He snorts. “Even so.”
I nod, my way of taking his side, hoping that the alignment will fix whatever is brewing between us, “I heard they brought wine,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Who brings wine to a waiting room?”
“In the morning, no less.”
He unbuttons his coat, shaking his arms free. “You should cut her out of your life,” he says adamantly.
“Cut April out?” I ask.
“Yeah. You have better things to do with your time.”
Like, being with my husband, I want to say, but restrain myself. “She has her good points,” I say. “I really think she was trying to help.”
“Help who? Her negligent friend?”
I shrug lamely as he continues, now on a roll. “They deserve to get their asses sued.”
“Do you think that’s a possibility?” I ask.
“No way,” he says.
“Did the kid’s mother discuss it with you?” I ask, intrigued more by the interpersonal side of his work than the medicine.
“No,” he says curtly.
“Would we?” I ask. “Would you?”
“I might,” he says, showing his vindictive side. A part of him that I don’t particularly like, but still admire, right along with his bad temper, blind stubbornness, and unabashed competitiveness. All the hallmarks of an acclaimed surgeon—the very traits that make him who he is. “I might sue for no other reason than that offensive bottle of wine . . . And that look on her face . . . What’s her name? Remy?”
“Romy,” I say, marveling that the man managed to learn the name of every muscle and bone in the body, endless Latin medical terms, and yet he can’t commit a few names to memory.
He continues, as if talking to himself. “That fake smile she has . . . I’ve just finished a grueling surgical procedure and there she is grinning, wanting to chat me up about private schools.”
“Yeah. April said she’s going to write us a letter,” I say.
“The hell she is,” he says. “No way. I don’t want a letter from her. I don’t even want Ruby around those kind of people.”
“I think that’s a bit of a generalization,” I say, my own frustration and anger starting to displace the forlorn feeling in my chest.
“Maybe,” he says. “Maybe not. We’ll see.”
“We’ll see?” I say. “So that means you’ll look into it? Consider it?”
“Sure. Whatever,” he says. “I told you I would.”
“Did you look at the application today?” I ask, knowing that I am not really talking about an application—I’m talking about his connection to our family.
He looks at me and then says my name the way he says Ruby’s name when he’s asked her to brush her teeth for the tenth time. Or more often, when he’s heard me ask her to brush her teeth for the tenth time.
“What?” I say.
“Do you know what my day was like?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer.
“I glued a kid’s face back together,” he says. “I didn’t have time for kindergarten applications.”
“But you had time for dinner at Antonio’s?” I say, skipping the intermediate stages of anger and feeling rage rise in my chest.
He stands abruptly and says, “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Of course you are,” I say to his back.
He turns and gives me a cold, hard look. “Why do you do this, Tess? Why do you manufacture problems?”
“Why don’t you want to come home?” I blurt out, expecting him to soften. Tell me that I’m being ridiculous.
Instead, he shrugs and says, “Gee. I don’t know. ‘Cause you make it so pleasant around here.”
“Are you for real? All I do is try to make things pleasant for you. For us. I’m trying so hard here,” I shout, my voice shaking, as my day comes into sharp focus. My grocery shopping, photo downloading, cooking, parenting. All the things I do for our family.
“Well, maybe you should stop trying so hard. ‘Cause whatever you’re doing, Tess, it doesn’t really seern to be working,” he says, his voice angry but as controlled and steady as his hands were during surgery. With a final disdainful glance, he turns again and disappears upstairs. A moment later I hear him start the shower—where he stays for a very long time.
16
Valerie
Are you a doctor, too?” A loud voice interrupts Valerie’s thoughts, reminding her that she is still at Antonio’s, waiting for Jason’s lasagna, which she would’ve forgotten to order without Nick’s reminder right before they finished their own dinner and he left for home.
She looks up and smiles at Tony, hovering nearby.
“A doctor?. . . No,” she says as if the notion is ridiculous. In fact, it is ridiculous, considering the fact that the only failing grade in her life came in high school biology class when she flat refused to dissect her fetal pig that her football-playing lab partner insisted on calling Wilbur. She can still remember the dizzying smell of formaldehyde and the sight of the feathery taste buds on its pale pink tongue.