Carry Her Heart (2 page)

Amanda was starting high school. She was standing on the brink of adulthood. Someday soon she might come and find me, and when she did, I had so much to share with her. So much I wanted to be sure she understood.

I looked at that wedding trunk that had once been a bright blue with red flowers hand-painted on it. Both colors had faded over time. I knew that the letters on the front were faded as well, but still discernable. T. P. E. 1837.

My mother said she thought it came from Sweden with a bunch-of-greats-grandmother, Talia Piper Eliason. Mom had given it to me when I moved out, but I never felt as if I owned it. I was holding it for Amanda. Like the locket I’d sent with her, this was her family history.

I knew that Amanda had a new name and a new family. She had a story she’d grown up knowing. But she couldn’t understand the entirety of her life until I told her this part.

When I’d bought the journal, I’d thought I’d tell her story chronologically, but I wasn’t ready to talk about her birth, so I started at another point . . .

Dear Amanda,

Amanda’s Pantry truly began on your fifth birthday, almost a decade ago now. I was at the grocery store buying . . . I don’t remember what I was buying. Probably something with no nutritional value whatsoever. I was only twenty-one, and I didn’t worry about things like proper nutrition.

I was standing in line at the register behind a young woman and a toddler. The little girl had red hair. Not auburn. Not strawberry blond. Red. Like Orphan Annie red. Like mine. I felt a kinship with her immediately, and of course, I thought of you.

She was asking for a piece of candy and her mom was whispering, “No.” There was something in the way her mom said it that told me that she wasn’t saying no because it was candy and the little girl shouldn’t be eating candy. She was saying no because she couldn’t afford it.

I was about to buy the candy bar and then run it out to them after I paid, when the cashier said, “That’s twenty-eight o’ six.” I remember the amount, even if I don’t remember what was in my cart.

The woman had a twenty in her hand.

“I think we can do without—”

I wasn’t sure what she’d be able to do without. The bread? The peanut butter? Or maybe the milk?

And at that moment, I looked at that little girl who could have been you. And I thought, what if she was you? What if your father lost his job? What if your mother got sick?

God forbid, what if you got sick?

What if you were standing in the grocery store, hungry while your mom decided what food you could do without?

I looked at the redheaded toddler and felt tears well up in my eyes.

And I realized my hand was already in my back pocket. Before her mother could put anything back, I bent over and came up with a ten-dollar bill in my hand. “Ma’am, I think you dropped this,” I said.

She gave me a small smile and shook her head. “No, I didn’t, but thank you.”

“Ma’am, I saw it fly out of your purse. Really. Here.” I thrust the ten-dollar bill at her.

And she looked at me and I knew that she knew what I was doing. I saw the tears in her eyes. She knew I was lying in order to preserve her dignity and she allowed me that fib.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She paid for the food, the clerk bagged the items, and the woman took her daughter and the bags and then walked toward the door. Like I said, I don’t know what I had on the checkout belt, but I quickly pulled the candy bar off the shelf, added it to my purchases, paid, and ran to catch the lady. “May I?” I asked, letting the mom catch a glimpse of the candy bar.

She nodded. I knelt down to the little girl, who was clutching her mother’s hand. “Here you go. Maybe if you eat a good supper tonight, you can have this for dessert.”

The little girl’s eyes bugged out a little and she mutely nodded.

“Why?” the mom asked as I rose.

“For Amanda,” was my reply.

I could see that she didn’t understand, but that didn’t matter. I did. And I felt more at peace than I had in a long time.

“I can’t repay you,” she said.

“Don’t worry about it. Someday when things get easier, you can pass it on.”

She nodded. “I will. And I’ll tell Jean about it someday.”

“No. You don’t have to tell her, or anyone. Really.”

And I walked away.

I had the nightmare again that night. You were cold and hungry and I couldn’t get to you. I ripped apart my pantry and couldn’t find anything for you to eat. But you came into my kitchen, sat down at the counter, and picked up a candy bar that was suddenly lying there.

