Second Hand Heart

by Hyde, Catherine Ryan

  “Come here,” she said. “I want to show you this.” I moved closer, not sure what I was trying to see.

  “See how it’s smoother right there?” She indicated the spot with her thumb. Then she held the stone by the edges.

  I looked closely, but I wasn’t sure if I could see or not. Maybe it was a little smoother. The difference wasn’t all that clear.

  “I actually did that with my thumb,” she said. “Wore away stone.”

  I touched her thumb. I wanted to feel it, to see if she had a callous. To see what had worn away more of what. Who was really winning.

  The sudden touch electrified us. Or, actually, maybe it only electrified me. How would I know about her? She did have a heavy callous on that thumb, the kind guitar players have on the tips of their fingers.

  “It’s like water,” she said. And I had no idea what was like water. Certainly nothing I could see. “You wouldn’t think water could wear away stone. But it does. It just takes its time. I want to see if I can wear a little groove right into the center of this rock. It may take a while. But I’ve got time. Now I do.”

  “I should go,” I said.

  “Do you believe in love at first sight?” Without hesitation I said, “No.”

  “No? No? I didn’t think anybody would be cynical enough to say no.”

  Her thumb returned to its almost circular pattern over the worry stone. I guess if your goal is to wear a groove into solid rock it doesn’t pay to take vacations.

  “Well, I stand by my answer,” I said. “But it’s not cynicism. Just the opposite. I have too much respect for love to believe that. I don’t even believe in the concept of falling in love. The falling part, I mean. We should all be so lucky that love is something you just fall into. Like, “A funny thing happened to me today. I was walking down the street and I tripped and fell into some love.” You don’t fall down to love, you climb up to it. There’s hard work involved. That’s why I believe you can’t love someone you don’t know. Loving someone is knowing them.”

  Then I stopped myself, breathed. Felt half-dizzy, as though I weren’t in the room at all, which I’ve been feeling a lot these past few days. And I realized I’d said a great deal more than necessary.

  I’ve been talking too much lately. On the rare occasions when there is anyone around to talk to. I never used to be a man who talked too much. Everything is changing.

  “Then I need to know you,” she said.

  The door to her room swung open, and a woman came in. I knew it was Abigail, Vida’s mother. I could tell. I’d known it would be.

  I jumped to my feet, defensive somehow, as though I’d been caught doing something wrong.

  Her head tilted, questioningly, probably hoping I would identify myself without forcing her to be so rude as to ask.

  “Richard Bailey,” I said.

  Her face softened, and she hurried across the room and threw her arms around me. And did not let go. I stood awkwardly, not quite embracing her in return. In time I managed to put one hand on her back, a sort of brotherly pat, and she turned me loose.

  I realized I’d been forgetting to breathe.

  She was small and short and had to crane her neck back to look up into my face. And I’m hardly a giant. Her eyes held too much, and too much of it was for me. I didn’t want all that, so I looked away.

  “You got my letter,” she said.

  “Yes. Thank you for that.”

  “I meant what I said, Mr. Bailey, I want you to know that. We are so, so sorry for your loss. We wouldn’t want you to think that because we gained from it we’re not just as full of empathy for you.”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  I could feel myself needing to get away. Needing to go back into my shut-down mode. Needing to be home, with the covers over me, and no one watching. I felt unable to carry that moment.

  I had run out of gas.

  “I wouldn’t think that,” I said. “As close as you just came to losing a loved one, you probably understand better than anybody.”

  I edged for the door.

  “You’re not leaving?” she said.

  “I have to. I’ll be back. I’ll come back when I’m… I just have to get some fresh air,” I said. “Or something.” At the door I looked back at Vida, and of course she was still staring at me. Her eyes were still the only part of her fully alive, her thumb still the only moveable piece.

  “Thanks for the heart,” she said.

  It was a surprisingly simple statement in the midst of all that life and death and indebtedness.

  “You’re welcome.”

  I turned to leave. But then, for reasons hard to explain, I looked back over my shoulder one more time.

  Vida had taken a bound book with a blank cover off the table and picked up a pen. I was slightly curious. Was she journaling her life? Was she anxious to write down the details of our encounter before they faded away?

  I didn’t stay around to find out.

  • • •

  I drove the forty miles home and went to bed for two days.

  • • •

  While I was in bed, I thought about journals. I’d never kept one. I’d never given them much thought. Was there a comfort in them? There must be, or people wouldn’t bother with them. Still, I wasn’t sure I could imagine where such comfort would be hiding.

  Then again, how often can one really stand outside comfort and correctly imagine it, especially if it’s in an entirely new and unexplored realm?

  Even though I still don’t know for sure if that was a journal I’d seen in Vida’s hands or not, I finally got up out of bed this morning, two days later, ventured out of the house, bought this journal, and wrote down this account of my meeting with Vida and Abigail.

  I can’t honestly say whether I found the journaling comforting or not. Definitely compelling. There is something about telling a story, even to ourselves, that makes us want to continue with the telling.

  But comfort … I think it would take more comfort than this to break through my walls.

