The Law of Bound Hearts

by Anne Leclaire

  Now, leash in hand, she headed for the door. “I’ll take Lulu with me,” she told Sam, and she headed out.

  She drove down Deerpath, toward the lake, but as she neared the turnoff that led to the lake’s parking lot, she kept going. She drove past the gated mansions that lined the road, immense, palatial homes that reminded her of the mansions at Newport. She seldom came this far down Lake Road, but when she did, she always was struck by these homes and wondered who lived there. Captains of Industry, Richard had once told her, his voice capitalizing the words. The road ended at the cemetery and she drove through the stone arches, turned right on the drive toward the lake and around the loop, toward Hannah’s grave. She parked and let Lulu out of the car. She supposed there was a rule prohibiting dogs, but she didn’t care. What did it matter?

  She stared at the stone, erected since the funeral. “Hannah Rose, beloved wife of Gabriel.” A lifetime in a handful of letters. Lulu sniffed at the ground and then began tugging at the leash, as if to say, Come on, let’s walk. Well, what had Libby expected? That the dog would whine and cry, paw at the ground, knowing Hannah lay there?

  Libby wandered about, looking at the monuments, the majority of which were large and ornate. Mounted on top of one stone there was a half-size bronze statue of a deer that looked not unlike the greyhound that trotted at her side. Another granite marker had been carved into a graceful bench. All so we do not forget, she thought, for beyond death was the other death where one was lost to memory, consigned to oblivion. She thought of all the stories that lay in the ground beneath those stones. People who had fallen in love because of the line of a jaw or the tenor of a voice, who had been disappointed because of the color of a dress or a lost dream. People who had loved and grieved over things both minute and immense, none of which could be captured on a stone, no matter how imposing or expensive. The thought made her too sad to continue. She should not have come here. She turned back toward the car. Still, she was not ready to go home. She could not face Sam’s need for consolation. And so, once again, she returned to the prairie.

  When Libby opened the car door, Lulu did not run on ahead. She looked up, head cocked, her eyes sad. Libby clipped on the leash. With the greyhound at her side, she walked through the meadow, past the charred remains of the bonfire, onto the prairie. She turned up her collar against the chill. Soon winter would really set in. The ground would be covered with snow, deeper than the dustings of the last week, and the grasses would be sheathed in ice, morphing the prairie into a crystal palace. Eventually spring would follow, that at least one could count on. As there was every April, there would be a controlled fire, the grasses burned. And then, within days, new growth would thrust up through the ashes.

  “What looks like devastation is but a single stage,” Richard had told her once. “Only one period in a cycle that leads again to life.”

  Sometimes.

  Sometimes devastation was just devastation, Libby thought. Sometimes it led to nothing. It circled in on itself. A hard, black, bitter knot of nothing.

  She walked until she came to a bench. Lulu sat at her feet and leaned against her legs. A meadow vole scurried out from a clump of grass, but the dog did not stir.

  I can’t be your donor, Sam had cried, her face wet with tears.

  Libby had heard people say that news like that clobbered one in the solar plexus, but really it struck like a blow to the entire body. Like lightning. It took time to recover. She thought ahead to the things that needed to be done, phone calls to be made. She would have to tell Richard. Carlotta. The twins. She noted these things in one part of her brain, but mostly she felt dull, insensate. Shock, she supposed. More by habit than conscious intent, she slid her hand beneath her coat sleeve and laid her fingers on her forearm, felt the buzz. Some portion of her mind registered the fact there was no clot in the shunt. Her body felt heavy.

  It was a joke. A terrible cosmic joke. To be reconciled with Sam, to have a chance at life, her body functioning, and then in a snap, in a capricious turn of fate, to lose it. Lose the hope. She couldn’t bear it. Could. Not. Bear. It.

