The Law of Bound Hearts

by Anne Leclaire

  Now the priest is in front of Sam. She presses her lips tight. She’d rather swallow dog doo than take the body of Christ into her mouth. Libby tugs at her sleeve, sharply. The priest looks at her, waiting, just the edge of impatience showing around his mouth.

  The wafer is thin as skin and dry, not like the little squares of soft bread the deacons pass out at the Congregational church. It sticks to the roof of Sam’s mouth. She tries to dislodge it with her tongue, afraid she will chew it by mistake. Biting into the flesh of Christ. When they are back in their pew and she thinks no one will notice, she tries to dislodge it with her finger.

  “Flames will shoot out of your shoes,” Libby says later as they unhitch their bikes from the fence, her voice all spooky and deep, like a cartoon witch, and then she starts to laugh. Sam looks around to see if anyone has heard.

  “Just remember,” Libby says in her regular voice as she straddles the banana seat on her bike.“Everything anyone tells you about this stu f is a bunch of crap.”

  The sorrowful gaze of Mary follows them as they peddle off down the street. Sam hadn’t thought about that day in years. She could still taste the sawdust dryness of the wafer in her mouth, could still recall her terror as she waited for fire to spark out from the toes of Libby’s black shoes.

  When she was in high school, she had told her mother about what Janice had told them would happen if they took Communion and how she and Libby had done exactly that.

  “Oh, well, Catholics,” her mother had said, rolling her eyes.

  Now Libby was in a prayer group. Go figure.

  Once Sam had thought she knew everything about her sister. She knew Libby liked garlic, but not onions, and that she would do absolutely anything on a dare. She was the first person who knew about Libby’s secret book and the poetry she wrote on its pages. And—two months before the twins were born—Sam was the one Libby had confided in and told she wasn’t sure she really wanted children.

  Now Sam didn’t know the first thing about her sister. Except this. The girl she had been wasn’t the woman she had become.

  She replaced the booklet in the dresser drawer, turned out the light, and tried to sleep.

  In the morning, Sam woke earlier than usual, but Richard was already up, the coffee made.

  “Eggs or cereal?” he asked as he handed her a mug.

  She shook her head. “Just coffee.”

  “You sure? No juice? Or toast? There’s English muffins, too. You should have something.”

  “Toast,” she said.

  “Rye or wheat or white?”

  What was this, a short-order restaurant? “Wheat. I can get it.”

  But he was already putting a slice in the toaster. He cupped his hand along the counter, brushing up stray crumbs, dropping them in the sink. There was something so . . . so contained about him that it set her teeth on edge, provoked her.

  “So who did she see you with?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Libby. Last night you said she saw something she misunderstood. ” Sam emphasized the word. “Something that made her run off.”

  For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to reply. He got out a plate for her toast, took butter from the refrigerator. She waited.

  “I was giving a student a private lesson in the chapel,” he said finally. “Libby misinterpreted what she saw.”

  “Misinterpreted,” Sam said.

  He flushed.

  “What was it she misinterpreted?” she pushed.

  The toast popped up and he buttered it, placed it before her. “I was helping a student with her bowing,” he said. “I had my arms around her. Libby saw this and jumped to a conclusion. She wouldn’t wait for me to explain.”

  Sam tried to picture the scene. “Why would Libby jump to that conclusion?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She understood then. “Because it happened before,” she said in a flat voice.

  “Once.” He looked straight at her. “Only once. A long time ago.”

  “When?”

  He stared at the ceiling, as if history were written there. “Six years ago.”

  “Six years ago?”

  “It was a mistake. I apologized.” He leaned forward. “No matter what you think, I don’t make a practice of getting involved with my students.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first who did,” she said. “It’s not exactly an original situation, is it?”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  He folded the newspapers that were scattered on the table, set them on the floor by the back door.

  “What did Libby do?” Sam asked.

