Sure enough, she inhales dramatically, looks around, and drops her voice to a hushed whisper. "My husband works with his mother. Valerie Anderson. They're at the same law firm." Her eyes light up as she continues, "And he says she hasn't been to work in weeks . . weeks . . ." ."

"Hmm," I say noncommittally, and then do my best to divert her attention to her own children, the only topic she's guaranteed to enjoy more than speculation about another. "How are the boys?" I say.

"Crrazy," she says, rolling her eyes, as she watches her second oldest, dressed as Winnie-the-Pooh, systematically pluck chrysanthemums from April's flower bed. Clearly, she is cut from the "my child can do no wrong" mold, as she lets him continue to pick away, saying, "Yeah. They are she says, rolling her eyes, as she watches her second oldest, dressed as Winnie-the-Pooh, systematically pluck chrysanthemums from April's flower bed. Clearly, she is cut from the "my child can do no wrong" mold, as she lets him continue to pick away, saying, "Yeah. They are all all boy." boy."

As opposed to Frank, I think, who routinely clamors for my lip gloss, plays with Ruby's dolls, and recently announced that he wants to be a hairdresser when he grows up. I offer these details to Carly, who gives me a sympathetic head tilt and a lilting, "I wouldn't worry too much."

Her implication is clear-I should be gravely gravely worried. worried.

I watch Winnie-the-Pooh stomp on the crushed petals, smearing streaks of purple and pink along the driveway, feeling sure he kills bugs with the same diligence and thinking that I'd rather my son be gay than the testosterone-driven frat boy her son seems destined to become.

"And this is Piglet, I presume?" I say, smiling at the infant in her arms, wearing a hot-pink striped onesie and a little snout on his nose, and glancing around for Tigger and Eeyore.

She nods and I murmur, "Adorable."

"He's not so adorable at three in the morning," she says wearily, wearing her fatigue as a badge of honor. "I have a baby nurse-but I still get up to nurse every couple hours. So it really does no good."

"That's rough," I say, thinking that she just masterfully made two points: she's privileged enough to have outside help, yet committed enough to get up and nurse her child anyway.

"Yeah. It is. But so so worth it . . . Did you nurse?" worth it . . . Did you nurse?"

None of your business, I think, as it occurs to me to lie as I have many times in the past. Instead I blurt out the truth, feeling liberated that I no longer guard the fact as a guilty secret. "For a few weeks. It didn't work out so well for me. I quit. We were all better off." I think, as it occurs to me to lie as I have many times in the past. Instead I blurt out the truth, feeling liberated that I no longer guard the fact as a guilty secret. "For a few weeks. It didn't work out so well for me. I quit. We were all better off."

"Poor milk production?" she whispers.

"No. I just went back to work-and pumping was too hard," I say, spotting Ruby, who is doing her best to push a squawking Frank out the back window of a lavender Cozy Coupe.

"Hey! Ruby! Knock it off!" I shout across the lawn.

"It's my turn," Ruby yells back at me, a hysterical edge to her voice. "He won't share."

"He's two," I say. "You're four."

"Two is old enough to share!" she shouts, which, unfortunately, is a decent point.

"I better go handle this one," I say, grateful to excuse myself.

"This is when you wish their father was around, huh?" Carly says, giving me her very best "my life is better than your life" smile.

Later that night, after the kids are asleep, our porch lights are turned off, and I'm trying to resist candy, my mind returns to Carly's smug smile. I wonder whether it was in my head-whether I'm being oversensitive or defensive about Nick's work, projecting my own dissatisfaction. It occurs to me that she is not unique-that all all women women compare lives. We are aware of whose husband works more, who helps more around the house, who makes more money, who is having more sex. We compare our children, taking note of who is sleeping through the night, eating their vegetables, minding their manners, getting into the right schools. We know who keeps the best house, throws the best parties, cooks the best meals, has the best tennis game. We know who among us is the smartest, has the fewest lines around her eyes, has the best figure-whether naturally or artificially. We are aware of who works full-time, who stays at home with the kids, who manages to do it all and make it look easy, who shops and lunches while the nanny does it all. We digest it all and then discuss with our friends. Comparing and then confiding; it is what women do. compare lives. We are aware of whose husband works more, who helps more around the house, who makes more money, who is having more sex. We compare our children, taking note of who is sleeping through the night, eating their vegetables, minding their manners, getting into the right schools. We know who keeps the best house, throws the best parties, cooks the best meals, has the best tennis game. We know who among us is the smartest, has the fewest lines around her eyes, has the best figure-whether naturally or artificially. We are aware of who works full-time, who stays at home with the kids, who manages to do it all and make it look easy, who shops and lunches while the nanny does it all. We digest it all and then discuss with our friends. Comparing and then confiding; it is what women do.

