The Law of Bound Hearts

by Anne Leclaire

  “Hello,” Libby said. “I’m Elizabeth Barnett. I’m looking for Richard. Have you seen him?”

  A frown that could be taken for either concentration or irritation crossed the woman’s features. “You might find him in the chapel,” she said.

  Libby should have thought of that. Richard liked to give his private lessons in Hoyt Chapel. Something about the acoustics, he’d told her. It was the quality of the acoustics that made it the perfect venue for strings.

  “Thank you,” she said, but Richard’s colleague had already dismissed her.

  When she opened the chapel door, she stood for a moment, absorbing the peace the place always brought her. This was her favorite building on the entire campus. Its lines were graceful—the ceiling vaulted and beamed. She loved the Tiffany windows and the hanging lights of stained glass. She lingered in the entry, listening to the lesson already under way. The playing was accomplished. This was no first-year student, tentative and weak. The choice of music, too, was more sophisticated than she would have imagined. Vivaldi. Music that breached defenses.

  She entered the sanctuary. Richard was in front with the student, by the chancel rail. The girl was lovely; even from the back of the chapel Libby could see that. Richard stood behind the girl, his arms over hers, guiding her as she pulled the bow across the strings. His cheek rested on the girl’s temple. His eyes were closed.

  Sarah James. The girl’s name came to her instantly, although she had never seen her before. She remembered how Richard’s voice softened when he talked about her. The gifted Sarah James.

  “Richard,” she said, her voice shaking.

  They both looked up at her, startled. It was the look in his eyes that told her everything. A flash of guilt, then shame.

  She did not wait for explanations. She fled.

  “Elizabeth.” Richard called out her name but she did not stop, did not turn. “Libby, wait,” he cried.

  She raced to the car, slammed it into reverse and pulled away. He ran toward the car, but she did not slow. He had to jump back to avoid being hit.

  She did not look back. She heard him shouting her name even after he was no longer in view.

  Sam

  Sam carefully placed the 5 × 7-inch card next to the phone and read the notes she had made.

  Sorry to hear about illness

  Ask about Richard and twins

  Don’t blame

  Don’t get angry

  Don’t be defensive

  Don’t go over old history

  The last item was underlined twice.

  Sam had jotted down the list the night before, hoping it would keep her on track during this first contact, but there was really no way of preparing. Her stomach was tight, her hands were clammy. Keep it simple, she counseled herself. Let Libby do the talking. Just start with hello and take it from there. She hadn’t been this nervous in years. She could have used a—what did they call them?—an intermediary. She considered waiting to make the call. Late afternoon or evening, a time when Richard might answer.

  She stared at the phone and tried to imagine a conversation with her sister. “Hello, Libby,” she said aloud, testing her voice, which, while faint, did not shake, as she had feared. She read over the list a third time. Just do it, she thought. She punched in the number, pulse racing.

  On the fourth ring, Libby answered. Sam’s breath caught. “Hello,” Libby said. But not Libby, Sam realized. Libby’s voice on an answering machine. Sam listened to her sister instructing the caller to please leave a message. And then the beep sounded.

  “It’s Samantha,” Sam said in a rusty voice. “Your sister. Give me a call. I’ll be here all day.” She hung up abruptly, as if anything she said might be used against her, and then she regretted it almost immediately. She must have sounded uncaring. She should have said something about learning about Libby’s illness from Cynthia. She debated whether to call back and leave another message, but finally decided to let it go. She had made the call. That was enough. She headed downstairs to the kitchen.

  “So you and the Hunk are still on the outs, huh?” Stacy said when Sam entered the room.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Like I can’t see the clues?”

  “Clues?” Sam was replaying in her mind the message she’d left on Libby’s machine. She couldn’t remember if she’d given her name. She wondered if Libby would recognize her voice.

  She thought about calling Josh. There was so much she needed to know, like what exactly was wrong with Libby, and were they really sure it wasn’t hereditary. But Josh would be at school and Cynthia was a dead end.

  “Have you checked out a mirror this morning? You look like you spent the night sleepless in Somalia. Sucking lemons.”

  Without bothering to answer—she knew she must look like road-kill, she certainly felt like it—Sam crossed to the coffee machine and poured a mug. She considered asking Stacy if she had seen a mirror yet. Today, her assistant’s gel-spiked hair was tipped with blue, not the most attractive look Stacy had ever sported. But she kept the thought to herself. No sense taking her edginess out on Stacy. She settled in at the desk and went over the work sheet, glad for the distraction.

  Three days until the Chaney wedding and no problems that she could foresee. The couple—the two architects—had been charmed with her design. Narrow, silver-edged stripes in apple green and hyacinth, overlaid with gold and silver gilded ropes. The actual baking she’d leave to Stacy. The necessary supplies—food coloring, silver dust and pearl dust, sugar-paste dough—were all on hand. Tomorrow Sam would finish the sugar-paste tassels that would adorn the bottom layer and the sugar-paste roping that looped over alternate tiers. And Saturday morning she would decorate and assemble the cake, transport it to the wedding, where, after exchanging vows, the couple would slice into it and feed each other the first piece. Gently, Sam hoped. Respectfully. She absolutely hated it when the groom smeared the cake on his bride’s face and then she returned the favor while people laughed and applauded. In spite of researching this, Sam had never learned where that particular custom had started or to what purpose. It was such a passive-aggressive way to begin married life. A couple needed all possible respect and gentleness from the git-go, and even that guaranteed nothing.

