Second Hand Heart (8 page)

V
ida called me from the hospital. It was late, nearly 1 a.m.

“Did I wake you?” she said. Of course she had.

“How did you get this number?”

“It’s … listed?”

“Oh. Right. It is. Isn’t it? What’s on your mind, Vida?”

“I was just thinking about that expression, ‘Where the rubber meets the road.’ I think it used to be from a tire commercial. But I had this pen pal once who used to use it, like … You know. Like an expression. She would say, ‘Yeah, that’s where the rubber meets the road.’ She meant, like, the bottom line. Like that’s what’s really the heart of the matter, you know? And that’s another expression I’ve been thinking about. The heart of the matter. They’re both ways of saying what’s really important. I just thought that rubber one was interesting, because of what happened to your wife.”

We both allowed a long silence to fall.

“Well, it certainly is the bottom line at my house,” I said.

That proved to be a definite conversation-stopper. Then, determined to start off in a cleaner direction, I said, “I was meaning to ask you if you keep a journal.”

“Yeah, I do. I sort of call it a blank book, though. But I shouldn’t. Because it isn’t blank any more. Esther gave it to me. Do you?”

As if I would automatically know who Esther is. As if all details of her life were self-explanatory.

“Actually,” I said, “yes. I do.”

I was just about to admit that it was very recent, and that I had picked up the habit from her. I think I was seeking some sort of instructions. As if there must be more to it than what I’ve been doing. As if I needed an expert to show me the way.

Before I could launch into any of that, she said, “Oh, wow! That’s really cool. We have something in common.”

And then I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint her. “Will you come visit me again?” she asked when I didn’t say anything.

“Yes. But right now I’m going to go back to sleep.”

“Promise you’ll come?”

“Yes.”

It was a promise made to end the conversation. Maybe I would go or maybe not. But I was acutely aware that the option was mine. I could promise, yet not go. I could simply break a promise. People do it all the time. They are not usually me. Still, a broken promise is a common enough occurrence.

It was a comfort to me, knowing I could lie if I ever chose to. An odd refuge in the otherwise unfriendly reality of everything changing.

Vida called me from the hospital. It was late. After two.

It was five days later. Five. Exactly. I counted. “You promised,” she said.

“I didn’t promise I’d come in five days or less. Just that I would.”

“Well you said you’d come see me in the hospital. And if you wait much longer, I’ll be home.”

“No. That’s not what I said. You said, ‘Will you come visit me again?’ And I said, ‘Yes.’”

I wondered if I was parsing promises too tellingly. And, speaking of telling, if I was tipping my hand on the attention I paid each and every word of our interaction. Maybe she would think I merely had a photographic memory. Maybe she would not imagine that I recreated conversations in lieu of sleep.

“I’m bored now,” she said. “It’s boring in the hospital. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been here already?”

“Um. No. I’m not very good with time.”

“Well, I’ve been here for ever. Almost a month before I even had the surgery. Please come visit me tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Not good enough. Promise.”

“No. I can’t promise.”

“But you already did. You promised me already. You can’t just take it back. It’s not fair.”

“I can do my best. I’m doing my best, Vida. And that’s all I can do.”

“Why is this so hard for you?” she asked.

It rankled me. More so than I could have imagined. Something about having to explain myself. So much energy.

“You don’t know much about grief,” I said. “Do you?”

Quick silence on the line. Then, “I don’t know much about grief? Is that what you just said to me? I don’t know much about grief? Me? That’s all I know. I don’t know just about anything else.”

“That explains a lot, then,” I said.

“What does it explain?”

“Maybe why you have trouble recognizing grief when you see it.”

“Promise me you’ll come.”

“All right,” I said. “I promise.”

I’m such a fool. I didn’t used to be. Or at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t used to be. But now I am. That’s one of the very few things I know for sure.

•  •  •

The following night I drove to the hospital and parked in the parking lot.

And got no farther.

It was fairly late in the evening, which was rather telling in itself, because visiting hours were about to end. I’d left only about fifteen minutes to spare.

The sun was not exactly still up, but it was not exactly done going down, either. It glared over the hospital roof, blazing into my eyes. I shaded them with one hand, which didn’t help much, if at all.

I knew I wasn’t going in.

I looked up at a bank of windows, any one of a number of which could have been hers.

I was in the act of conscious breathing. Reminding myself of each breath, concentrating as if the whole system could fall apart otherwise — which I can’t swear was not the truth — and longing for the days when I’d breathed quite expertly without so much as a thought.

There was a small figure framed in one window. Patient, visitor. How could I know? I wasn’t close enough to see. It could even have been Vida; I can’t swear it wasn’t. But the odds seemed to be against that.

But then it struck me that the figure could see me far better than I could see her, what with the sun shining on me and obscuring my vision. Assuming it was a her. Vida or no, it made me feel vulnerable. Fated to be at a disadvantage. It made me feel, suddenly, as if I were walking on a partially frozen lake. Feeling the ice shift. Wondering if the next step would be the one to break me through. Plunge me down.

I got back in the car and drove home.

I’m either a terrible coward or I finally wised up. Depending on whether one put Vida or Myra in charge of the assessment. And if it were me in charge? I either have no opinion of my own, or I’m torn. Or my own opinion is torn.

I don’t guess that counts as a visit.

I don’t suppose that qualifies as a promise kept.

•  •  •

Vida called me from the hospital. It was early, for her. Before nine. I hadn’t been home all that long.

“I saw you,” she said.

“You could be wrong.”

