Second Hand Heart

by Hyde, Catherine Ryan

  “Cover yourself,” I said. My voice sounded authoritarian. I noticed that. As if I had unexpectedly slipped back into my professorial mode.

  “I’m not going home.”

  “Put on your coat, Vida.”

  She did. Blinking back what I think might have been tears. But blinking a lot, in any case. She flew off into my bedroom, which seemed odd. I thought I’d made myself so clear on that point.

  Then I heard the bathroom door slam shut, and the deadbolt click into place.

  That clarified a lot.

  • • •

  When she ventured out again, it was nearly two hours later.

  I was sitting under the glow of the corner lamp, reading a novel. I tried to show no special reaction to her presence.

  She stood over me, all full to exploding with her own deficiencies, whatever they may have been. I could feel energy pouring off her in waves. Intensity. But she didn’t speak.

  With a flip of my head I indicated the couch, where I’d laid out a pair of Lorrie’s old pajamas.

  Ah. I just wrote down a secret in black and white. I told Myra I’d boxed up all of Lorrie’s clothes. And yet somehow I’d been allowing the dresser drawers full of underwear and pajamas to fall into a different, non-clothes category. I’d pretended they didn’t count.

  Vida threw off her coat and threw it on the back of the couch. In my peripheral vision I could see her look back to catch if I was watching. I didn’t watch. She put my wife’s pajamas on and tucked in under the blanket I’d left for her.

  By this time it was close to midnight.

  “Why are you being so cold to me?” she said.

  I put my book down, took off my glasses. Pressed my eyes shut and squeezed the bridge of my nose, the way I always do when I’m trying too hard at thinking. It’s as if I’m trying to focus all my confusion into the bridge of my nose, but I don’t know why.

  “I can’t afford to lose anything else right now. Can you understand that?”

  “No,” she said.

  And I found myself thinking, No? No? I didn’t expect that anyone would say no. But I said nothing.

  “I set myself up for loss all the time,” she said. “Over and over.”

  I wanted to say, “Yes. I know. I know lots of people who do. And I do not aspire to join their ranks.”

  Instead I said, “Well. Women have a higher pain threshold. About nine times higher. I think. I think I read that somewhere. It’s for the purpose of childbirth, but I suppose it comes in handy for all kinds of things. I just lost my wife, Vida. Can’t you show any respect for that at all?”

  “What if I waited?”

  “It takes years to get over a thing like that.”

  “What if I waited years? What if a couple years down the road I was still right here, waiting? A couple years is a long time.” She held up her right hand, stone and all, her thumb still smoothing. “Maybe I could even wear down you. You think I don’t know that you really wanted me here? All you had to do was tell me you never wanted me to call again.”

  “I was just afraid of hurting your feelings.”

  “You’re a lousy liar.”

  “Well,” I said. “I guess I haven’t had enough practice.” And then I picked up my book again.

  • • •

  About an hour later I knew she was asleep, because her thumb stopped moving, and the stone slid from her hand. I stole over to the couch and sat on the edge without disturbing her.

  I pulled her blanket down a little. Stopped to see if she would wake up. She didn’t. Then I placed my ear lightly against Lorrie’s old flannel pajamas. Again waited to be sure I wouldn’t wake her. But she just kept sleeping.

  So I put my ear down and listened.

  I closed my eyes, to block out everything that wasn’t right. All that remained was the feel of the flannel on my face and the sound of the heart beating against my ear. But it still wasn’t quite the same. I knew how it was supposed to sound. Slow and confident and healthy. This beat was quicker, as if unsure of itself. As if needing to remind me that even the most minute details had undergone change.

  Even the heart was not exactly the same.

  After a few minutes of that I felt around for the worry stone. I found it half-fallen behind the cushions at the back of the couch. I placed it in the pocket of Lorrie’s pajama top.

  I wondered, if I’d taken Vida up on her offer and made love to her, would she have taken a few minutes off from her battle against rock? Or would she have held and worried that stone the entire time?