You looked at me and said, “Thank you,” as you pushed a strand of your carrot-colored hair behind your ear and then tore into the candy.

Love,

Piper

Chapter Two

I met my best friend my first day of college. None of my high school friends were going to Gannon University, so the school assigned me a roommate my freshman year. Julie Cooper.

When I walked into my dorm room my freshman year, Coop was already there. Despite the fact she was standing on her bed, I could tell she was tiny. She had dark, wildly curly hair and a beautiful copper complexion.

I noticed those three attributes right away because they were so opposite of mine. I was on the taller side of things, with very red hair, and I was so pale that I used to swear the glare from my legs could blind drivers.

My new roommate was on her bed hanging a poster . . . a map of Middle Earth.

Despite our physical differences, when I looked at that map, I knew we were going to be friends.

We roomed together all four years of college.

I quizzed Coop on English classics and she quizzed me on human anatomy. We tried the college party scene together and discovered that we didn’t like it. We dated twin brothers our sophomore year of college, then dumped them within a week of each other.

We bonded over those first loves and breakups, just as we bonded over the good teachers and bad ones. We shared a love for Tolkien, ice cream, and trivia.

And we’d stayed friends since that first day.

Coop taught middle school English for the school district and we tried to get together at least once a month for a girls’ night.

Now for some single women, girls’ night might mean hitting a bar or a club, or at least a restaurant, but for me and Coop, girls’ night meant a pizza at the picnic table in the backyard and a wild game of rummy. I mean, we didn’t play Five Hundred Rummy. No, we were truly
wild
and played One Thousand Rummy.

And sometimes, if the mood struck and we were seriously crazed, we’d try for Two Thousand Rummy.

Tonight, I’d started a fire in my fire pit for warmth. I realized this was probably our last outdoor girls’ night until next season. Next month, we’d have to move inside.

My picnic table and fire pit were located between the house and the rest of my crazy garden. Tonight, the garden was louder than it had been during the summer. The apple tree leaves still clung to their branches and made the slightest crinkly sound in the breeze. The lemon balm just beyond the picnic table had grown to immense size this summer, and now that it had dried it had a deeper crackle that seemed to harmonize with the apple leaves. Both were punctuated by the occasional snap of the fire. Each breath of wind seemed to intensify the sound, as if it was conducting a song that only the garden knew.

As soon as Coop arrived, I forgot my garden’s song. Our games of rummy could get quite loud. Coop slapped down her cards with a screech of victory. “Ha. Another hand for me. Count ’em up.”

I mock-grumbled, which was expected in one of our marathon games. There was no losing with grace. No, because we were so wild, we both groused and taunted at will. “It’s a good thing we’re playing to a thousand instead of five hundred. Otherwise—”

Coop interrupted and finished my sentence. “—otherwise, this game would be over in record time.”

I saw my new neighbor’s face pop up over the fence. “Is everything okay, Piper?”

He’d only lived next door a few weeks, but I was right the first day; he seemed like a good neighbor. He took me at my word and came to the door his second week and asked for a cup of sugar. It was such a stereotypical neighbor thing that I laughed as he held the cup out, but this time he got the joke and laughed with me.

“Ned, come over,” I called. “I want to introduce you to my friend.”

“Her
best
friend,” Coop qualified loudly.

“My best friend,” I corrected.

Moments later, Ned opened the gate that stood between our two houses and came into my backyard for the first time.

“Wow,” he said.

I looked around and realized that even in the firelight, it was easy to see how crowded my backyard was.

“I can see the treetops from my upstairs window, so I knew you had . . . a lot going on back here, but it’s different from this perspective.”

I laughed. As a writer, I’d long since realized that
perspective
was everything. “It gets a little more wild every year,” I told him. Then I made the introduction. “Ned, this is my friend Julie Cooper.”

