Steve was one of Nick’s better friends in medical school, now a dermatologist in L.A., and Amanda the model he met in his office when she came in for laser hair removal. Love Rules was the theme of their Hawaiian wedding, the three-day extravaganza Nick and I attended when I was a few months pregnant with Frank. The tagline was written everywhere—on their save-the-date cards, invitations, and Web site, as well as the canvas boat bags, water bottles, and beach towels given to all guests upon our arrival at the resort. The hip declaration was even scrawled across a banner, pulled by an airplane flying overhead on the beach just after the couple exchanged vows. I remember Nick, looking skyward, shading his eyes with amused cynicism, whispering, “Yo. Love rules, dude.”
I had smiled back at him, feeling slightly foolish for being momentarily impressed by the spectacle he was clearly mocking, and simultaneously proud that our wedding had been the opposite of a production. Nick had deferred to me in our plans, but had lodged a strong request for a low-key affair, one that I obliged, in part, because of my embarrassment over my canceled wedding and all the costs our guests accrued; in part because I had seen the light, come to believe that a wedding should be about a feeling between two people, not a show for the masses. As a result, we had a small ceremony at the New York Public Library, followed by an elegant dinner at an Italian restaurant in Gramercy with only our family and closest friends. It was a magical, romantic evening, and although I occasionally wish I had worn a slightly fancier dress, and that Nick and I had danced on our wedding night, I have no real regrets about the way we chose to do things.
Love Rules, I think now, as I slowly stand, gathering strength for my return trip downstairs, reminding myself of all that I have to be grateful for. Then, just as I’m leaving our room, I spot Nick’s BlackBerry on the top of his dresser and feel seized by the temptation to do something I have always said I would never do.
I tell myself that I’m being ridiculous, that I do not want to be a snooping, paranoid wife, that I have no reason to be suspicious. Then I hear the little voice in my head say, No reason other than his withdrawn behavior, his long hours, our lack of intimacy. I shake my head, dispelling the doubts. Nick isn’t perfect, but he is not a liar. He is not a cheater.
And yet, I continue to walk toward his phone, strangely compelled to reach out and touch it. I take it in my hand, scroll through to the mail icon, and see that there is a new text message from a 617 area code, a Boston cell phone number. It is undoubtedly a colleague, I tell myself. A male colleague. A work situation that can’t wait until tomorrow—at least not in the estimation of a fellow obsessed surgeon.
I click on it with equal parts guilt and fear and read:
Thinking of you, too. Sorry I missed your call. Will be home around 7 if you want to try again. Until then, have a happy Thanksgiving... PS Of course he doesn’t hate you. How could anyone hate you?
I stare at the words, trying to determine who they could be from, who doesn’t hate Nick, reassuring myself that there is a logical, benign explanation behind them, even for the “thinking of you, too” portion of the message. And yet, my head spins and heart pounds with worrisome possibilities, worst-case scenarios. I read the text twice more, hearing a woman’s voice, seeing the vague outline of her face, a young version of Diane. I close my eyes, swallow back the panic rising in my throat, and tell myself to stop the madness. Then I mark the message as unread, slip his phone back on the dresser, and return to the table, candlesticks and matches in hand.
“Here we are!” I say, smiling brightly as I flank the autumnal centerpiece with the candles, lighting them one at a time, doing my best to steady my hands. Then I sit and eat in virtual silence, other than to remind the kids of their manners and occasionally fuel Diane and Connie’s babble.
All the while, I replay the text in my head, stealing glances at Nick, and wondering if I could ever hate him.
24
Valerie
She and Charlie spend Thanksgiving at Jason’s, along with his boyfriend, Hank, and Rosemary. Although the day is quiet and low-key, it still feels like something of a test and a benchmark, as Hank marks the first official contact Charlie has had with anyone other than family or hospital personnel. Hank handles the interaction perfectly, earning Valerie’s affection every time he looks Charlie directly in the eye, and without treating him with kid gloves, asks him questions about his mask, his surgeries and physical therapy, and how he feels about his upcoming return to school.
Meanwhile, Valerie neatly avoids being alone with her brother, ignoring his long stares and pointed remarks, until late in the day when he finally manages to corner her in the kitchen while the others are eating their second helping of pumpkin pie.
“Start talking,” he says, casting furtive glances at the door, safeguarding her privacy, even from their mother. Especially from their mother.
“It’s not what you think,” she says, still buzzing from the text message she read in the powder room right before dinner. It was from Nick—his third of the day—asking if Jason hates him, telling her he is thinking of her. She wrote him back, saying she was thinking of him, too—although obsessing was more the word for it. She dreamed about him all last night, and he has not left her mind once all day.
“So you’re not getting busy with the doc?” he probes, under his breath.