“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?”
“I didn’t think they were that bad. The burns. You didn’t tell me.”
“More or less I did,” I say, thinking of the numerous times I’ve given April vague updates.
“But I’ve heard Nick say he can do skin grafts that are . . . unnoticeable. That burn surgery has become totally sophisticated.”
“Not that sophisticated . . . I mean, yes, they’ve made a ton of progress over the years—and yeah, I’m sure you’ve heard him talking his big surgeon game about how seamless his grafts are . . . But still. As good as Nick is, he’s not that good. That little boy’s skin was still badly burned in places. As in burned off. Gone.”
I bite my tongue from contrasting this to Olivia’s fall off her front porch last year, when she chipped a baby tooth, reducing April to tears for weeks, as she lamented all the many photographs that would be ruined before her adult tooth came in and Googled “gray, discolored dead teeth” ad nauseam. A cosmetic blip as far as injuries go.
“I didn’t know,” she says again.
“Well,” I say softly, carefully, “now you do. And you might want to pass the word along to Romy and tell her that maybe . . . maybe this woman just needs some time to herself . . . And Jesus, she’s a single mother on top of it. Can you imagine dealing with this kind of crisis without Rob?”
“No,” she says. “I can’t.”
She purses her lips and looks away, out the window next to our table to a very pregnant woman strolling along the sidewalk. I follow her gaze, feeling the same twinge of envy that I always feel when I see a woman about to have a baby.
When I turn back to her, I say, “I just don’t think we should judge this woman unless we’ve walked in her shoes. And we certainly shouldn’t be vilifying her . . .”
“Okay, okay,” April says. “I hear you.”
I force a smile. “No hard feelings?”
“Of course not,” April says, dabbing her lips with the white cloth napkin.
I take a long sip of coffee, eyeing my friend, and wondering whether I believe her.
8
Valerie
As the days pass, Charlie slowly begins to understand why he is in the hospital. He knows that he was in an accident at his friend Grayson’s house and that his face and hand were burned by the fire. He knows that he’s had surgery on his hand and that he will soon have one on his face. He knows that his skin needs time to heal, and then lots of therapy, but that in time he will return to his own bed and school and friends. He has been told these things by many—nurses, psychiatrists, occupational and physical therapists, a surgeon he calls Dr. Nick, his uncle and grandmother, and most of all, his mother, who is constantly at his side, day and night. He has seen his face in the mirror, and studied his naked hand with worry, fear, or mere curiosity, depending on his mood. He has felt the pain of his injuries ebb and flow along with his doses of morphine and other painkillers, and has cried in frustration during therapy.
Still, Valerie has the troubled sense that her son does not fully grasp what has happened to him—either the gravity of his injury or the implications for the months, maybe years to come. He has not interacted with anyone outside of the hospital bubble and has yet to encounter any stares or questions. Valerie worries about all of this, and spends much mental energy preparing for what lies ahead, for the lucid moment of truth when Charlie asks the inevitable question she has asked herself again and again: Why?
The moment comes early Thursday morning, nearly two weeks after the accident. Valerie is standing at the window, watching the first snow flurries of the season, anticipating Charlie’s excitement when he awakens. She can’t remember ever seeing snow—even a few flakes—in the month of October. Then again, it might be the sort of thing one overlooks when bustling about in the world, hurrying to get to one thing or another. She lets out a long sigh as she contemplates taking a shower or at least having a cup of coffee. Instead, she shuffles back to her rocking chair, her slippers making a whispering noise on the hard, cold floor. Then she sits very still and stares at images flashing on the small, muted television bolted to the wall above Charlie’s bed. Al Roker is spreading cheer out on Rockefeller Plaza, chitchatting with all the ebullient tourists who are holding their handmade signs up for the cameras. HAPPY SWEET SIXTEEN, JENNIFER . . . HELLO, LIONVILLE ELEMENTARY . . . CONGRATULATIONS, GOLDEN GOPHERS.
Valerie wonders when she will feel such simple, sign-waving joy again when she hears Charlie softly call her. She quickly glances away from the TV to find him smiling at her. She smiles back at him as she stands and walks the few steps over to his bed. She lowers the side rail on his bed, sits on the edge of his mattress, and strokes his hair. “Good morning, sweetie.”
He licks his lips, the way he does when he’s excited or about to tell her something good. “I had a dream about whales,” he says, kicking off his covers and tucking his knees up toward his chin. His voice is sleepy and a little hoarse, but he no longer sounds drugged. “I was swimming with them.”
“Tell me more,” Valerie says, wishing her own dreams had been as peaceful.
Charlie licks his lips again, and Valerie notices that the bottom one is chapped. She leans over to retrieve a tube of Chap Stick in the drawer next to his bed as he says, “There were two of them . . . They were huge. The water looked freezing cold like the pictures in my whale book. You know the one?”
Valerie nods, reaching over to apply the pale pink stick to his lips. He briefly puckers for her and then continues, “But in my dream, the water was really warm. Like a bathtub. And I even got to ride one of them . . . I was sitting right up on his back.”
“That sounds wonderful, sweetie,” Valerie says, basking in the feeling of normalcy even as they sit in the hospital together.
But one beat later, Charlie’s expression becomes faintly troubled. “I’m thirsty,” he says.
Valerie feels relieved that his complaint involves thirst rather than pain, and quickly grabs a juice box from the refrigerator in the corner of the room. Gripping the waxy container, she angles the straw toward his lips.