  Once, when she was ten and Sam was eight, they had been promised a trip to the Eastern States Exposition. Libby had saved her allowance for weeks, planning how she would apportion it between the amusement rides, the souvenirs, the chili dogs and spun candy. And then Sam caught the chicken pox and the trip was off. “It’s not fair,” Libby had screamed. “Why do we all have to stay home just because she’s sick? Why can’t she stay here with a babysitter? Why can’t Daddy and me go? I want to go.” Her tantrum accomplished nothing and she’d been banished to her room. “Think of your sister,” her mother said. “She’s disappointed, too, Elizabeth. It’s not her fault. Don’t be selfish.” The sour taste of disappointment had risen in Libby’s throat. What’s wrong with being selfish? she had wanted to scream at her mother. The next day, she went to the pantry and took down her mother’s favorite teapot, the one with pink rosebuds on the side that had belonged to their grandmother. Deliberately, she broke off the handle, then set the pot back on the shelf. When the china had snapped, she had known the momentary flash of satisfaction, but it changed nothing. She did not get to go to the exposition.

  Across the prairie, a man in orange work overalls—not Gabe— was pruning back a hawthorn. She thought of the day, on this same bench, when Gabe had shared an apple with her and told her about the bonesetters and they had seen the deer. It had been, what . . . six weeks ago. So much had happened since then. It felt like that afternoon had happened in a dream. She tried to recall the fleeting moment when she’d thought she understood it all, the connection of life. That moment was far remote.

  Libby swallowed against the bitterness. How had Hannah held on to hope when she knew she was dying? When all her hopes and dreams were already dead? How did one stand fast and hold on to that kind of faith?

  The oppression of lost hope weighed in Libby’s chest.

  Promises were only a setup for disappointment. It was better not to wish for anything, not to hope.

  Sam walked into Libby’s den. She was filled with worry about her sister and could not stop wondering where Libby had gone and when she would return. It had occurred to her that Libby could be holed up in a motel, running off as she had earlier that fall. The thought left her limp, helpless. She wondered when Richard would be home. Or maybe Libby had gone to him. That wasn’t out of the question. They had seemed closer in recent days, warmer toward each other.

  Sam reached around and pressed a palm against her back, poked her fingers into the flesh on either side of her spine. It felt the same as it always had. It occurred to her then that she didn’t even know which side of her body held her one kidney. She hadn’t asked the doctor, nor had she looked at the sonogram he had pushed across the desk. Outside in the street, a car slowed, and she felt the catch of hope in her throat, but by the time she got to the window and looked out, the car had passed by.

  She crossed to the leather chair that had once belonged to their father. She missed him terribly, more as the years went on, which seemed strange to her. She would have expected to feel the loss lessening by now. “We’re orphans,” Libby had said to her during a call after the plane crash, and at the time it had sounded melodramatic, but the truth of it grew with each passing year, as if all that counted in her past was being gradually erased, leaving her at sea.

  At last she dialed Lee. When she heard his voice, her brittle self-control shattered. Between sobs, she told him the news Dr. Forest had given her. He listened, and his voice reached across the miles to console her.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said. “Listen to me, Sam. It’ll be all right.”

  “How?” Sam cried. “How will it be all right? Do you know the odds of Libby getting a kidney? Do you know how long the list is? There are thousands and thousands of people waiting for a transplant. Nearly sixty thousand people are waiting for a kidney every year. Every year, Lee. Do you know how many donors there are? About eighteen
thousand. And that’s counting cadavers.”

  “I know.”

  “I was her only hope.”

  “Not her only hope,” he said.

  “God, Lee. I feel so terrible.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’m scared. What will happen to her now?”

  “Have faith.” His voice was confident.

  “I’m trying,” she said. She ran her fingers over the brass nail-heads on the chair arm.

  “There’s no try,” he said in his best Yoda imitation. “There is only do.”

  How do you do faith, she wanted to ask.