“I’m not. I’m not wrong. I was looking out the window. I’m always looking out the window. It’s the only place I can stand to look. I can’t even look at these awful hospital walls any more. They’re driving me crazy. They’re killing me.”

“You’ll get to go home soon.”

“I saw you in the parking lot. Why didn’t you come in?”

“It’s hard to know what you’re seeing from so far away.”

“How do you know how far away I saw you from?”

“I’m tired, Vida. I’m going to go to bed.”

“Why didn’t you come in?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“But you promised you’d come.”

“Next time I’ll know better.”

“It isn’t fair. And if you say life isn’t fair, I’ll scream.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Then what were you going to say?”

“I was going to say, ‘Goodnight, Vida.’”

“You know I’ll just call you again.”

“Yes,” I said. “I do know that.”

From:
Richard Bailey
To:
Myra Buckner

Dear Myra,

I think I should have listened to you. I think you were right.

Love,

Richard

PS:
I don’t really think, though, that it’s so much about that question I asked you at the funeral. I don’t think I’ve completely lost it and started believing that all the love Lorrie amassed in her lifetime, particularly for me, still resides there in the heart. I think it’s a simpler trap than that. Vida has a piece of Lorrie. An actual part of the woman I love. Inside. Alive. Beating. Carried with her. Wouldn’t that make a difference to anybody?

I hope so. I’d like to believe that, even though I’ve completely lost it, I’m not completely losing it.

By the way. What I just said about my connection to the heart is true. So far as I know. At least, there is definitely a level at which it is true. Except to the extent that it isn’t true. Except in light of that peculiar phenomenon in which something can be true and not true at the same time.

Good God. Listen to me. I’ve become an attorney for conflicting realities. Or maybe that’s redundant. Maybe that’s the only kind of attorney there is.

God help us all.

PPS:
I boxed up Lorrie’s clothes today. That’s all. I hope you weren’t expecting more from me. Just put them in boxes. Taped up their tops. I didn’t move them out of the house or anything. I may never do that.

Let’s be reasonable.

From:
Myra Buckner
To:
Richard Bailey

Dear Richard,

Please know it gives me no joy or satisfaction to have been right in this case.

It all makes sense, what you explained. Even the part of it that’s true.

But I’m still troubled by one question: What about the old woman who received Lorrie’s corneas? Why arent you off somewhere gazing into her eyes?

Love in return,

Myra

PS:
Interesting coincidence. You were packing boxes and taping them up. I was cutting the tape on boxes and emptying them out. Well, one box, anyway. I went through the attic today and found a whole carton of photos of the girls as children. I’d guess more than half include Lorrie as a child. Of course they mean a great deal to me and I could never part with them in their entirety. But I would share them with you.

From:
Richard Bailey
To:
Myra Buckner

Myra,

Oh, yes, please. Please, anything you can spare me. As many as you can bring yourself to let go of, thank you. It would mean so much to me.

You see, I’m slowing down on my wall. I went to a garage sale day before yesterday and bought a whole box of photo frames, all different sizes. Mostly 8×10, but a little of everything, really. A great assortment, and I picked it up for almost nothing. Classic garage-sale pricing. Which is a consideration, because of course I haven’t been working. As I carried them home, for that moment, I was almost happy. Relatively speaking.

But then I got home and discovered that I only have a few photos left unframed. I’d been careful not to check. I wanted to think of my photo stash as infinite. Bottomless. Almost to the point of pretending that more photos could appear, as if by magic, at the bottom of a dark drawer or in an electronic image file.

Almost. I’m not quite that bad. Silly, huh?

I’ve been slowing down on adding photos to the wall. I’m down to about one a day. And I know this will sound insane, but I’m terrified of the day I have to stop. The day I see I have no more photos left to frame and hang.

I feel like that crazy Sarah Winchester, who built her crazy Winchester Mystery House (uncomfortably close to where I live), to appease the ghosts of all the souls who died of bullets fired from Winchester rifles. Adding to it and adding to it and never wanting to finish it, for fear of what would happen if she ever stopped building.

I don’t know what she thought would happen. I mean, not really I don’t. I should know as well as anybody, having been a guide there in grad school. (Did I ever tell you that, Myra?) I can still recite the entire memorized tour speech. But I can’t tell you what she actually thought would happen if she ever stopped. I only know I’d really appreciate more photos of Lorrie. What would I do without you, Myra?

Many thanks and much love to you,

Richard

PS:
Roger phoned today. From the university. He seems to want this leave of absence to have an end date already. As if I could simply look forward through my grief to the day it will ease to the point of allowing me to function again. And then I guess he wanted me to just read him off that date. The whole thing was so completely ridiculous but also totally overwhelming. My ending to the conversation was a step or two short of hanging up on him. I might need a new position when I’m ready to teach again. Or maybe he’ll be understanding. Right now I can’t find a place in me that cares.

PPS:
Thanks again for the photos. Whatever you can bring yourself to spare.

Power Cords

I
was still in my pajamas and robe when I stumbled out to get the mail. In my bare feet. With my hair uncombed.

This would be an easier confession if my mail were delivered in the morning. Let’s just pretend for the moment that it is.

I opened the mailbox slowly. As if it might contain poison or explosives or, worse yet, something requiring action, like a bill.

Inside I found a newsprint flyer of missing children. “Have you seen me?” I had not, but it stretched something in my chest. All that loss. Then I remembered that every one of those parents could at least hold hope of seeing their children again, and a measure of my empathy was lost. Or at least dulled. Ignoble but true.