She turned to Libby, uncertain. What could she say? How could she find the words that would explain away six years of silence?
In the end, there was no need. She slipped her hand into Libby’s, felt the shock of recognition, the cellular memory of Libby’s skin that even when she was a girl had been as soft as talcum powder. For an instant, there was no response, and then Sam felt her sister’s fingers curl around her own.
Lee was right, Sam thought. Forgiveness carried its own freedom. She felt light, released from the weight she had borne too long.
The spasm in her chest released. A piece of her heart had come home.
Sam and Libby
When they returned home from the prairie, they found cans of dog food stacked on the counter.
“What’s this?” Libby said.
“I ran down to Jewel’s while you were at the bonfire,” Richard said.
Libby looked over at Lulu, ensconced on a heap of blankets in the corner of the kitchen. “And you put down my good blankets?”
“It was that or the couch,” Richard said. “Greyhounds don’t have much flesh on their bones. They need a lot of cushioning.” The dog, as if understanding she was the center of this conversation, got up and stretched, then crossed to Libby and pressed her muzzle into her groin, until Libby stroked her. Satisfied, Lulu returned to the makeshift bed and curled into a ball.
“She’s had a long day,” Richard said.
“Haven’t we all,” Libby said.
“How was the bonfire?” he asked.
“Beautiful,” Sam said.
“Was there a crowd?”
“Same as usual,” Libby said, stifling a yawn. Her face was drawn with exhaustion. There were deep circles under her eyes.
“If you want to go to bed, go ahead,” Sam said. “You don’t have to stay up for me.”
Libby shook her head. “I want to. Stay up, that is. If you’re not too tired, I’d like the company.”
Without asking, Richard poured some brandy into a tumbler for Sam. “Tea or juice?” he asked Libby.
“Tea,” she said, then added, “thanks.” She rubbed her hands to remove the chill of the prairie.
He measured a half cup of water, poured it into a mug, added a tea bag, then set the mug in front of Libby. “I guess the two of you can get along all right without me,” he said.
“We’ll try,” Sam and Libby said in perfect unison, then laughed. The greyhound cocked her head and watched him leave, then heaved a doggy sigh and dropped her head on her front paws.
The two sisters lapsed into silence.
Libby spoke first. “Sam,” she said, “I want to explain—”
“Don’t,” Sam said. “You don’t have to say anything. What’s past is past. It doesn’t matter.”
Libby searched her face. “It does matter. I need you to know how sorry I am, how much I’ve hated myself, how guilty I’ve felt.”
“Listen,” Sam said. “Jay was a shit. I was just beginning to find that out when you came to visit. The end was inevitable.”
“Maybe, but not that way.”
“No. Not that way.”
“Can you forgive me?”
Sam slid her hand in her pants pocket, felt the smooth hardness of the stone Lee had given her. “I already have,” she said, and knew that was the wondrous truth.
Tears welled in Libby’s eyes and she lifted a hand to brush them away. “Sorry,” she said. She bent her head over her tea.
“No need.” Sam got up and tore a paper towel off the roll. She handed it to Libby.
“God,” Libby said. “I think I’ve cried more today than I have in months.”
“I’m sorry about your friend Hannah,” Sam said. At the sound of Hannah’s name, the greyhound raised her head. “And I’m sorry about yesterday, when I said—”
This time Libby interrupted. “It’s all right. I can’t blame you for what you thought. You didn’t know.”
Sam took a sip of her brandy. “Richard said she was on dialysis and that you got to know her at the center.”
Libby nodded. “The first time I went, I didn’t think I was going to get through it. Then I looked up and saw Hannah and, in a way I can’t explain, she helped me. I wish you could have met her. In some ways she reminds me of you.”
“Of me? How?”
“There was this essential goodness about her. You have the same thing.”
The compliment confused and embarrassed Sam. “I seriously doubt it,” she said.
“You do.”
Sam switched subjects. “Richard tells me your doctor wants you to get a transplant.”
“Let’s take a break on that topic, okay?” Libby said. She brushed a thumb over the shunt.
“But I want to hear about it. I want to know.”
“Tomorrow,” Libby said. “Tomorrow, I’ll tell you every gruesome detail. More than you want to hear, believe me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’m so tired of it, Sam. Just for tonight, let’s pretend I’m healthy as a Green Bay running back.”
Sam rose and went to stand behind Libby. She massaged her shoulders. “Is this too much pressure?”
“No. It feels glorious. I almost made an appointment for a massage about a couple of weeks ago, but I felt like such a freak with the catheter sticking out of my chest. I didn’t want anyone to see me like that. It’s bad enough I have to look at it.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said.
“Hey, It’s not your fault.”
Sam kneaded Libby’s neck, rubbed her temples. She ran her fingers through Libby’s hair. It was a shade darker than when they were children, but still pretty. “That story you told Lee this afternoon, was it true I cut off your hair?”
“Lord, yes,” Libby said. “I can’t believe you’ve forgotten. Mother was absolutely furious. She took me to the beauty shop and I cried the entire way. I had to get one of those ugly bowl cuts.”
“Why did I do it?”