  He sighed. “Just what she’s doing now. She took off. Left me and went to visit you. That was the time the two of you had the fight. The one about you becoming a cook.”

  A chef, Sam thought, a pastry chef, but did not bother correcting him. What was the point?

  “Surely you remember,” Richard went on. “That was the time you stopped speaking to her and cut her out of your life.”

  The tangled web of deception, Sam thought, then wondered why Libby had never said anything to her about it. So Richard had cheated on her. It still didn’t justify what she had done.

  Richard dumped the rest of his coffee down the sink. “It’s getting late. We’d better get going.”

  We? “You want me to come with you, then?”

  She had expected him to go alone to pick up Libby. She had thought she would have more time, time to get prepared.

  “I thought you’d want to,” he said. He waited at the door while she got her coat.

  Libby

  Libby dreamed someone was scratching at her door. Someone was at the door. It took a moment for her to orient herself, to recall that she was at Gabe’s. She rolled over and pulled the covers over her head, like a child who doesn’t want to go to school, which was exactly what she felt like. She didn’t want to face any of the day that waited for her. Not Richard. Not Samantha. Let them go away. Let the two of them run off together—there was a certain ironic justice in the thought. Yes, let them disappear together and take Richard’s cello-playing girl toy with them. She would stay here, move in with Gabe and Hannah.

  The scratching continued—obliterating her daydream—and she surrendered and got up to open the door. Lulu bounded in, swishing her tail and barking. Libby could have sworn the greyhound was smiling—just the kind of thing pet owners were always saying. Dogs did not smile.

  The greyhound pressed into her, licking her hand and sniffing at her gown. Smelling Hannah, Libby realized. Last night, Gabe had given her one of Hannah’s nightgowns to sleep in, and although it had been freshly laundered, the fabric carried a sweet odor that was Hannah’s scent. Libby’s own body smelled odd this morning, metallic. Her mouth tasted like old pennies. The ever-present headache tightened its band around her forehead.

  She padded down the hall. The greyhound followed her, trailed her right into the bathroom, then circled several times in some doggy ritual before collapsing on the bath mat. Libby stripped, stepped over the dog and into the shower. She dressed again in her badly wrinkled clothes—the third day she had worn them. She applied lipstick, the only makeup she carried in her purse, and pushed at her damp hair with her fingers, trying to fashion it in some sort of style. She looked a wreck. Her face was bloated. The last time Sam had seen her she was fit, thin, her hair highlighted. Well, her sister would find some satisfaction in seeing her now at her worst.

  She descended to the kitchen, Lulu at her heels. There was a note from Gabe on the table telling her he had gone to the hospital. To Hannah. He said Richard had called earlier and would be along to pick her up and had emphasized that she was not to drive herself. Underlined. Beneath the note was the slim volume of Neruda’s poems. Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair. A yellow Post-it was affixed to the cover. “For you,” he had written. “Remember, love always outweighs despair. Gabe.”

  Did it? Libby wasn’t so sure.

  She stood at a front wind
ow, watching for Richard, although she was perfectly capable of driving herself. She slid her fingers over the access shunt and checked for the rushing sensation that let her know the blood was still flowing. This precise sensation was known as a thrill, Carlotta had told her. “The thrill is gone,” Libby sang. At her feet, the dog thumped her tail against the floor. But the thrill—at least the one Carlotta meant—wasn’t gone. Her blood hummed along beneath her fingertips, proof that the access wasn’t clogged, proof she was alive.

  She missed the moment Richard parked at the curb. By the time she saw him, he was already coming around the front of the Volvo, opening the passenger door. Sam stepped out. A queer mixture of excitement and anxiety rose in Libby’s chest. She swallowed, felt the weight of the greyhound against her ankle, and was surprised to find comfort in it and more surprised when she stooped and gave the dog a quick hug. Then she opened the door and stepped out.

  Dried moths littered the porch floor like confetti and their brittle bodies crunched beneath her shoes as she crossed to Sam.

