Melt My Heart

by Anna Cove

  "She died so suddenly, and then you left for China and India and—"

  "I've dealt with that, Jada. Move on."

  "Okay, how about intimate relationships? Are you seeing anyone?"

  "No one special."

  "That might have something to do with—"

  "She died ten years ago. Why would that be coming up now?"

  "The mind has a funny way of protecting itself."

  "I'm not talking about this."

  "Perhaps that's your problem—"

  "That is not my problem. My problem is I haven't found something interesting to write about."

  "But—"

  "End of discussion, Jada."

  Jada folded her arms. I could see her fighting the urge to give me a good dressing down. Her rich chocolate eyes shown with disapproval. "Why did you come see me if you didn't want to hear what I had to say?"

  "I need some help." I shrugged. "You know how hard it is for me to ask. As a friend, what do you think?"

  Jada glanced out the window. Outside, a siren whined, but it was a distant cry, like this place was a heaven far removed from the grit of the city below. I wanted to run my sneaker against something, and I might have, if this wasn't Jada's office. How did she keep everything so clean?

  "Travel?" she suggested.

  "Too broke."

  "Hmm..." Jada said. "What about doing some research? That should get your brain going."

  "Research? I'm a memoirist. I write about experience."

  "Yes, but sometimes we need a different perspective."

  "Where should I go?" I asked, my brain slowly coming around to the idea as if it were on a turntable. Research. I'd avoided books in favor of "real life experience" but I was all experienced out... and I had loved reading once. Perhaps it could work.

  "You know... my favorite columns from you come when you're talking to women about being a woman. Why not go back to Smith and do some research from their archives about women in history?"

  "Smith College?" I said, absently touching my forehead.

  "The Berkshires will be beautiful this time of year. The leaves will be changing soon. It might be a nice retreat for you. You could probably get the college to offer you student housing if they have any left at this point in the year. You would need a couple days, at most, just to get a jump-start."

  I sucked in a breath and let it out. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best idea I'd heard so far. The more she talked, the more I liked the idea. Northampton was full of radical people and wonderful women. I was bound to find a good subject there, even if it wasn't in the library. As an added bonus, it was less than two hours from my apartment in Albany.

  Perhaps this was just the change I needed.

  I stood from the couch, feeling for the first time in a long time like I had a solid direction. I strode to Jada, held her shoulders and kissed her cheek. "You are a beautiful goddess," I said. "And a great friend. Can I borrow your car?"

  ...

  SUSAN

  "I know it's a little early for champagne, Paul, but we're going to make an exception just this once."

  Fall slipped through the crisp morning air as I popped the top from the champagne bottle and poured it into the clear plastic cup balanced on top of Paul's gravestone. It teetered with the change of the weight and leaned against the flimsy party hat like a drunk frat boy. I put one of the cone-hats on my head, stretching the strap under my chin, my unruly curls pushing it upward, and poured myself a glass as well.

  I closed my eyes and imagined the last actually happy birthday we'd had together. I could still feel his warmth as he leaned over me for a morning kiss, his three-day-old beard scratching my face.

  "You need a shave," I'd said, laughing as I'd rolled out from underneath him to avoid his pursed lips.

  He'd tried to catch me as I ran to the bathroom, giggling like a teenager. He roared, his shoulders rippling like a stalking cheetah. I shrieked. That was almost eight years ago. Three weeks later he would have his diagnosis of prostate cancer and three long years after that he would be dead.

  "What's the occasion?" A familiar wobbling voice asked, bringing me back from the past. During my reverie, Mrs. Landing had driven up in her beat-up Chevy and parked without my noticing. She wore her Sunday best as always.

  I smiled, the memory of Paul lingering on my lips. "It's my birthday."

  "In that case, pour me a glass, too!" Mrs. Landing said, mirroring my smile.

  I'd brought along an extra pink plastic champagne flute for this very reason. Mrs. Landing and I had become friends in widowhood over the years. She was about eighty-five and lived a couple houses down from me. I had never met her until our husbands became neighbors underground. I went back to my Subaru and plucked the plastic glass from the center console cup holder, then I went to her beat-up car and took her lawn chair from the back, setting it up next to mine.

  I poured her a cup and handed it to her. She raised her glass. "What's the damage, my dear?"

  "Fifty-five," I said.

  "Young!"

  "I feel like I'm seventy-five."

  "Which is also young, my dear," Mrs. Landing said, clinking our glasses together. "I would know."

  We took a sip of our champagne and settled into our seats. We stared at the stones of our dead husbands, letting the birds and the chirping chipmunks fill the silence. Somewhere off in the distance, a lawn mower sputtered, then started.

  I still miss you, I thought. Especially today.

