Free Heart of the Matter by Emily Giffin Page A

strip of skin is all we’ll need . . . Then we’ll put it in a meshing machine and expand it—and secure it to his hand using a few surgical staples.”
    She can feel herself wince as he continues, telling her the whole graft will be nourished by a process called plasmatic imbibition—which means that the graft literally drinks plasma, then grows new blood vessels into the transplanted skin.
    “You make it sound easy,” she says.
    “It is pretty easy,” he says, nodding. “I’ve done thousands.”
    “So there’s no risk?” she asks, wondering if there’s a judgment call involved, whether she should seek a second opinion.
    “Not really. The main concern is fluid accumulation under the graft,” he continues. “To prevent this from happening, we’ll mesh the graft with tiny rows of short, interrupted cuts.” He makes a small cutting motion in the air and continues. “Then, each row will be offset by half a cut-length, like bricks in a wall. In addition to allowing for drainage, this allows the graft to both stretch and cover a larger area . . . and more closely approximate the contours of the hand.”
    She nods, feeling queasy but reassured by the precise science of it all. “I’ll also be using VAC therapy—Vacuum Assisted Closure—which does pretty much what it sounds like it does. I’ll place a section of foam over the wound, then lay a perforated tube onto the foam, securing it with bandages. A vacuum unit then creates negative pressure, sealing the edges of the wound to the foam, and drawing out excess blood and fluids. This process helps to maintain cleanliness in the graft site, minimizes the risk of infection, and promotes the development of new skin while removing fluid and keeping the graft in place.”
    “Okay,” she says, taking it all in.
    “Sound good?” he asks.
    “Yes,” she says, thinking she does not want a second opinion, that she trusts him completely. “And then what?”
    “We’ll keep his hand immobilized in a splint for four or five days, then continue therapy and work on function.”
    “So . . . you think he’ll be able to use it again?”
    “His hand? Absolutely. I’m very optimistic. You should be, too.”
    She looks at Dr. Russo, wondering if he can tell that optimism has never been her go-to emotion.
    “Okay,” she says, resolving to change that.
    “Are you ready?” he asks.
    “You’re going to do the surgery nowT she asks nervously.
    “If you’re ready,” he says.
    “Yes,” she tells him. “I’m ready.”

Tessa
    The accident seems to be all anyone can talk about—at least among the stay-at-home mothers in town, the ranks of whom I’m slowly infiltrating. The subject arises at Frank’s playgroup, Ruby’s ballet class, on the tennis courts, even in the grocery store. Sometimes the women know of Nick’s connection to the boy, openly giving their condolences to pass along. Sometimes they have no clue, relaying the story as if it were the first time I’d heard it, exaggerating the injuries in ways I’d discuss with Nick later. And sometimes, in the most annoying instances, they know, but pretend not to, transparently hoping that I will divulge some inside information.
    In almost all cases, they speak in hushed voices with grave expressions, as if, on some level, relishing the drama. “Emotional rubbernecking,” Nick calls it, disdainful of anything smacking of gossip. “Don’t these women have anything better to do with their time?” he asks when I report happenings on the grapevine, a sentiment I tend to agree with, even when I am a guilty participant in the chatter, speculation, and analysis.
    Even more striking to me, though, is the distinct sense that most of the women seem to identify more with Romy than the little boy’s mother, saying things like, “She shouldn’t be so hard on herself. It could happen to anyone.” At which point, I nod and murmur my agreement, both because I don’t want to make waves and because, in theory, I