Heart of the Matter Read Free Page B

lips, and begins to speak.
    “My name is Dr. Nick Russo,” he says, his voice deep and slow. “And I am one of the leading pediatric plastic surgeons in the world.”
    She looks into his dark eyes and exhales, her insides unclenching, as she tells herself that they would not send a  plastic  surgeon if her son’s life were still in danger. He is going to be okay. He is not going to die. She knows this as she looks in his doctor’s eyes. Then, for the first time, she considers how Charlie’s life has changed. How this night will scar him in more ways than one. Feeling a fierce determination to protect him no matter what the outcome, she hears herself ask Dr. Russo if he can fix Charlie’s hand and face; if he can make her son beautiful again.
    “I will do everything I can for your son,” he says, “but I want you to remember something. Will you please do that for me?”
    She nods, thinking he will tell her not to expect miracles. As if she ever dared to do so, even once in her whole life.
    Instead, Dr. Russo holds her gaze and says the words she will never forget.
    “Your son  is  beautiful,” he tells her. “He is beautiful  now.”
    She nods again, both believing and trusting him. And only then, for the first time in a very long time, do her tears come.
3   
Tessa
    Sometime in the middle of the night, I awaken to the solid warmth of Nick beside me. With my eyes still closed, I reach out and run my hand over his shoulder, then down his shirtless back. His skin smells of soap from his usual postwork shower, and I feel a wave of attraction that is quickly expelled by an even greater dose of fatigue. Par for the course since Ruby was born—and certainly since she was joined by Frank. I still love having sex with my husband, as much as ever once we’re under way. It just so happens that I now prefer sleep to most everything else—chocolate, red wine, HBO, and sex.
    “Hi there,” he whispers, his voice muffled against his pillow.
    “I didn’t hear you come in . . . What time is it?” I ask, hoping that it’s closer to midnight than to the kids’ automatic seven o’clock wake-up, more unforgiving than any alarm clock and without a snooze option.
    “Two-thirty.”
    “Time to see a dentist,” I murmur.
    It is one of his endearing exchanges with Ruby:  What time is it, Daddy?  To which Nick grimaces, points to his mouth, and replies:  Tooth hurty. Time to see a dentist. A real crowd-pleaser.
    “Uh-huh,” Nick says distractedly, clearly in no mood for conversation. But as I open my eyes and watch him turn and stare intently at the ceiling, my curiosity gets the better of me. So I ask, as casually as I can given the nature of the inquiry, whether it was a birth defect—which comprises a significant portion of Nick’s work.
    He sighs and says no.
    I hesitate and tentatively guess again. “A car accident?”
    “No, Tess,” he says, so patiently that it gives away his impatience. “It was a burn. An accident.”
    He adds this last bit as a disclaimer. In other words, it was  not child abuse—sadly, far from a given; Nick once told me that about ten percent of all pediatric burns are the result of child abuse.
    I bite my lower lip, my mind racing with the usual possibilities—a boiling pot from the stove, a scalding bathtub, a house fire, a chemical burn—and I’m unable to resist the inevitable follow-up. The question of  how. It is the question Nick resists the most, his typical reply going something along the lines of:  What difference does it make? It was an accident. Accidents are just that. They happen.
    Tonight he clears his throat and resignedly gives me the facts. A six-year-old boy was roasting marshmallows. He somehow fell into the fire and burned his hand and cheek. The left side of his face.
    Nick’s speech is rapid and detached, as if he’s simply relaying the weather forecast. But I know that this is only an act—a well-practiced cover-up. I know that he will likely be