The difference, I think, lies in why why we do it. Are we doing it to gauge our own life and reassure ourselves that we fall within the realm of normal? Or are we being competitive, relishing others' shortcomings so that we can win, if only by default? we do it. Are we doing it to gauge our own life and reassure ourselves that we fall within the realm of normal? Or are we being competitive, relishing others' shortcomings so that we can win, if only by default?

The phone rings, saving me from my runaway thoughts and an unwrapped Twix bar. I see that it's Nick and answer hurriedly.

"Hey!" I say, feeling as if we haven't talked in days.

"Hey, honey," he says. "How'd it go tonight?"

"It was fun," I say, sharing the highlights of the evening-how Frank kept saying, "Treat or treat." How Ruby would remind him to say thank you. How proud she was whenever the big girls complimented her costume. "But of course it wasn't the same without you. We missed you."

"I missed you, too," he says. "All three of you." I take one small bite of chocolate, knowing that I'm screwed with this fatal, first bite. "Are you coming home now?"

"Soon."

"How soon?"

"Pretty soon," Nick says. "But don't wait up . . ."

I swallow, feeling a wave of disappointment and defeat, followed by guilty relief that I have no witnesses to observe the look on my face now, as I hang up the phone, finish my candy bar, and go to bed alone.

20.

Valerie.

Valerie knows she's in trouble on Halloween. Not because of her deep-down knowledge that she called Nick, in part, just to hear his voice, and in part, so that he'd have her number. And not because he insisted on coming to the party, arriving in full Darth Vader garb. And not knows she's in trouble on Halloween. Not because of her deep-down knowledge that she called Nick, in part, just to hear his voice, and in part, so that he'd have her number. And not because he insisted on coming to the party, arriving in full Darth Vader garb. And not even even because he stayed in their room long after Charlie fell asleep, leaning on the windowsill, talking in a hushed voice as they both lost track of time. Of course, all of those things were signs of trouble, especially the following morning when she played the reel back. because he stayed in their room long after Charlie fell asleep, leaning on the windowsill, talking in a hushed voice as they both lost track of time. Of course, all of those things were signs of trouble, especially the following morning when she played the reel back.

But the moment of certainty came when he called her on the way home to tell her "one more thing." It was something about Charlie-that much she would remember later-but all professional pretenses were erased by the hour of the call, and the fact that they didn't hang up when that one thing one thing was was communicated. Instead, they talked until he pulled into his driveway, some thirty minutes later. communicated. Instead, they talked until he pulled into his driveway, some thirty minutes later.

"Happy Halloween," he whispered into the phone.

"Happy Halloween," she whispered back. Then she forced herself to hang up, feeling a mix of melancholy and guilt as she pictured his house and the three people inside. Yet she still went to sleep that night hoping that he'd call her in the morning.

Which he did. And then every day after that, except for the days when she called him first. They always began their conversation with a discussion of Charlie's graft or his pain meds or his mood-but they always ended with one more thing, one more thing, and often and often one more thing one more thing after that. after that.

And here it is, six days later, the phone ringing again.

"Where are you?" he begins, no longer announcing himself.

"Here," she says, watching Charlie sleep. "In the room."

"How is he?" Nick asks.

"He's good . . . asleep . . . Where are you?"

"Five minutes away," he says, talking to her until she can hear his voice in the hall.

"Hey," he says, rounding the corner, sliding his BlackBerry into his pocket, a broad smile on his face as if they've just shared an inside joke.

"Hi!" she says, feeling herself grin back, overcome with gladness.

But ten minutes of light conversation later, Nick's expression becomes grave. At first Valerie worries that something has gone wrong with Charlie's graft, but then realizes that the opposite is true, that it is simply time for Charlie to go home. She remembers Nick telling her it would be about a week for the new skin to adhere, remembers how he kept his eyes fixed on hers as if offering a guarantee. Yet she still feels shocked and overwhelmed, as if she never saw this moment coming.

"Today?" she asks, her heart racing with dread and the dawning, shameful realization that she does not want to go home. She tells herself it is only the place-the security of a hospital-but deep down, she knows that there is more to it than that.

"Tomorrow," Nick says, a fleeting look crossing his face that tells Valerie he feels the same way. But he quickly falls into his medical mode, talking about Charlie's progress and therapy, his long-term surgical plan, as well as his short-term outpatient plan, rattling off instructions and assurances.

"He can go back to school in another week or so. Ideally, he still needs to wear his mask about eighteen hours a day. But it can come off occasionally-unless, of course, he's playing sports, that sort of thing . . . And he needs to sleep with it, too. Same goes for the splint on his hand."