  “Hey,” Stacy said after several minutes. “I forgot to tell you.”

  “What?” Sam’s heart jumped. Had Lee called while she was in the shower?

  “So I looked kidney problems up in my Louise Hay,” Stacy continued.

  Sam looked over at her assistant. After her call from Cynthia, she had told Stacy about Libby’s illness and how her sister needed an organ transplant.

  “You two must have some past-life karma,” Stacy had said.

  Well, forget past life. They had plenty of karma in this one. Next to astrology, Stacy trusted most the New Age healer-guru for all manner of life information. Last April, when Sam had twisted her ankle, Stacy had informed her that, according to Louise, ankles represented mobility and direction and Sam’s swollen joint meant she was changing direction in her life. When Carl was suffering from low back pain, Stacy had told Sam that it represented his fear of money and lack of financial support. “So do you want to hear what she says?” Stacy asked.

  “About?”

  “About kidneys.”

  Not particularly, Sam thought to herself, but she knew there would be no stopping Stacy.

  Stacy unfolded a slip of paper. “Problems with the kidneys represent disappointment, failure, and shame,” she read.

  “Shame?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if that were true, Catholics and Jews all over the world would be standing in line for dialysis,” Sam said.

  “There’s more,” Stacy said. “If you want, I could bring the book in tomorrow.”

  “Actually,” Sam said, “I find people like Louise Hay offensive. What, you get kidney failure because you’re disappointed? It’s that whole blame-the-victim thing. It’s not someone’s fault
if they get cancer or break a leg.”

  “She’s talking about energetic levels. About patterns behind disease.”

  “A rose is just a rose,” Sam said, “and a disease is just a disease.”

  “I’m only trying to help,” Stacy said.

  Before Sam could reply, the phone rang.

  “Want me to get that?” Stacy asked after the third ring.

  “I’ve got it,” Sam said. Libby or Lee? she wondered. She had to remind herself to breathe.

  “Golliwog’s,” she said into the phone.

  There was a pause.

  “Golliwog’s Cakewalk,” she repeated. “Hello.”

  “Samantha?” A male voice—not Lee.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Richard.”

  Sam sank back in her chair. “Hello,” she said. She picked up her mug, took a slug of coffee.

  “I just got in and heard your message.”

  “I’m glad you recognized my voice,” Sam said. “I realized after I hung up I hadn’t left my name.” Across the room, Stacy pretended not to listen.

  “We have caller ID,” he said. “And you left your name.”

  “Oh,” Sam said. “Good.” The 5 × 7 card was still upstairs. She set down the mug, jotted quick notes. Keep cool. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing okay, given the circumstances.”

  “And the twins?”

  “They’re off at school.”

  “How’s Libby?”

  “She’s holding her own, but everything is progressing a little faster than we’d hoped.”

  “Is she there? Can I talk to her?”

  Richard hesitated. “She’s not home right now,” he said.

  “Oh,” Sam said. It occurred to her that he might be lying, that Libby might not want to talk to her.

  “Have you spoken to her at all?” Richard said.

  “I haven’t. She left a message a couple of weeks ago.”

  “And you’re just now returning her call?”

  Don’t be defensive, Sam reminded herself. “Cynthia called yesterday. She told me about the dialysis.”

  Stacy had given up all pretense of not listening.

  “I see,” Richard said.

  “When will she be back? I can call later.”

  The line hummed. “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re not sure when she’s coming home?” She fired the questions, as if she had a right to ask, despite the six years of silence.

  “She’s—she’s at dialysis right now.”

  “Richard,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You sound funny, that’s all.” There was something he wasn’t telling her. What did he mean, things were progressing faster than expected? Wasn’t Libby on dialysis? Although she knew nothing about this, Sam assumed that once a person was on dialysis, the progress of the disease was slowed or halted.

  Another silence. Then: “I’m just worried about Elizabeth,” he said.

  “Naturally.”

  “It’s been a stressful time,” he said.

  “I can only imagine,” Sam said. “Would it help if . . .”

  “What?”

  “If I came out there?” The words were out before she could reconsider or retract them. “I could fly out.”

  “There’s no need for that,” Richard said.

  “If you’re sure,” Sam said, ashamed to feel relieved.

  “If you’re sure,” Sam says.

  They are sitting in Sam’s bedroom. The smell of bacon and co fee rises up to the bedroom. The others—Richard and the twins and Jay—are downstairs preparing the holiday breakfast. Food first and then the gifts is the prescribed order, their family tradition.

  “Yes,” Libby says. “Absolutely.”

  The box is small and it is wrapped in the lavender paper with silver filigree ribbon that Libby has chosen for her presents this year.

  “I shouldn’t wait until we’re downstairs with the others?” Sam asks.