  “You came,” she said in a dry voice.

  “Yes.”

  There might have been more, but Richard was there, telling her they were late. Carlotta had arranged for a special dialysis session, not wanting to wait until the scheduled one on Monday. The staff was waiting for them at the center. He dictated arrangements. Libby would ride with him. Samantha would follow, driving Libby’s car.

  “No need,” Libby said. “I can drive my own car. I’m perfectly fine.” Except for the headache. Except for the fact that her kidneys had shut down. Except that her heart was aching.

  Richard insisted, and it was easier to give in than to fight. She had no fight left in her. He pulled out onto the street. Through the back window, Libby watched Sam follow.

  “When did she arrive?” she asked.

  “Yesterday.”

  “Did you know she was coming?”

  “No. She just showed up.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yes.”

  He flicked on a turn signal, slowed after the turn, checked to make sure Sam was behind them.

  “She looks good,” Libby said.

  He concentrated on driving, said nothing.

  “Doesn’t she?” she pressed. “Doesn’t she look good?”

  “I guess,” he said.

  “She looks”—she searched for the word—“happy. She looks happy.” She waited for him to comment, but he remained silent. He needed a haircut, she noticed. In the back, at his neck, hair curled over his collar. There were slight pouches beneath his eyes. Good. She hoped that was the beginning, that jowls would follow, and nose hairs, and droplets of egg yolk on his cuffs.

  “Elizabeth,” he said, turning to her. “Libby. I want—”

  “No,” she cut him off. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not now.”

  Later, of course, they would have to. There were decisions to be made.

  When they arrived at the center, she spoke before he could even switch off the ignition. “Go home,” she said. “There’s no sense in both of you staying here. Sam can stay.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She thought he looked relieved. “Yes. Positive.”

  “Well, then.” He paused. “Call if you need me.”

  She waited by the door while Sam parked and then they walked in together. The Saturday staff was unfamiliar to Libby. She had never seen the charge nurse before; he was a short black man named Everett. She left her handbag with Sam and followed him into the exam room. She got on the scale, watched while he slid the pound marker along the bar. She’d gained weight. He opened her folder and made a note. She sat on the edge of the table while he read over her chart.

  “You missed yesterday’s appointment?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He picked up the blood pressure cuff and strapped it on, pumped the bulb, then released it.

  “Your pressure’s high,” he told her.

  “Bad?”

  “Higher than your chart shows you’ve been running. Any blurred vision? Nausea? Vomiting?”

  She shook her head.

  “Itching?”

  “No.” Well, there had been a little, but Libby was sure it was nothing more than dry skin.

  “What about headaches? Any trouble there?”

  “A little.” Like constant.

  He made a note in the chart, then set the folder down. His fingers were softer than she had expected and he took more time with the exam than Kelly did. He was gentle as he palpated her neck, her stomach, her thighs and ankles. “There’s fluid buildup,” he said.

  There was a sharp rap on the door. Clare Anderson came in. Libby hadn’t seen the social worker since their appointment after her first session, although she had been in touch twice by phone. “We need to talk,” Clare said.

  “It’ll have to wait,” Everett told her. “I want to get Mrs. Barnett started.”

  She sat in a different bay, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. She missed Eleanor and Jesse. She missed Hannah.

  “You’re still using the catheter?” Everett asked.

  “For one more week.”

  He lifted her forearm and checked the site of the shunt.

  After he inserted the tubes in the catheter, he asked if she was feeling all right.

  “I’m a little cold,” she said.

  Everett ambled off. When he returned he carried a blanket. He tucked it around her. His kindness reminded her of Gabe.

  Clare appeared, pulled a chair close. “What you did was dangerous. I’m not going to lecture you. Some people don’t adjust well to dialysis. I understand. But it’s your best hope now. You have to stay compliant.”

  “I know.”