  Of all the things I should have been wondering, I question why that was so high on the list. But that’s what I was thinking, all the same.

  • • •

  I rose and called Abigail. Even though it was very late.

  “Oh,” she said. Obviously quite worried. “Mr. Bailey. I mean, Richard. You wouldn’t happen to know where Vida is?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s what I’m calling about. She’s sleeping on my couch. And I’d really appreciate it if you’d please come collect her and take her away.”

  • • •

  We stood over her, watching her sleep. We still had only the glow of the corner lamp, but I didn’t want to turn on a light for fear we’d wake Vida. Whatever she was about to say as her mother led her away, I wasn’t anxious to hear it.

  “Who belongs to the pajamas?” Abigail asked. Sounding — understandably — a bit off balance.

  “She can just keep them,” I said.

  A strained minute, then Abigail said, “Where are her clothes?”

  “I’m not sure that’s a story you’d enjoy hearing.” Abigail wandered over to the Lorrie wall, and stood with her back to me.

  “I guess she thinks she loves me,” I told Abigail’s back. “Maybe it’s not so strange. When you consider all the circumstances.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mr. Bailey. Richard. Not to diminish you one bit as a man, or as a human being. But my daughter has a lot of emotional problems. Always has. She thinks she loves a lot of men. Every couple of months she meets a man and decides it’s love at first sight.”

  I felt a pang of loss when she said that. Just what I swore I could not afford. But it moved through me and I was left standing, so I suppose I could have been wrong.

  I guess — I realized with no small surprise — I might have believed for just a moment what Myra was so afraid I believed. That Vida had seen something special in me, loved me the way Lorrie had, through her eyes or with her exact same heart.

  Maybe I thought Vida would be there, years from now, waiting for me to come around. So there was the loss, and I felt it.

  That’s when I knew I’d moved beyond the numbing shock.

  “Usually the man is ten or twenty years older,” Abigail said. I wondered if she’d said other things in-between, and maybe I’d missed them. “Maybe if her father was around, but I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist. I just know it’s like she has some big empty hole inside. She’s always grabbing on to something or someone to try to fill it up. Most men are all too happy to take advantage.”

  She just kept staring at the photos of Lorrie, all through this speech. I couldn’t tell if she was talking without thinking, or looking without seeing, or both.

  “I guess I’m not most men,” I said.

  She turned halfway back to me. Smiled a little. “Then I owe you two debts of gratitude.”

  “Just take her home, and I’m willing to call it even.”

  “Can you carry her to the car? She only weighs a little under a hundred.”

  “She won’t wake up?”

  Abigail laughed. “Nothing wakes Vida. She’s just like a child that way. You can carry her snoring over your shoulder like a six-year-old. It’s a part of childhood she never outgrew.”

  One of many, I wanted to say. But it seemed cruel. Also unnecessary.

  • • •

  I placed one arm behind Vida’s shoulder blades, one behind her knees.
/>   She wasn’t heavy. She didn’t wake up.

  Abigail threw the coat over her like a blanket.

  On the way from my front door to the car I heard a small tap, something hitting the driveway. I started to point it out to Abigail, knowing it was the stone. I almost said, “Get that.” It seemed a shame to let all that hard work go to waste. To spoil Vida’s chance to triumph over solid rock.

  But my mouth froze up on me, and didn’t work.

  • • •

  I picked it up on the way back to my porch, knowing full well what I had done. I wasn’t stealing it. I would never do that. No, it was even worse. I was holding on to something of Vida’s, something important. Something that she would later come after, or that I would later have to return.

  And I knew I was doing it all the time. Just not how to stop.

  • • •

  As soon as I got back into the house, I pulled it out of my pocket and began rubbing it smooth with my thumb.