“Call me Cooper,” Coop, who hated the name Julie, said as she extended her hand.

“Edward Chesterfield,” he said as he shook it. “Ned.”

Coop gave a little snort, and I knew she was thinking about Couch Couch. I shouldn’t have shared that particular new character with her, and I definitely shouldn’t have told her where I got the inspiration.

But she didn’t say anything about that, she just said, “There’s a lot of pizza and room at the card table if you’re interested.”

“What are we playing?” he asked, eyeing the pile of cards in the middle of the picnic table. “Five-card stud or—”

“Five Hundred Rummy,” Coop said.

“Only, we are as wild as my backyard and added another five hundred, so we’re playing One Thousand Rummy,” I corrected. “Yeah, I know, you’re shocked by our utter disregard for the rules.”

Ned grinned. “I am definitely shocked. Deal me in.” He helped himself to a slice of pizza as he sat down.

We played for an hour—I was winning—before Mela called Ned from the back door.

“I’m over at Pip’s,” he called back. “Why don’t you come over?”

“Okay,” she said, but even Cooper could hear her lack of enthusiasm, because she gave me a look that said,
What’s up with her?
I shrugged to indicate I didn’t have a clue.

Ned had introduced us a few days after he moved in, and I made it a point to wave to her when she came in or out of Ned’s, but unless he was around, she managed to look right through me. She turned me invisible this time, too, as she came into the backyard and smiled only at Ned. “I got worried when I couldn’t find you,” she said.

“Sorry. I forgot you were coming over. We were playing cards.”

Ned forgetting she was coming over didn’t seem to please Mela at all.

I tried to pretend I didn’t notice that not only was she annoyed with him, she’d managed to turn both me
and
Coop invisible.

Houdini had nothing on Mela.

I said, “Hi, Mela. I don’t think you’ve met my friend, Coop.”

For a moment, we were visible as she responded, “It’s a pleasure,” in such a way that it was apparent it wasn’t a pleasure at all. Then she promptly turned us invisible again and said, “Ned, I brought that movie we were going to watch.”

“You’re welcome to join our game of rummy,” Coop offered. “And I think Ned might have left a slice of pizza if you’re hungry.”

Mela shook her head. “It’s been a long week. I just want to sit down, watch a movie, and relax with my
boyfriend
.” She put a heavy emphasis on the word
boyfriend
, just to stake her claim, I think.

“Sure, hon,” Ned said. “Thanks for the game, ladies.”

“Any time,” I said.

Mela didn’t so much as touch Ned, but it felt as if she were dragging him out of the backyard.

After we heard his back door slam shut, Coop whispered, “I feel like I’m ten again, and a friend’s mom just took him home because it was bedtime.”

I laughed, then grew serious as I confessed, “She doesn’t like me.”

“I’m expecting you to be nominated for sainthood any day now. I like you and I’ve got impeccable taste. How can anyone else not like you?” Coop asked.

“The world is full of mysteries,” I joked, though the fact that Mela disliked me and I couldn’t think of anything I’d done to her in the few short weeks I’d known her, bothered me. “Plus, I don’t think that’s how sainthood works, and I’m absolutely sure, however it works, I’m not on the nominating committee’s list.”

I was lucky to have Coop in my life. Everyone should have a friend who only sees the best in him or her. A friend who never notices the flaws, or if she does notice, simply ignores them.

I had Coop, so I didn’t need Mela to be my new best friend, but I’d tried to be pleasant. If Ned and I were chatting when she came over, I always tried to include her in the conversation.

She didn’t want to be included.

Did I remind her of her mean sister?

Was there a redheaded girl in grade school who’d beat her out for the lead role in the Thanksgiving play?

What if she’d lost her last boyfriend and a part in the play to a redhead?

And then what if . . .