“I think you thought you could glue it on your head.”
“But why?”
“You said you wanted to look like me.”
“God, I can’t believe I’ve blocked this whole thing. Were you mad at me?”
“For about a week,” Libby said. “But you were so sad and I finally figured, hey, hair grows out.”
“Really? You didn’t hate me?”
“I could never hate you, Sam.”
Now Sam was the one who fought tears. Libby passed her the makeshift tissue. “We’re the pair,” she said.
“Do you know what I could use right now?” Sam asked.
“What?”
“Cookies. Brownies. Hot fudge sauce. Anything with sugar.”
“Cupboard next to the oven. Second shelf. In the back.”
Sam crossed to the cupboard. “These?” she said. “Fig Newtons? These aren’t cookies. These are health food.”
“I’m afraid that’s the closest you’re going to get.” Libby watched as Sam set the package on the table. “I could never do that.”
“What?”
“Eat whatever I wanted.”
“You mean get fat?”
“No. First of all, you’re not fat. Secondly, that’s not what I meant. I meant eat whatever I wanted. Even before I got sick, I never allowed myself to. I honestly can’t remember the last time I wasn’t on a diet. Better to have enjoyed it all.”
Sam shoved the package toward her. Libby took one. Sam lifted her eyebrows, waited. Libby took two more.
“Do you remember those tap-dancing classes Mother made us take?” Sam said.
“God, yes. Old Miss Nickel-and-Dime. I think she was probably still terrorizing children when they folded her in her coffin.” She sipped her tea and ran a finger absently over her shunt. “Tell me about your business,” she said. “I want to know everything. And then I want to hear about Lee. All the juicy details.”
“Well,” Sam, said, knowing now she could tell Libby anything, that she had nothing
to fear. “The first time I met him, he was standing in his mother’s kitchen, and when he smiled at me I felt the kind of wanting that you feel in your knees.”
“That good?”
“Better. Twenty on the scale of one to ten.”
Sometime after midnight, Sam went upstairs. She stared at the bed that was much too large for one person. She wondered how far Lee had driven, where he was sleeping. She knew it was late to call, but she gave in to the impulse.
“Hello?” he said. A television was on in the background.
“Hi,” Sam said.
“Hi.”
“So tell me again why you want to marry me.”
“Hold on,” he said. “Give me a couple of minutes. The voice is familiar.”
“Funny guy,” she said. “So where are you?”
“Ohio.”
“Home of?”
“Let’s see. John Glenn. Neil Armstrong. George Custer.”
“Ah. Frontiersmen.”
“And very appropriate, I might add,” he said.
“How’s that?”
“Because right this very minute, I’m thinking of a frontier I’d like to explore.”
“Hold that thought.”
“How long?”
“Just a couple more days.”
“I’m holding my breath. How was the bonfire?”
“Spectacular. There were bagpipes.” She thought of telling him about the moment she had reached for Libby’s hand, but kept silent, keeping it to share when they were together. “I wish you could have been there.”
“Next time,” Lee said.
“Yeah.” She took the beach stone out of her pocket and set it on the dresser, right next to her ring. “Lee?”
“I’m right here.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Like what?”
“Anything.”
He thought a minute. “Okay,” he said. “Robins only sing when they’re mating. Otherwise, they’re mute.”
“Is that true?”
“Absolutely.”
“I love you, Lee.”
“I love you, too, Sam.”
When she hung up, the king-size bed seemed a shade less lonely. She undressed and slipped into the bed. She listened to the creak of the hall floorboards as Libby came upstairs and heard the scratchy sound of greyhound toenails trailing behind.
Somewhere in the distance, a train whistle sounded. Down the hall, a toilet flushed. She lay and let the day replay in her mind. She remembered going to the prairie with Lee, the sun warming her while they sat on the bench, the bird singing, Lee weaving her a ring. She remembered the sound of Alice’s voice on the phone, all happiness at their news, and Stacy’s delight, too, and the zodiac’s promise of passion for them. She thought about the celebration over lunch and the four of them laughing and sharing stories, and how she had observed Richard looking at Libby, had seen the concern on his face, seen him anticipate her needs, and had realized that whatever was going on between them, it was more complicated than she had thought. She thought about the grief that came with the news of Hannah’s death. And she recalled the bonfire on the prairie and the moment she’d slid her hand into Libby’s, and then returning to the house and sitting in the kitchen and talking.
She had been absolutely astonished when Libby told her she was like Hannah because they both had essential goodness. It wasn’t true, and she wondered how Libby of all people could think that. And if Libby really did believe that, how could she have betrayed her? But maybe it was easier to betray someone if you believed they were intrinsically good, maybe you thought they would more readily forgive you. Anger thickened in her chest, heated her face. She willed it away. She did not want to lift that burden again.
The day seemed a single confusion of joy and sorrow. She got out of bed. She hadn’t done this since she was a child, but, feeling only slightly foolish, she knelt by the bed and clasped her hands in the steeple position, palms together, fingers pointed straight up. The child’s prayer came automatically to mind. “Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” How that phrase had terrified her. If I should die before I wake. She remembered being afraid to fall asleep after she had recited the prayer at her mother’s insistence, crying until Libby came to her and held her and promised that she would not die. Libby wouldn’t let her. Only then could she sleep.