She swallows and nods, forcing a smile. "That's great. Great news," she says, feeling like a decidedly bad mother to receive the report with anything short of unbridled joy.

"I know it's scary," Nick says. "But he's ready."

"I know," she says, biting her lip so hard that it hurts.

"And so are you," he tells her, so convincingly that she nearly believes him.

The following afternoon, as Valerie works her way through all the paperwork and packing, she finds herself remembering the first time she left the hospital with Charlie, when he was just three days old. She has the same feeling of impending failure now, the fear that she will be revealed as a fraud once home alone with her child. The only thing that tempers her trepidation is Charlie's palpable excitement as he skips through the halls, handing out illustrated cards he made for everyone last night. Everyone but Nick, that is, who is nowhere to be found.

Valerie keeps expecting him to show up, or at least call, and feels herself stalling, signing the discharge papers and loading the cart with their belongings as slowly as possible. At one point, Valerie even asks Leta, a matronly, soft-spoken nurse who has been with them since the beginning, if they should wait to see Dr. Russo before leaving.

"He's off today, sugar," Leta says, even more gently than usual, as if she's worried the news will upset Valerie. "He signed the order last night." She flips through Charlie's chart as if looking for some consolation, smiling brightly when she finds it. "But he wants to see you back in a few days," she says. "Call this number here," she says, circling Nick's office number on a form and handing it to her.

Embarrassed, Valerie takes the paper and looks away, wondering just how transparent she is, if all the nurses can tell how she feels, how close she and Nick have become. Or perhaps he is this way with all his patients and families-perhaps she has mistaken their friendship for a well-honed and finely tuned bedside manner. The thought that he is doing his job, that she and Charlie aren't unique, fills her with relief and and disappointment. disappointment.

Valerie zips the last duffel bag as Leta bustles out of the room, returning a moment later with a wheelchair for Charlie's final ride through these halls-and a lanky hospital page named Horace to do the pushing.

"I don't need that anymore!" Charlie says with a happy shout.

"It's hospital protocol, baby," Leta says.

Charlie stares at her, confused.

"Everyone gets wheeled out, sweetie pie," she tells him. "So hop aboard. Horace might pop a wheelie for you."

Charlie makes a gurgling, happy boy noise and climbs into the chair as Valerie glances around the bare room, and gives her last, silent thank-you to a place she will never forget.

Charlie doesn't ask about Nick until later that night when he is in his own bed, his artwork and cards from the hospital transferred to his honey-colored walls, his army of stuffed animals surrounding him, his iPod in the docking station, playing soft Beethoven.

"I never got to give Dr. Nick my card!" he says, suddenly sitting up. "I didn't get to say good-bye."

"We'll see him again in a few days," she says, easing him back onto his pillow and turning his night-light on.

"Can we call him?" Charlie says, his voice quivering.

"Not now, honey. It's too late," she says.

"Please," he whimpers, reaching up to pull off his mask. "I want to say good night."

Valerie knows what the answer should be, knows that there are a dozen things she could tell her son to distract him from the subject of Dr. Nick.

But instead she puts her hand in her pocket and pulls out her phone that she has kept near her all day and types a rapid text: We're We're home. Everything good. Call if you can. Charlie wants to say good night. home. Everything good. Call if you can. Charlie wants to say good night.

She hits send, tells herself she is doing it for her child. She is is doing it for her child. doing it for her child.

Seconds later, the phone rings.

Valerie jumps. "It's him!" she says, pressing the talk button and holding the phone up to Charlie's ear.

"Hi, Dr. Nick," Charlie says. "I didn't get to say good-bye to you."

Valerie strains to hear his response. "No need for good-byes, buddy. I'll see you soon."

"When?" Charlie asks.

"How about tomorrow? Ask your mom if you're free?"

"Are we free tomorrow, Mommy?" Charlie asks.

"Yes," Valerie answers quickly.

Nick says something else that she can't make out and Charlie hands her the phone. "He wants to talk to you, Mommy," he says, replacing his mask before yawning and closing his eyes.

She takes the phone and says, "Hi, there . . . I'm sorry to bother you . . . on your day off . . . at night. . ."

"Stop it," Nick says. "You know I love when you call... I really wanted to come by today . . . I miss you. I miss you both."

Valerie walks out of the room, leaving Charlie's door open a crack, and whispers in the hall, "We miss you, too."

Silence crackles over the phone as Valerie makes her way to her own bed. "Is it too late now?" he finally says.

"Now?" she asks, confused.

"Can I stop by for a minute? Take a peek at him?"

Valerie closes her eyes and catches her breath long enough to tell him yes. Long enough to tell herself, for the hundredth time, that they are friends. Just Just friends. friends.

21.