  After they hung up, as she waited for Libby to return, she kept picturing how her sister had looked when she learned Sam couldn’t be a donor. Her face had crumpled and then hardened, set due north. It had made Sam’s blood run backward. In that moment she knew Libby had given up.

  Sam pressed her face against the leather wingback, smelled the scent of her father’s cigar. After all these years, she was amazed it was still there. Have faith, Lee had said, so like something her father would have said. She wondered what her father would do. He certainly wouldn’t give up. He would never give up. Just that knowledge gave her strength.

  After several minutes, Sam picked up the phone again and dialed her brother’s number.

  “Josh,” she said when he answered. She couldn’t believe she was actually getting through to him. Cynthia must be out. “It’s Samantha.”

  “Hey, Sam,” he said. “It’s good to hear from you. How’re you doing?” His voice sounded all Colorado health. “I just got back from a run.”

  “I’m at Libby’s,” she said.

  “In Illinois?”

  “Yes.” They hadn’t informed Josh of her decision to be Libby’s donor. On the advice of both Carlotta Hayes and Dr. Forest, she and Libby had agreed to wait until all the tests had been completed and the date for surgery set before saying anything to other family members and friends.

  Now she told her brother everything, proud that her voice held steady and she did not cry.

  He asked Josh-like questions about what the doctor had said. “God, what bad luck for Libby,” he said.

  “That’s why I’m calling, Josh,” she said.

  “Why?” His voice was suddenly wary.

  “Will you be tested, Josh? Just to see if it’s even possible for you to be a donor for Libby?”

  “Sam—”

  “It doesn’t mean that you’re making any kind of commitment,” she said, cutting him off. “Just be tested.” If he would just agree to this, it would be the first tiny step in getting him to change his mind.

  “Why?”

  “To see if you are even a match.”

  “Why?” he repeated. “There’s no point if I’m not going to be a donor.”

  She swallowed. “If you could just see her, Josh. It would break your heart.”

  The wire hummed. “Listen, Sam,” he finally said. “I’ll come out there, if that will help. I’ll hold her hand. Hell, I’ll hold both of your hands. I can send some money if that’s a problem. But I’m firm on this. I can’t be a donor.”

  “Because Cynthia won’t let you.” Her voice was flat, accusing.

  “Don’t blame this on Cynthia. It’s my decision.”

  Sam thought about what the social worker had told her. Choosing to be a donor was a deeply personal, complicated, and emotional decision. Some people couldn’t do it, not even for a person they loved. It wasn’t a question of being selfish, the social worker had said, although it had seemed so to Sam. Still seemed so.

  “She’s your sister, Josh. Don’t you love her?”

  “That’s below the belt, Sam.”

  No, it isn’t, Sam thought. No matter what the social worker had said, if you loved someone, it wasn’t about how could you think of giving a kidney, it was how could you not.

  “I’m not going to defend myself on this, Sam,” Josh said.

  “Okay,” she said. She heard the resolve in his voice and admitted defeat. What did Libby call him? Switzerland. The neutral nation.

  “Any other news?” he asked, as if this were now an ordinary conversation.

  “Not that you care,” she said. “But I’m getting married.”

  “I care, Sam. Don’t punish me because I can’t do this thing you want.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. But she wasn’t.

  “Married, huh?” he continued. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “His name’s Lee.” She couldn’t go on. “I’ll write you all the details.”

  “And you’ll let us know the big date?” he said. “You’ll send us an invitation to the wedding?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, then. Well, give Libby my love.”

  But not your kidney. “I will,” she said.

  Don’t sit around waiting for an invitation, she thought after she hung up. I’d invite the ghost of Richard Nixon before I’d ask you to my wedding. But of course, she would. For better or worse, she was not a neutral nation.

  Sam and Libby

  Richard woke suddenly in the night and threw back the blankets.

  “What is it?” Libby mumbled, surprised to find that she had fallen asleep after all. The strain of the previous evening—the three of them pretending everything would be all right—had brought on a bout of insomnia.