  Will there be more to my story with Vida and Abigail? I not only don’t know, I don’t even know my preference in the matter.

  Just in case, though, I bought a nice thick journal.

  From: Myra Buckner

  To: Richard Bailey

  Dear Richard,

  I’m wondering if I might try one more time to talk you out of going to meet the girl.

  Here’s my concern: you asked me if I believe that the heart really is the seat of all human emotion. I’m not sure if you remember, but when I was down for the funeral, you asked me that. Just out of nowhere.

  I’m not sure if I do believe that. I’m not sure it was something I’d ever thought about before.

  At first I thought nothing of the question. Or little of it, anyway. I thought it was a more general curiosity.

  But last night as I was going to sleep, I put it together with something else you said to me when I was down for the funeral. Were they meant to be together? I still don’t know. But, if so, I’m troubled by what they add up to.

  You said you’d watched a program once, a year or so ago. A handful of people with transplanted organs. They seemed to feel some connection with their donors, the people they carried a small part of, inside. A trace memory here, a favorite food there.

  Do you remember saying that to me?

  It crossed my mind that possibly, just possibly, you might attach too much emotional significance to Lorrie’s heart. As if it can still love as she did. As if it were a valentine heart, and not a real one. But it’s an organ, Richard. Just an organ. It pumps blood, and that’s all.

  I apologize for putting that so bluntly. I remember how you said the truth is a type of violence to you now. But really, that’s why I’m saying this. I thought it might be better to hear it from me than to cut open a vein with it in the real world.

  You’re tender now, Richard. We’ve suffered a terrible loss. Don’t go.

  It’s just an organ, R
ichard. It doesn’t carry anything but blood. Someone else’s now.

  With love and apologies, Your mother-in-law (yes, still),

  Myra

  From: Richard Bailey,

  To: Myra Buckner

  Dear Myra,

  Are you sure?

  Is there even a very small chance you could be wrong?

  Also, it’s too late. Sorry.

  Can’t tell you who was right and who was wrong about going because the jury is still out on that.

  My best to you,

  Richard

  The Rubber and the Road

  Vida called me from the hospital. It was late, nearly 1 a.m.

  “Did I wake you?” she said. Of course she had.

  “How did you get this number?”

  “It’s … listed?”

  “Oh. Right. It is. Isn’t it? What’s on your mind, Vida?”

  “I was just thinking about that expression, ‘Where the rubber meets the road.’ I think it used to be from a tire commercial. But I had this pen pal once who used to use it, like … You know. Like an expression. She would say, ‘Yeah, that’s where the rubber meets the road.’ She meant, like, the bottom line. Like that’s what’s really the heart of the matter, you know? And that’s another expression I’ve been thinking about. The heart of the matter. They’re both ways of saying what’s really important. I just thought that rubber one was interesting, because of what happened to your wife.”

  We both allowed a long silence to fall.

  “Well, it certainly is the bottom line at my house,” I said.

  That proved to be a definite conversation-stopper. Then, determined to start off in a cleaner direction, I said, “I was meaning to ask you if you keep a journal.”

  “Yeah, I do. I sort of call it a blank book, though. But I shouldn’t. Because it isn’t blank any more. Esther gave it to me. Do you?”

  As if I would automatically know who Esther is. As if all details of her life were self-explanatory.

  “Actually,” I said, “yes. I do.”

  I was just about to admit that it was very recent, and that I had picked up the habit from her. I think I was seeking some sort of instructions. As if there must be more to it than what I’ve been doing. As if I needed an expert to show me the way.

  Before I could launch into any of that, she said, “Oh, wow! That’s really cool. We have something in common.”

  And then I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint her. “Will you come visit me again?” she asked when I didn’t say anything.

  “Yes. But right now I’m going to go back to sleep.”

  “Promise you’ll come?”

  “Yes.”

  It was a promise made to end the conversation. Maybe I would go or maybe not. But I was acutely aware that the option was mine. I could promise, yet not go. I could simply break a promise. People do it all the time. They are not usually me. Still, a broken promise is a common enough occurrence.

  It was a comfort to me, knowing I could lie if I ever chose to. An odd refuge in the otherwise unfriendly reality of everything changing.

  Vida called me from the hospital. It was late. After two.

  It was five days later. Five. Exactly. I counted. “You promised,” she said.

  “I didn’t promise I’d come in five days or less. Just that I would.”

  “Well you said you’d come see me in the hospital. And if you wait much longer, I’ll be home.”

  “No. That’s not what I said. You said, ‘Will you come visit me again?’ And I said, ‘Yes.’”

  I wondered if I was parsing promises too tellingly. And, speaking of telling, if I was tipping my hand on the attention I paid each and every word of our interaction. Maybe she would think I merely had a photographic memory. Maybe she would not imagine that I recreated conversations in lieu of sleep.

  “I’m bored now,” she said. “It’s boring in the hospital. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been here already?”

  “Um. No. I’m not very good with time.”

  “Well, I’ve been here for ever. Almost a month before I even had the surgery. Please come visit me tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Not good enough. Promise.”