  “You took a chance. Your blood pressure is up, fluids are up, that’s hard on the body, on your heart.”

  “Okay.” So much for forgoing the lecture.

  “I know Dr. Hayes has you on a donor list. One of the things that is of concern when you are considered for transplantation is whether you’ve been compliant with dialysis.” Compliant. A good little soldier. “They figure that if you aren’t, there’s a good chance that you won’t follow procedure after transplant. That you’re not a good risk. Capeesh?”

  Libby nodded.

  “I know this isn’t easy. But we need you on the team, committed.”

  “Okay.”

  “You look tired,” Clare said. She patted Libby’s knee. “I’ll let you get some rest. Is there anything you need?”

  “My sister came with me today. She’s out in the waiting room.”

  “You want me to get her?”

  “Her name’s Samantha. It’s her first time here.”

  “I’m on my way,” Clare said.

  Libby saw Sam before her sister saw her. She looked afraid and ready to bolt. Libby could sympathize.

  Sam came to Libby’s station. She kept her arms stiff and close to her sides. “God,” she said, the word coming out in an exhalation.

  “You don’t have to stay,” Libby said.

  “No. It’s okay. Can I sit?”

  “Of course.”

  Around them, machines beeped.

  “So here we are,” Libby said after a minute.

  “Yes.”

  “You look good.”

  “You, too.”

  “Yes. Well.”

  Six years. A bridge too large to span? Anna Rauh once had told the class that some poems couldn’t be fixed, that it was best just to toss them. Was that true of relationships? Were there some that could not be fixed?

  “It’s been a long time,” Libby said. “Josh tells me you’re successful.”

  Sam shrugged. “I do all right.”

  “He told me you got divorced.”

  “I’m sure there was no surprise there.”

  “Still. I’m sorry, Sam.”

  “Yes. Well. Probably for the best.”

  “Is there anyone now?”

  Sam nodded.

  “Someon
e good?”

  “Yes.” Her soft smile told Libby this was true.

  “I’m glad.”

  Over at the nurses’ station, a glass shattered and the explosion might have been a gunshot, the way they jumped. They watched while one of the technicians brought over a broom and dustpan.

  “Afterwards,” Sam said, “I broke glass.”

  “What?”

  “After you left. After I threw Jay out. I broke glass.” Libby still did not understand. “I was so angry.” Sam’s voice was soft; she watched the girl sweep up the glass. “I’d never been so furious. I didn’t think I was capable of that kind of rage.”

  “I’m sorry,” Libby said. “I wish we could have talked.”

  “I could understand how someone, some ordinary person, could be capable of murder. You know?” Sam continued without waiting for Libby to reply. “I drove out to a construction site in Fairhaven. It wasn’t spur of the moment. I planned ahead. Wore gloves, brought a bag of rocks with me.”

  “Rocks?”

  “To throw at the windows. To break glass.”

  Libby stared at her.

  “I broke every window in the place. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “God, Sam.”

  “It was a big house. One of those new trophy places every millionaire with a small dick is building. Double-hungs. French sliders. Skylights. There had to be at least seventy of them. Maybe more. I wasn’t counting.”

  Libby was speechless.

  “I can’t tell you how gratifying, how satisfying the sound of it was. All that glass shattering. When I was finished, I drove home as if I’d done nothing more than run to the corner store for a quart of milk. I remember . . .” Her voice turned dreamy. “I remember looking in the mirror and not even recognizing myself. I looked like an animal. A tiger or something. Powerful. Of course, later I felt horrible. I was actually sick about it. I wanted to send the contractor a check for damages. God knows what they were. But I was afraid if I sent a bank check or money order there would be a way it could be traced to me. I was terrified I’d be caught. That someone had seen my car there or something. I was afraid I’d be arrested and it would be in all the papers: ‘Sippican Pastry Chef Jailed for Vandalism.’ ”

  Libby couldn’t help it, she started to laugh.