  “Noises,” Richard said. He cocked his head, listening, then looked toward the ceiling. “I think it’s coming from the attic.”

  “Are you sure?” Libby held her breath, listened.

  “There?” he said. “Did you hear that?” He got up and pulled on a robe.

  From the space above her head came a faint scrabbling sound, barely discernible. How on earth could such a muted noise have woken Richard from sleep? She stayed in bed while he went to investigate, listened to his footsteps on the attic stairs, then the creaking of beams as he crossed directly overhead. What was up there? Mice? She shuddered at the idea.

  “We’ve got a squirrel problem,” Richard announced when he returned minutes later.

  “Terrific,” she said. “All we need now is vermin chewing up the attic.” It seemed the last straw. She suddenly remembered how Carlotta had told her that one crisis in a family would sometimes precipitate another one, often setting off a domino effect, with one calamity following another, until it felt like the trials of Job had befallen them—although she supposed a squirrel in the attic didn’t qualify as a catastrophe. At the time of that conversation, she had been telling Carlotta about Mercedes leaving school. She had said she felt like she’d been dropped into the middle of a soap opera. In fact, if all this had been written into a script in one of the daytime soaps, Libby would have flicked the television off, impatient with the impossible drama of it all. And then Carlotta had said it wasn’t completely unpredictable that Mercy should behave this way. “It is not at all unusual for a child to act out when a parent is seriously ill,” she’d said. “Wreck a car or get into drugs. Or for a spouse to have an affair.” On that scale, Libby supposed, Mercy’s dropping out seemed relatively minor.

  “Actually,” Richard was saying, “it looks like we’ve got a family of them.”

  “A family?” Libby had lost track of the conversation.

  “Of squirrels.”

  “How long do you think they’ve been there?” Libby asked. She thought about the boxes stored up there. Christmas decorations, summer clothes. Odd furnishings. “How do you suppose they got in?” An accusatory tone crept into her voice, as if he were to blame. “Have they done any damage?”

  “I don’t know, Elizabeth,” Richard said. “It’s the middle of the night. I didn’t take an inventory.”

  His tone was sharp, but she preferred it to the solicitous way he’d spoken to her lately, as if she would break if a breeze swept though the room.

  “I’ll take care of it in the morning,” he said, now contrite. “I’ll get a Haveahart trap.”

  “I don’t care if you get a I-Don’t-G
ive-a-Shit Trap. Just get them out of there.”

  She slid out of the bed.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “Now?”

  “I won’t be able to get back to sleep.”

  “Want me to come with you? I could heat some milk.”

  “There’s no sense in both of us being up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I won’t die if I go to the kitchen unescorted,” she said.

  “Lib—,” he began, but she didn’t wait for him to finish.

  There was a ribbon of light beneath Sam’s door, and for a minute Libby paused. Then she continued down to the kitchen. In the corner, Lulu lifted her head and gave a few halfhearted thwacks with her tail, but did not get up. Chin on crossed paws, the greyhound watched as Libby flicked on the lamp on the side table.

  She couldn’t believe how much had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Had it been just yesterday morning when they’d sat at the table eating breakfast, too excited to do more than nibble on toast? Was it just yesterday that the future had seemed so promising? When they had talked about “our kidney” and joked about joint custody?

  “Hey.” Sam entered the kitchen.

  “Hi,” Libby said. “Did Richard wake you?”

  “Richard?”

  “I thought maybe he woke you when he went up to the attic.”

  “No. I was awake. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “He heard noises up there. Squirrels. Would you like some tea? There’s decaf and herbal.”

  “I can get it.” Sam crossed to the range. “You don’t have to wait on me.”

  Libby sat at the table and watched as Sam moved about the kitchen, turned the gas on beneath the kettle.

  “Lib?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What are you going to do now?” Sam crossed to stand behind Libby’s chair and began to massage her sister’s neck.