Ideas flitted in and out of my mind the rest of the evening. When Coop left, I jotted a few of the better what-ifs down as fodder for future stories, then took the journal into the backyard and pulled a chair near the dying embers of the fire and wrote my second message to Amanda.

Dear Amanda,

I think maybe I was always destined to be a writer because what-if has always been a question I’ve been willing to ask myself.

I need you to understand that I asked it throughout my entire pregnancy:

What if I kept you?

What if I gave you up for adoption?

I played scenario after scenario in my head.

What if I kept you, but couldn’t make it through college with a baby, so I continued working at my high school job at the restaurant? We could barely make it on my salary, so we lived in a less-than-desirable section of town, and then you joined a gang . . .

Or what if I kept you and did manage to go to college as a young single mom, but my classes took so much time away from you that you never felt loved?

And then what if . . .

I couldn’t see a way to keep you and give you the kind of childhood I’d had. One with a mother and father who might not be rich, but who lived comfortably. I wanted you to have a mother who would read you a book at night, not be sitting at a desk doing her own homework. I wanted to give you a father who would believe you were the best, the brightest, and the most marvelous being he’d ever met.

I kept playing what-if-I-kept-you scenarios, but at the end of each, I could hear the biggest what-if of all. It was the one I couldn’t shake.

What if I was as strong as my great-grandmother had been and gave you the gift of the type of childhood I’d had by sending you into the arms of someone else? What if I gave you to parents who longed for a child and had the time, experience, and the income to give you a childhood like mine?

What if I was as strong as my great-grandmother Rose? My parents have given me her name as a middle name. Piper Rose George.

She was my grandfather’s mom and he’d told me her story countless times when I was younger. He’d told it to me so often that it felt like it was as much my story as his and hers.

Grandpa used to say I was the spitting image of his mother. “Her hair was as red as a cherry tomato,” he’d tell me.

My great-grandmother Rose grew up in an Irish family with too many children and too little money. She married my great-grandfather when she was only sixteen. He was a blacksmith and made a comfortable living. They had my grandfather and seemed to be on the road to a happily-ever-after. But when their baby—my grandfather—was only two months old, his father was kicked in the head by a horse and died two days later.

Rose went to work in a hotel as a maid to support herself and my grandfather. Grandpa was shuffled around from one set of relatives to another.

When he was five, Rose made a decision to give him up in order for him to have a better life. The life she’d dreamed for him.

I’ve imagined how hard it must have been to put her five-year-old son on a ship to America. To send him to live with an older sister my great-grandmother hardly remembered. An older sister, Nettie, who’d never married and told Rose in her letters that she longed for a child . . . not a husband, just a child.

Rose wanted her son to have the best. In addition to longing for a child, her sister worked at a school. Nettie promised Rose my grandfather would have the best education, and she would raise him and love him as if he were her own son.

So Rose sent Grandpa on that ship to a country she’d never seen and a sister she didn’t remember and only knew through letters.

I stood up and set the journal down on my chair. The deep reds and orange of the embers were fading and I was once again aware of the music of my garden. It sounded like a whisper.

I’d pictured Rose sending my grandfather away so many times when I was pregnant, and I’d marveled at her strength. I wanted to be as strong as she’d been.

I sat back down and picked up the journal.

I imagined that scene a hundred times. A busy dock in front of a huge ship. In my mind, it looked like the Brig
Niagara
—the famous ship from the Battle of Lake Erie. Its replica was present-day Erie’s pride and joy. I know that the ship my grandfather took would have been more modern than that, but still, I saw the
Niagara
when I pictured the scene.

I could see Rose kneeling next to Grandpa, hugging him to her. Kissing his forehead. Trying to make him know to his core that even though she was sending him away, he was loved.

In my mind’s eye, she took her locket from around her neck and slipped it around his. My grandfather had left me that locket when he passed away. Inside was a picture of Rose and her blacksmith husband.

Rose sent it across an ocean with my grandfather, wanting to be sure he never forgot where he came from.