  From: Richard Bailey

  To: Myra Buckner

  Myra,

  Vida was here last night. It was all very strange. I had to call her mother to come take her away. I stood in the street and watched them drive off, and in that moment, in that watching, I felt something pull out of me. It was as if something was being pulled from the center of my gut, following them away down the street. The way someone can take up a loose thread of your sweater and pull, and theoretically you could be left with no sweater.

  Whether it was Lorrie’s heart I felt leaving, or the girl wrapped around it, I can’t say.

  So what was I supposed to do, Myra? To deal with feelings like that?

  I guess in the morning I could have called a friend and said, I washed my face just now and yesterday night I let myself feel.

  But I didn’t. And do you know why not? You’re smart, so you probably do.

  Because my friend would have said, Marvelous, Richard. You will survive. Oh, and by the way, Richard. Life goes on from here.

  You see what I’m trying to tell you. Don’t you, Myra? I will now be expected to get on with it. It’s over. I don’t have the numbing shock any more. And I’m no longer entitled to it. That fog has lifted, and now I can feel everything.

  Everything is spinning out of control.

  Richard

  From: Myra Buckner

  To: Richard Bailey

  Richard,

  I’ll be out the door in less than an hour. The drive will take me almost twelve. And even that is assuming I miss the rush hour going through San Francisco.

  Just don’t do anything, Richard.

  I’ll be there as fast as I can.

  Love,

  Myra

  From: Vida Angstrom

  To: Richard Bailey

  Dear Richard,

  PLEASE DON’T HIT DELETE.

  Just listen for just a second, OK?

  First of all, I apologize for getting your email address off my mom’s computer, and I hope you’re not mad about that, but I’ve called you a lot, and you don’t seem to like it much, and I was afraid you would yell.

  It’s not that I don’t get it that you don’t want me getting any closer. I mean, for a while I guess we were in that maybe place, but I tested it pretty hard and it got real definite real fast. And I’m not such a freak that I don’t get that. I’m also not such a freak that I don’t even know to be ashamed that I did what I did when you didn’t want me to.

  I’m put together pretty much like everybody. Except my heart.

  I mean my old one. I keep forgetting.

  Still, I guess the fact that I have this heart that used to be your wife’s makes me different than everybody else, and I guess the fact that I lived every day of my life getting ready to die might make some differences.

  But I’m more like everybody else than you probably think.

  I’m only bugging you again because I lost my worry stone and I have to get it back. I have to. I have to find it. Esther brought it all the way over from Germany more than sixty years ago, and she put all her worry into it on the boat, and since she just barely got liberated from a concentration camp, and since nobody else in her family made it out, I think that adds up to a boatload of worry. (Pardon my pun. I didn’t actually do it on purpose.) Anyway, so it was absolutely amazing that she would give it to me, and I can’t lose it. I can’t.

  The last time I had it was on your couch, and then I fell asleep, so I’m thinking if you pick up the couch cushions you’ll find it. I definitely think it will be right there. I know it, in fact. I have to. I have to know that. Otherwise it will be gone, and it can’t be. Gone, I mean. It can’t be gone. It has to go like this.

  Thanks for not hitting delete. Which, if you read this far, you didn’t do.

  Love (not the scary kind),

  Vida

  From: Richard Bailey

  To: Vida Angstrom

  Vida,

  I have your worry stone.

  I also have a confession to make.

  I’m not sure why, as I’m usually not a big fan of the confession. I have to feel my back pretty firmly up against the wall before I’ll spit something like this out. Maybe it’s because you always tell the truth. I never met anybody before who always tells the truth. At least, not as far as I know.

  Maybe you inspired me.

  I picked up your stone from behind the couch cushions and put it in the pocket of your pajamas. Which I guess was stupid, because that’s not a very secure place. I heard it hit the driveway as I was carrying you out to the car. I could have said something to Abigail. I almost did. Instead I just picked it up later and held on to it for you.

  I guess I feel a little better after confessing that. I’m not sure. My own feelings have gotten so muddled these days. It’s like I need a map to navigate around in them, but all the maps are outdated and wrong.