“I can do it,” Charlie says with a frown, as Valerie remembers Dr. Russo’s advice the day before, to try to let him do things for himself, even when it’s difficult.
She releases her hold, watching his expression become gloomy as he awkwardly grips the box with his left hand. His right hand remains still, in a medicated splint, elevated on a pillow.
Valerie feels herself hovering, but is unable to stop herself. “Can I get you anything else?” she says, an anxious knot growing in her chest. “Are you hungry?”
“No,” Charlie says. “But my hand itches so bad.”
“We’ll change the dressing in a minute,” she says. “And put on your lotion. That will help.”
Charlie says, “Why does it itch so much?”
Valerie carefully explains what he’s been told several times alrea
dy—that the glands that produce oil to lubricate his skin were damaged.
He glances down at his hand, frowning again. “It looks terrible, Mommy.”
“I know, honey,” she says. “But it is getting better all the time. The skin just needs a while to heal.”
She considers telling Charlie about his next skin graft—his first for his face—which is scheduled for Monday morning, when he asks a question that breaks her heart. “Was it my fault, Mommy?” he whispers.
Valerie’s mind races as she tries to recall specific articles about the psychology of burn victims, as well as warnings from Charlie’s psychiatrists—There will be fear, confusion, even guilt. She pushes all of the words and advice aside, realizing that she doesn’t need anything other than her own maternal instincts.
“Oh, honey. Of course it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” she says, thinking about Romy and Daniel and how much she actually blames them for what happened, a feeling she hopes she will never reveal to Charlie. “It was just an accident.”
“But why?” he asks, his big eyes wide and unblinking. “Why did I have to have an accident?”
“I don’t know,” she says, studying every curve and angle of his perfect, heart-shaped face. His broad forehead, round cheeks, and little, pointed chin. Sadness wells up inside her, but she does not flinch or falter. “Sometimes bad things just happen—even to the best people.”
Realizing that this concept does not satisfy him any more than it does her, she clears her throat and says, “But you know what?”
She knows she is speaking with the voice of false cheer, the one she uses to, say, make a promise of ice cream in exchange for good behavior. She wishes she had something to offer him now, something—anything—to make up for his suffering.
“What?” Charlie asks, looking hopeful.
“We will get through this together,” she says. “We’re a great, unstoppable team—and don’t forget it.”
As she swallows back tears, Charlie takes another sip of juice, gives her a brave smile, and says, “I won’t forget it, Mommy.”
The next day, after a painful round of occupational therapy for his hand, Charlie is on the verge of frustrated tears when he hears Dr. Russo’s trademark hard double knock on the door. Valerie watches her son’s face clear and feels her own spirits lift, too; it is a close call as to who looks forward to his visits more.
“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 cuff links.
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 Bs,” 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?”
“Yes,” Charlie says, beaming. “Very, very happy.”
A beat later, Rosemary arrives unexpectedly, along with a bag of dollar-store gadgets for Charlie and a plastic container of her famous chicken tetrazzini. Valerie knows how hard her mother is trying, how much she wants to be there for them both. Yet she finds herself wishing she had not come, at least not at this moment, and marvels at how her mother manages to suck the peaceful feeling out of the room by her mere presence.
“Oh! Why, hello,” Rosemary says, staring at Dr. Russo. They have not yet met, but she has heard much about him, mostly from Charlie.
Dr. Russo abruptly turns and stands with a polite, expectant smile, as Valerie makes an introduction that feels both awkward and somehow revealing. Sinc
e their arrival at the hospital, Valerie and Charlie have made a few friends, but she has remained a vigilant gatekeeper of all personal information. Only occasionally has a detail slipped out, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes by necessity. Dr. Russo knows, for example, that there was only one parent signing consent forms—and anyone can easily observe that there are no male visitors other than Jason.
“Very nice to meet you, Mrs. Anderson,” Dr. Russo says, as he extends his hand toward Rosemary.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, too,” she says, shaking his hand with a flustered look of awe, the same expression she wears after church when talking to the priests, especially the young, handsome ones. “I just can’t thank you enough, Dr. Russo, for everything you’ve done for my grandson.”
It is an appropriate thing to say, and yet Valerie still feels annoyed, even embarrassed by the slight tremor in her mother’s voice. More important, she is conscious of Charlie, listening intently, and resents her mother’s melodramatic reminder of why they all are here. Dr. Russo seems to be aware of this dynamic, too, because he quickly murmurs, “You’re welcome.” Then he turns back to Charlie and says, “Well, buddy, I’ll let you visit with your grandma . . .”
Charlie’s face scrunches into a frown. “Aww, Dr. Nick, can’t you stay a little longer? Please?”
Valerie watches Dr. Russo hesitate, and then rushes in to save him. “Charlie, honey, Dr. Russo needs to go now. He has a lot of other patients to see.”
“Actually, buddy, I need to talk to your mom for a few minutes. If that’s okay with her?” Dr. Russo says, shifting his gaze to Valerie. “Do you have a minute?”
She nods, thinking of how much her life has slowed since they came here. Always before, she was rushing everywhere; now she finds herself with nothing but time.
Dr. Russo squeezes Charlie’s foot and says, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay, buddy?”
“Okay,” Charlie says reluctantly.
Valerie can tell Rosemary’s feelings are hurt by her second-fiddle status and she overcompensates with forced exuberance. “Look! I brought a seek-and-find book!” she shrills. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”