Really, what a dreadful bedtime prayer for a child.
She had not said a formal petition in a long time and did not know how to begin. And then she thought of Stacy.
“I’m grateful for . . . ,” she began. The kaleidoscope of events swirled in her head. “I’m grateful for this day.”
Then, without forethought, she stood and crossed to the dresser. She opened the drawer and took out the brochure for organ donors that she’d found the day before. She bunched her pillow up against the headboard and settled in to read.
“Presently, a kidney transplant is the best chance for rehabilitation and long-term survival,” she read. Long-term survival.
“For some, a new kidney means a chance to spend more time with their family, for others it may mean a chance to return to work, a chance to travel, or perhaps a chance to start a new way of life.”
A chance to travel. Sam thought about the list she’d found in Libby’s book. Italy. Portugal. St. Martin-in-the-Fields. She continued reading.
“An overwhelming 90% of donors report that the experience was positive and worthwhile. Furthermore, many report that having gone through it, they would do it again.”
She turned to the next page. “Any healthy family member who has a compatible blood type and compatible HLA tissue typing may be considered as a possible kidney donor.” She sat up and leaned forward, pressed her palms against her back where she imagined her kidneys were. According to the booklet, a kidney was approximately the size of one’s fist. She leaned back against the pillow and held her hand in front of her face, clenched it.
She reread the sentence. “Any healthy family member who has a compatible blood type and compatible HLA tissue typing may be considered as a possible kidney donor.” She absorbed information about the required steps in the initial evaluation, about testing for blood type, and the test for white cell cross-match. She read about the minimal effects of donation on the donor. (Of course they would say minimal.) “The donor’s remaining kidney,” she read, “is able to do approximately 80% of the work that the two kidneys had done previously.” Again she formed a fist, cupped it in the other hand, imagined it being taken from her body. Her eyes returned to the page.
“There is a perioperative mortality of .03% or 5 in 16,000, less than the risk of a woman in pregnancy.” At the last word—“pregnancy”— her throat closed.
Children. It wasn’t a deal breaker, Lee’d said, but he’d always thought it would be great. Sam thought of Alice and how Lee had said that she’d probably already be putting bassinets on layaway.
A question for Solomon. Do you save your sister or a child not yet conceived? How could she make that choice? How could she not help Libby? But how could she sacrifice the chance to have a child? Tears blurred the page and she blinked them away. Then she read the next sentence.
“Women who donate a kidney do not have any increased risks in pregnancy or childbirth.”
She read the sentence three times. “Women who donate a kidney do not have any increased risks in pregnancy or childbirth.” She did not have to make a choice. Take it easy, she thought. There’s no rush here. Think about it. Talk it over with Lee. Get more information. Don’t be impulsive.
She rose, put on the terry robe, and went out to the hall. The light shone in the crack beneath Libby’s door. Sam knocked softly.
“Yes?” Libby said.
“It’s me. Are you up?”
“Sure. Come on in.”
Libby lay in bed. The greyhound was curled beside her.
“I want to do it,” Sa
m said.
“Do what?”
“Be your donor. I want to be your donor.”
Libby looked down at her hands. She ran her fingers over the shunt.
“Did you hear me?” Sam said. “I want to give you my kidney.”
“Oh, Sam-I-Am,” Libby said. “Let’s talk in the morning.”
Sam crossed to the bed and sat next to her sister. “I want to, Lib. I won’t change my mind.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Libby said.
And then the phone rang. They both started and, moving as one, they turned and looked at the clock.
It was one a.m.
Lee, Sam thought, and then breath came again as she remembered that she had just spoken with him, that he was safe in a hotel in Ohio.
Mercy, Libby thought. Matt.
Libby and Sam
Nom?”
“Matt?” Libby’s heart thumped, blood pulsed in her ears. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mom.”
“It’s nearly one in the morning and you’re calling to say nothing’s wrong?”
Richard appeared in the doorway. “It’s Matt,” Libby mouthed at him.
“Sorry to be calling so late, but I thought you might be worried about Mercy. I wanted you to know she’s okay.”
“What do you mean, Mercy’s okay?”
“She’s here. With me.”
She turned to Richard. “Matt says Mercy’s with him,” she said, her voice betraying her confusion. He looked down at the carpet.
“Mercy’s out there?” she said to Matt. “In Pasadena?”
“Yes. I didn’t want you to worry,” he said. “I thought you might have tried to reach her at school. She said she left without telling anyone there where she was going.”
“But why is she there with you? Put her on the phone. Let me speak to her.”
“She’s sleeping, Mom. She’s pretty tired. She drove about three days without much sleep.”
“She drove out there? To Pasadena?” She sat up fast, startling Lulu, who gave a high yip.
“What was that?” Matt said. “Was that a dog?”
“Yes,” Libby said.
“You’ve got a dog?” His voice was incredulous.
“No. I mean she’s not ours. I’m watching her for a friend.”
The Law of Bound Hearts Page 26