  I’ll give it back to you, of course, but right now Myra is here, which makes it a bad time for a visit. Myra is my mother-in-law. Lorrie’s mother. She came down to help me with some things. Like staying alive and not flying apart into millions of little pieces.

  See? You did it again. Inspired me to tell the truth. I’m not sure if this is a good thing or not.

  Anyway, if you can be patient for just a little while, I’ll make sure your stone gets home safely to you.

  My best to you,

  Richard

  PS: Maybe I wanted to see if it would hold some of my worry, too. Maybe I wanted to see if there was anything to it. I do have some worry I’d like to be rid of. I guess we all do. But I might be a little accelerated in that department lately.

  I’m sorry I didn’t give it back to you that night. I was wrong.

  I think I just wanted to spend a little time with it, alone.

  From: Vida Angstrom

  To: Richard Bailey

  Dear Richard,

  You carried me out to the car? That’s so sweet and strong and brave and romantic and sweet. Oh. I guess I said sweet already.

  I wish I’d been awake for that. It seems sad that I had to miss it.

  How long will Myra be there? Why can’t I meet her?

  I won’t pull anything weird. You can trust me.

  Love,

  Vida

  PS: Maybe you just wanted to be sure you would see me again.

  From: Richard Bailey

  To: Vida Angstrom

  Vida,

  Myra is a very strong, very practical woman. And she advised me not to meet with you. Right from the beginning. She felt it would be opening up a can of worms, emotionally. And that I would be better off if I just stayed away. Maybe that we all would, but definitely that I would.

  So that’s why I think it would be better if you could just wait a few days, until she goes back to Portland. And then I’ll make sure you get our worry stone back.

  I’d be afraid to mail it. If it was lost in transit, I’d never forgive myself.

  Don’t worry about losing time wearing it down, because I’m
wearing it down on your behalf. I hope that’s OK.

  Actually, it probably isn’t OK, seeing as I didn’t ask your permission first. But that’s what I’m doing, and I hope it’s OK after the fact.

  Best,

  Richard

  PS: I just gave this a quick read-over. Even though I have my email set to do automatic spell-checks.

  Force of habit.

  And I noticed I dropped the y at the beginning of “your worry stone.” So it came out our worry stone. Maybe I didn’t hit the key hard enough. Anyway, I’m not trying to claim it. I know it’s yours.

  I left that little typo in place. Thinking Freud would want me to own up to it. Or you would. Or both.

  From: Vida Angstrom

  To: Richard Bailey

  Dear Richard,

  Best? What does that even mean? Best what?

  Is it so important to you not to love me that you can’t even use the word to close an email? That seems weird.

  And here’s the other thing that seems weird: you say I inspire you to tell the truth. But you’re keeping it a secret from Myra that you’re about to see me again.

  You know what that makes me think? That makes me think that maybe some little part of you does love me just a tiny bit. And I think that scares you.

  I realize I’m being intense again. My mother always tells me I’m too intense. Lots of people tell me that. Everybody tells me that. They just don’t tell me how to stop. Or why. It’s the way I am. I don’t tell them not to be the way they are.

  So, this is me. And if you didn’t want anything to do with it, you wouldn’t have purposely kept my worry stone.

  That’s the truth, Richard. I hope you find it inspiring.

  Love,

  Vida

  PS: I love that you’re rubbing my worry stone. That’s a good thing. Please keep doing that.

  From: Richard Bailey

  To: Vida Angstrom

  Dear Vida,

  I told Myra you’d be coming by sometime soon to pick up something important that you left here.

  I asked her if she wanted to meet you.

  She doesn’t.

  Please don’t take this personally. It’s not that she has anything against you. But she was the mother of that heart. She formed it in her womb, and meant it for her daughter. Not that she begrudges it to you in any way. Just that it would be very painful for her to see you and know you had something in your body that she grew herself, from her own blood and cells and DNA, to create Lorrie.