accepting compliments.
They exit the elevator and round the corner to the cafeteria. As Valerie’s eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights, Dr. Russo asks, “When did he start getting so interested in classical music?”
“Over the past year or so,” Valerie says. “Jason plays the piano and guitar and has taught him a lot about music.”
Dr. Russo nods, as if digesting this information, and then asks whether Charlie plays any instruments.
“He takes piano lessons,” she says, following the familiar route past the grill and fountain drinks to the coffee station.
Valerie can tell he’s thinking about Charlie’s hand as she continues, “He’s pretty good. He can hear a song and just. . . figure out the notes, by ear.” She tentatively continues, wondering if she is bragging too much. “Runs in the family. Jason apparently has perfect pitch. He once identified our doorbell as an A above middle C.”
“Wow,” Dr. Russo says, looking legitimately impressed. “That’s rare, isn’t it?”
Valerie nods as she takes a cup from the upside-down stack and scans the coffee options. “I guess it’s one in ten thousand or somerhing.”
Dr. Russo whistles and then says, “Can Charlie do that?”
“No—no,” Valerie says. “He’s just a bit precocious. That’s all.”
Dr. Russo nods as he pumps a paper cup full of the regular blend. Meanwhile, Valerie chooses the hazelnut and stirs in a packet of raw sugar.
“You hungry?” he asks, as they pass a row of pastries and other snacks.
She shakes her head, having long since forgotten the feeling of hunger. In two weeks, she has lost at least five pounds, going from thin to very thin, her hip bones two sharp angles.
They make their way to the cash register, but when Valerie pulls out her wallet, Dr. Russo says, “I got this one.”
She does not protest, not wanting to make a big deal of an eighty-cent cup of coffee. Instead she nonchalantly thanks him as he takes his change and leads her to a small booth in the back corner of the cafeteria, a place where she has sat many times before, but always alone.
“So,” he says, sliding into his seat and taking a sip of his coffee. “How are you holding up?”
She positions herself directly across from him as she tells him she’s fine, for the moment believing it.
“I know it’s not easy,” he says. “But I have to tell you . . . I really think Charlie is doing so well. And in large part, I think it’s because of you.”
She feels herself blush as she thanks him and says, “The hospital has been wonderful. Everyone here is wonderful.”
It is the closest she has come to thanking him, something she can’t quite bring herself to do directly, for fear that she will break down. He nods, now his turn to look modest. “You’re welcome,” he says emphatically, in a much different tone than the one he used to return Rosemary’s words of thanks.
Valerie smiles at her son’s doctor; he smiles back at her. Then they sip their coffee in unison, all the while maintaining eye contact. Valerie decides that, by any measure, they have just shared a moment, and the joint acknowledgment of this moment renders them both silent for an even longer stretch.
Valerie’s mind races, as she wonders what to say next. She resists peppering him with medical queries, as she feels she asks too many questions already. And yet, she doesn’t feel quite comfortable broaching outside-world topics, as everything seems either too trivial or too personal.
“Well,” he finally says, breaking their silence. “I wanted to talk to you about Monday. Charlie’s graft.”
“Okay,” she says, straightening her posture and wishing she had her spiral notebook and pen with her, so she could take notes, release nervous energy.
“I wanted to make sure you understand the procedure—and answer any questions you may have,” he says.
“I appreciate that,” Valerie says as she conjures the specifics from prior conversations with him, as well as bits and pieces from Charlie’s nurses, and all that she has read on the Internet.
He clears his throat and says, “Okay. First thing Monday morning, an anesthesiologist will come in and put Charlie to sleep.”
She feels herself tense as he continues. “Then I’ll shave his hair and remove the burned skin from his face.”
She swallows and nods.
“Then I’ll take a special surgical instrument called a power dermatome and shave a layer of skin off his scalp to produce a split-thickness graft.”
“Split thickness?” she asks, worried.
He nods reassuringly. “A split-thickness graft contains the epidermis and a portion of the dermis.”