  “No. I can’t promise.”

  “But you already did. You promised me already. You can’t just take it back. It’s not fair.”

  “I can do my best. I’m doing my best, Vida. And that’s all I can do.”

  “Why is this so hard for you?” she asked.

  It rankled me. More so than I could have imagined. Something about having to explain myself. So much energy.

  “You don’t know much about grief,” I said. “Do you?”

  Quick silence on the line. Then, “I don’t know much about grief? Is that what you just said to me? I don’t know much about grief? Me? That’s all I know. I don’t know just about anything else.”

  “That explains a lot, then,” I said.

  “What does it explain?”

  “Maybe why you have trouble recognizing grief when you see it.”

  “Promise me you’ll come.”

  “All right,” I said. “I promise.”

  I’m such a fool. I didn’t used to be. Or at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t used to be. But now I am. That’s one of the very few things I know for sure.

  • • •

  The following night I drove to the hospital and parked in the parking lot.

  And got no farther.

  It was fairly late in the evening, which was rather telling in itself, because visiting hours were about to end. I’d left only about fifteen minutes to spare.

  The sun was not exactly still up, but it was not exactly done going down, either. It glared over the hospital roof, blazing into my eyes. I shaded them with one hand, which didn’t help much, if at all.

  I knew I wasn’t going in.

  I looked up at a bank of windows, any one of a number of which could have been hers.

  I was in the act of conscious breathing. Reminding myself of each breath, concentrating as if the whole system could fall apart otherwise — which I can’t swear was not the truth — and longing for the days when I’d breathed quite expertly without so much as a thought.

  There was a small figure framed in one window. Patient, visitor. How could I know? I wasn’t close enough to see. It could even have been Vida; I can’t swear it wasn’t. But the odds seemed to be against that.

  But then it struck me that the figure could see me far better than I could see her, what with the sun shining on me and obscuring my vision. Assuming it was a her. Vida or no, it made me feel vulnerable. Fated to be at a disadvantage. It made me feel, suddenly, as if I were walking on a partially frozen lake. Feeling the ice shift. Wondering if the next step would be the one to break me through. Plunge me down.

  I got back in the car and drove home.

  I’m either a terrible coward or I finally wised up. Depending on whether one put Vida or Myra in charge of the assessment. And if it were me in charge? I either have no opinion of my own, or I’m torn. Or my own opinion is torn.

  I don’t guess that counts as a visit.

  I don’t suppose that qualifies as a promise kept.

  • • •

  Vida called me from the hospital. It was early, for her. Before nine. I hadn’t been home all that long.

  “I saw you,” she said.

  “You could be wrong.”

  “I’m not. I’m not wrong. I was looking out the window. I’m always looking out the window. It’s the only place I can stand to look. I can’t even look at these awful hospital walls any more. They’re driving me crazy. They’re killing me.”

  “You’ll get to go home soon.”

  “I saw you in the parking lot. Why didn’t you come in?”

  “It’s hard to know what you’re seeing from so far away.”

  “How do you know how far away I saw you from?”

  “I’m tired, Vida. I’m going to go to bed.”
>
  “Why didn’t you come in?”

  “I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

  “But you promised you’d come.”

  “Next time I’ll know better.”

  “It isn’t fair. And if you say life isn’t fair, I’ll scream.”

  “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “Then what were you going to say?”

  “I was going to say, ‘Goodnight, Vida.’”

  “You know I’ll just call you again.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I do know that.”

  From: Richard Bailey

  To: Myra Buckner

  Dear Myra,

  I think I should have listened to you. I think you were right.

  Love,

  Richard

  PS: I don’t really think, though, that it’s so much about that question I asked you at the funeral. I don’t think I’ve completely lost it and started believing that all the love Lorrie amassed in her lifetime, particularly for me, still resides there in the heart. I think it’s a simpler trap than that. Vida has a piece of Lorrie. An actual part of the woman I love. Inside. Alive. Beating. Carried with her. Wouldn’t that make a difference to anybody?

  I hope so. I’d like to believe that, even though I’ve completely lost it, I’m not completely losing it.

  By the way. What I just said about my connection to the heart is true. So far as I know. At least, there is definitely a level at which it is true. Except to the extent that it isn’t true. Except in light of that peculiar phenomenon in which something can be true and not true at the same time.

  Good God. Listen to me. I’ve become an attorney for conflicting realities. Or maybe that’s redundant. Maybe that’s the only kind of attorney there is.

  God help us all.

  PPS: I boxed up Lorrie’s clothes today. That’s all. I hope you weren’t expecting more from me. Just put them in boxes. Taped up their tops. I didn’t move them out of the house or anything. I may never do that.

  Let’s be reasonable.

  From: Myra Buckner

  To: Richard Bailey

  Dear Richard,

  Please know it gives me no joy or satisfaction to have been right in this case.

  It all makes sense, what you explained. Even the part of it that’s true.

  But I’m still troubled by one question: What about the old woman who received Lorrie’s corneas? Why arent you off somewhere gazing into her eyes?