  Mrs. Landing and our dead husbands would be the only ones celebrating my birthday today. I hadn't bothered telling anyone else, and, given history, no one would remember anyway. I wasn't feeling bad about that. It was my fault after all. I hadn't told anyone it was my birthday.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. I brought it out and tapped on the message to open it. It was from Alyssa.

  Happy birthday, Mom. I'm about to bring the kids to daycare, but I wanted to tell you I love you and you're fantastic and I'm sorry I can't be with you today.

  I smiled to myself. Alyssa was married and lived in Minneapolis with three of the most precious children I'd ever met—my grandchildren. Jake, my son, was in Boston with his new wife. They couldn't be with me in person, but when I closed my eyes, I could see them as little ones, presenting me with a clay ash tray, though I never smoked, and a Christmas ornament for my birthday, though it was September. I could still feel their little arms around my neck and their wet kisses on my cheek.

  Thanks, darling.

  I shut off my screen and returned the phone to my pocket.

  "I'm sorry I didn't know it was your birthday or I would have brought you a present," Mrs. Landing said. Though she had only taken a few sips of champagne, she listed away from me. I took the champagne glass from her and set it onto the dew-filled grass, then pulled her arm back to straighten her up.

  "Your company is plenty," I said, patting her folded hands.

  "I forgot my flowers at home, you know. I do like Hal's grave to look festive for autumn. He always did love autumn," she slurred.

  "I have an extra pot of mums in the car. Do you want them?" I asked.

  "The garish pink ones?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, okay..." Mrs. Landing said, pressing her lips together. "I have a gift for you."

  "Are you feeling all right, Mrs. Landing?" I reached over and took her hand again, trying to find a subtle way to make sure she was well. She had seemed a little forgetful lately, and she had just told me she didn't have a gift. Perhaps her age was finally getting to her. Perhaps I shouldn't have given her that champagne. Was it reacting with some medication she had taken?

  "I could drive you home and come back to pick up your car later."

  "No, no, dear. I'm fine."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes."

  "The gift—"

  "You don't have to bother with gifts for me, Mrs. Landing. Just having you here today is plenty."

  "Can you take me home?" she asked. "I'm f
eeling a tad ill."

  Her pulse fluttered under my fingers, and her face had turned the color of dead grass. She tilted toward me. The hospital was right down the street. It would take me less time to drive her there than for an ambulance to arrive. I hoped she wouldn't die in my car. That would be just my luck.

  I wrapped her bone-and-skin arm around my shoulders and my arm around her waist and lifted her. Her head lolled backward, her slight weight leaned into me. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Landing. Hold on."

  With some voodoo magic I managed to keep a hold on her while opening the door to my car and slipping her inside. I ran around the front of the hood and catapulted into the driver's seat.

  The drive to the hospital stretched longer than it had any right. I blew a red light, checking behind me to make sure the blue and reds didn't flash. I parked outside the emergency entrance, ran around the car, unbuckled Mrs. Landing, and took her inside.

  Almost immediately, nurses surrounded me, taking Mrs. Landing, slipping her into a wheelchair, and rolling her away.

  Someone—a male nurse in his twenties—gave me a brief, calm look. "What happened?"

  "She had some champagne. We were celebrating."

  "Are you family?"

  I blinked, assaulted by the antiseptic smell, as if someone had wrapped a Band-aid around the hospital to stop the bleeding. It was the same thought I'd had when Paul had collapsed that first time. When I'd taken him here, and my heart had almost beat out of my chest. It was the same smell when they'd told me there was something on his CAT scan. A something that could have been nothing, but I knew was something.

  "Are you all right, ma'am?" the male nurse asked again.

  I forced myself to draw in a breath of the antiseptic air and pushed it all into the little box inside my heart that held those memories. "I'm not family. Just a neighbor. How can I help?"

  "We'll take it from here. It's probably just an interaction of the alcohol with some of her meds. Do you know what she's on?"

  "No, but I can find out, if you like. Take a look around her house."

  "No, it's okay. It would only be a guess, anyway."

  "Suuue. Susan." Mrs. Landing started tossing and turning like she was having a nightmare, her wrinkles catching the rivulets of sweat rolling down her face.

  "I'm here Mrs. Landing." I strode to her side and clutched her clammy hand. "I'm here. It's okay. I'll stay with you as long as you need me."

  "We're going to knock her out," said the male voice over my shoulder.

  "Okay. Mrs. Landing. Do you know what medications you take?"

  "Don't. Die," she said, her hand going lax as she turned away. "Your gift. Don't..."

  "Don't worry, sweetie. These doctors are going to take care of you," I said. She was already passed out, and once again I was helpless, foam on the waves of the hospital, carried toward something over which I had no control. Carried closer to death. How fitting a start to my birthday.

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