  Libby plops down on the bed next to her. “No. I want you to open it now, while it’s just us.”

  Their heads are nearly touching. Sam can smell the peach-scented shampoo that Libby uses. For the first time Sam notices fine lines fanning out from her sister’s eyes.“Okay,” she says, then giggles. She and Libby are famous for their inability to keep surprises from each other. It is a family joke that they give birthday gifts months before the actual date. She tears the paper off. Inside she finds a small velvet box. Jewelry, no doubt. She bites her lip. She and Jay are on a firm budget. They have argued about how much she should spend on gifts and he won. Her gift for Libby is a collection of poetry by Mary Oliver that she found in a secondhand bookstore.

  “Go on,” Libby says.

  Sam flips open the box, sees inside a narrow gold band. She catches her breath, recognizing it even before she has slipped it out of the box, even before she has checked the entwined initials of her mother and father. “But this is yours,” she says.

  “And now it’s yours,” Libby says with a soft smile.

  For a moment, Sam can’t speak. She remembers the call that came in after their parents’ funeral. The jewelry store manager asked if someone was going to pick up their mother’s ring, left there for alterations. Their mother’s knuckles had swollen over the years, he told them, and the day before their mother took the trip to Colorado, she had left the ring there to be enlarged.

  “I can’t take this,” she finally manages.

  “Yes, you can,” Libby says.

  “I always knew you were the one she’d want to have it. I got it by default, because I was the oldest daughter.” She removes the ring from the box and slides it on Sam’s right hand. It fits perfectly.

  “I don’t feel right about this,” Sam says.

  Libby curls her hand over Sam’s.“Do you remember what Mother used to say about it?”

  From the bottom of the stairs, Jay yells that breakfast is waiting, people are starving down there.

  Sam closes her eyes. “She said she’d never need a four-leaf clover or rabbit’s foot as long as she had this.” A wave of loss overtakes her. When their mother— in an aisle seat of row 23—had really needed her charm it had been sitting in a jeweler’s workroom.

  “This ring was about the only thing I ever heard her be sentimental about,” Libby says. “Her good-luck charm.”

  “And what?” Sam says, attempting a joke. “So you think I need luck right now?”

  Before Libby can answer the twins fly into the room.

  “Come on,” Matthew says, pulling at Libby.

  “We’ve been waiting for hours,” Mercedes says, reaching for Sam.

  Libby circles them all with her arms. “You’re my good-luck charms,” she says. “The three of you are all I’ll ever need.”

  Libby

  Libby lay tensed until after the maid’s cart had wheeled past her room and down the corridor. She’d hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the doorknob, but that didn’t guarantee anything. The Libertyville motel, chosen because Richard would never think of looking for her there, was two steps above seedy, the kind of low-cost motor inn parents stayed at when they came to see their sons and daughters graduate from basic training at Great Lakes, and nothing was guaranteed, not even cleanliness. There were ancient stains on the carpet—she didn’t even want to think of their origins—and a buildup of dust around the baseboards where the chambermaids had missed with the vacuum. Libby could only imagine what she’d find if she took a look at the mattress, let alone under the bed. And the flimsy paper strip encircling the toilet seat didn’t ensure anything, certainly not that the fixture had been sterilized.

  The room was narrow, with simple furnishings: a double bed— where Libby now lay—a nightstand, one chair upholstered in a faded maroon fabric, and a three-drawer maple dresser on which perched a television. Remnants of last night’s dinner—take-out pasta—and a partially consumed bottle of red wine remained on the nightstand. T
he wine, the first she’d had in months, had resulted in a bitch of a headache.

  She picked up the remote and flipped on the television, pretuned to a cable station that specialized in sensational news. She stared at the picture—obviously shot from a helicopter—of a car chase in Texas that, according to the anchorman, had been going on for more than two hours, during which the semi involved had sped through intersections and on and off highway ramps, trailed by a half-dozen police cars with dome lights flashing. “This is unbelievable,” the reporter was shouting as the rogue flatbed barreled head-on into a stream of traffic. “He just crossed the median strip and now he’s going the wrong way on the interstate. Unbelievable!”

  This was not the kind of thing Libby normally would have watched, but anything, even this, was preferable to the scene she had been replaying in her head for the past day and a half: Richard with his arms around Sarah James, his cheek resting against her temple, his eyes closed; then, as Libby fled, the sound of his voice calling out her name.

  She could fully picture how things would have unfolded if she had stopped, turned, waited for him. He would have reached for her, mouthing predictable explanations and proclamations of innocence. The sad thing was, part of her would have wanted to believe him, would have embraced his words instead of challenging them, would have sought the comfort that could be found in hiding behind militant denial. But another, wiser inner knowing wouldn’t have bought one word of his earnest explanations. Fool me twice, shame on me.

  For Richard had fooled her once. She had believed him then, even when all the evidence pointed to a train wreck waiting just round the bend. She had wanted to believe him and so she had and it was that simple. (Who was it that said the most damaging lies are those you tell yourself?) But even her denial hadn’t been strong enough to prevent either the wreck or the chain reaction collision that followed. In the years that followed, they had both worked on patching together their marriage and rebuilding trust.