Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin

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.”
    “And that will grow back? On his scalp?”
    “Yes. The remaining skin still contains hair follicles and sebaceous glands which gradually proliferate out to form a new layer of epidermis. We’ll dress the area with a moist antibiotic-covered gauze to guard against infection . . .”
    “Okay,” Valerie says, swallowing, nodding. “And then? How do you put the skin on?”
    “So. We’ll take the skin and just drape it right over his cheek, and use a scalpel to punch little holes to allow blood and fluid to drain. We then secure the graft with fine sutures and a little biological glue and cover it with a moist, nonadherent dressing.”
    “Does it always . . . take?” she says.
    “Typically, yes. It should attach and revascularize . . . and his scalp will be a fine match for his cheek.”
    She nods, feeling queasy but reassured, as he goes on to explain that after the surgery Charlie will wear a custom-fitted face mask in order to control facial scarring. “Basically, we want to keep the scars on the face flat, smooth, and pliable.”
    “A mask?” she says, trying to picture it, worrying, once again, about the social stigma her son will have to endure.
    “Yes,” he says. “An occupational therapist will be coming by later this afternoon to take a scan of Charlie’s face. This data will be transmitted to a company that makes custom-fitted, transparent silicone masks. The mask will cover Charlie’s entire face—except for holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth—and attach with straps.”
    “But it will be clear? See-through?”
    “Yes,” he says. “Clear so that we can observe blanching of the scar and see where pressure is being applied . . . Over time, the therapist will adjust the fit of the mask by making changes to the mold and reheating the plastic.” He studies her face, as if searching for something. “Sound good?”
    She nods, feeling slightly reassured.
    “Any other questions?”
    “No. Not right now,” she says quietly.
    Dr. Russo nods and says, “Well. Just call me if they come up. Anytime. You have my cell.”
    “Thank you, Dr. Russo,” she says.
    “Nick,” he says. It is at least the fourth time he’s corrected her.
    “Nick,” she repeats as their eyes lock again. Another stretch of silence ensues, much like the last one, but this time, Valerie feels more comfortable, nearly enjoying the quiet camaraderie.
    Nick seems to feel the same, because he smiles and easily switches to a new topic. “So Charlie mentioned you’re a lawyer?” he says.
    Valerie nods, wondering when, and in what context, Charlie discussed her profession.
    “What kind of lawyer?” he asks.
    “I practice corporate litigation,” she says, thinking of how far away and unimportant her firm and all its politics feel to her. Other than a few phone calls with the head of her department, in which he assured her that her cases and clients were covered and she should not worry about a thing, she had not given work a single thought since Charlie’s accident and couldn’t fathom why she ever let it stress her out.
    “Did you go to law school around here?” he asks.
    She nods and says, “Yeah. I went to Harvard,” instead of the usual way she avoids that word, not out of a sense of feigned modesty the way so many of her