Carry Her Heart (5 page)

“The name Amanda means
deserving to be loved
. Every child is that.

“Tonight, I’m happy to announce that Amanda’s Pantry and our annual Amanda’s Closet will now be offering books, free of charge, to all the Amandas out there.”

Every fall, the pantry gave out coats to kids who needed them, but this was a new facet of our services. “And while I’m thrilled with your generous coat and hat donations, and I’m hoping you write a big fat check for the pantry, I am not asking for any donations for the bookshelf. I have corporate donors in some of the country’s largest children’s books publishers.”

I was thrilled about that. Every child who came to the food pantry would receive a book of his or her own. Books—plural—I hoped.

“So, thank you for coming out tonight, and thank you in advance for your generous donations.” I leaned close to the mic and in a stage whisper said, “That was a not-so-subtle hint. And now, I’m going to get off the stage and turn it over to the Glenwood Hillbillies. Please, feel free to get up and dance, or just visit with your friends. And please remember to open your hearts and your wallets to
Amanda
.”

Mom and Dad were in a deep conversation with the people at their table, so I hurried back to Ned’s and collapsed in an empty seat. “Have I ever mentioned that I hate public speaking?” I said to no one in particular.

Ned snorted. “Yes. Every time there’s an Amanda fund-raiser.”

“Well, at least I’m predictable,” I said.

“There has to be more to the name Amanda than you said,” Mela sniped.

“Like I said, Amanda means
worthy of being loved
. Every child is that. If I’d called it
The Food Pantry
or
Some Kids’ Food Pantry,
it wouldn’t have the same sense of immediacy. People who donate to it have a more intimate response when they’re giving to a specific name. Amanda was the perfect name for the food pantry.”

That wasn’t a lie. I’d used the line a hundred times, but this time, it felt like one because Ned was sitting next to me listening and I knew it wasn’t the whole story.

It wouldn’t have felt as much like a lie if I were just saying the words to Mela.

Ned didn’t seem to notice my evasions. He simply asked, “Where’s Coop tonight?”

“She had a PTA meeting. Normally, she’d skip, but as a new teacher at the school she felt she had to be there.”

He nodded and asked, “Have you met everyone at the table?”

“Mr. Johnson introduced me, but it was a quick-shake-and-nod moment.”

He smiled. “That’s what I thought.” He nodded at the man on the other side of the vacant chair I’d slid into. “So as a reintroduction, this is Anthony Long. The Johnsons brought him on as a partner last month.”

Anthony was a nice-looking man who was somewhere between thirty and fifty.

Why is it that men had so many ageless sorts of years? The thing that made me lean more heavily toward the forties than the thirties was the thinning hair on the crown of his head. I respected the fact that he’d shaved it rather than try for a classic comb-over. “Congratulations on making partner, Tony.”

“Anthony,” he corrected with a smile.

I laughed. “Sorry, Anthony. I know how it feels to have people mess with your name.” I looked very pointedly at Ned.

Ned didn’t look the least bit abashed. “It’s almost as annoying as people who misrepresent your job.”

“Those people only pick at your job when you start in on their name,
Fox
.”

Mela always looked her most brittle when Ned and I teased each other. Her smile this time didn’t reach her eyes. Heck, it hardly reached her lips. “I don’t think Ned’s job warrants any teasing. That kind of thing is more appropriate for a school-aged relationship than for an adult one.”

Normally, I’d just let her social spanking slide, but tonight, I shot back without thinking, “I bet you’d sing a different tune if Ned shortened your name to
Meh
.”

This time she didn’t even attempt a smile.

Feeling contrite, I tried to move past my less-than-nice comment and asked, “Is Mela short for something?”

She shook her head.

“Do you know what your name means?” I asked.

She didn’t shake or nod her head . . . she glared.

I simply waited and finally Mela gave up and said, “Dark.”

I thought that was a fairly accurate description of her, but I knew I was being unfair. Mela and I were oil and water. No amount of shaking was ever going to make us like each other. And because Ned liked her, she had to have some good qualities. I just couldn’t see them.

Anthony shot Mela a sympathetic look. “I think my mother said
Anthony
meant priceless, or maybe she was just being a mom and saying I was priceless.” He chuckled and then asked, “What does
Piper
mean?”

“It’s actually a family name. But I guess it’s also a name that means what it says. Someone who plays—”

My mother came up behind me. “Piper’s about to say her name means someone who plays the flute, and though it’s also a family name, her father and I named her Piper because we were on our honeymoon in Scotland when she was conceived and—”

There are certain subjects that are fair conversational topics at a party and some that are not.

The meaning of a name? Fair game. A bit of social conversational frippery.

The place of my conception? Not so much.

I cut my mom off. “TMI, Mom. Really, that’s more than anyone here needed to know.”

Anthony came to my rescue as he asked, “Would you care to dance?”

I nodded. “I’d love to.”

I kissed my mom’s cheek as I got up and she whispered, “prude,” in my ear.

I whispered back, “Grandma had sex, too.”

She laughed and said, “Ew.”

Anthony and I were the first ones on the dance floor. “Thanks for saving me. Next thing you know, my mom would have been telling everyone the exact details of that magical night.” I made a delicate gagging gesture at the thought.

It made Anthony laugh. “Your mom probably would have gotten along with my mom.”

I noticed the past tense and said, “I’m sorry.”

He nodded, wordlessly accepting my thanks.

I wanted to change the subject from parental sex and his loss, so I warned him, “I believe in truth in advertising . . . I am not much of a dancer.”

“I’m not Fred Astaire, so I don’t need a Ginger.” He must have realized that the term might not have sat well because of my red hair. “Sorry.”

“No problem. Calling my hair ginger is certainly nicer than calling it Medusa, which is my description of choice.”

He chuckled again. “Just relax and let me lead.”

I did, and Anthony managed to not only lead, but also to make me look almost good in the process. The fact it was
almost
good and not
really
good was on me, not on him.

He talked about relocating to Erie from Pittsburgh. “. . . don’t get me wrong; I’m glad I did it. It was a great move for my career. But it’s hard to go from somewhere you know to a strange place. Hard to go from a place where you have lifelong friends and family to someplace where you only know your work colleagues.”

“I’ve lived in Erie all my life, but I’ve always felt a bit like someone on the outside. Not that I don’t have friends, but . . .” I shrugged. I did have friends, but I’d never been someone who required a lot of interaction with people. I had my parents, Coop, the people at Amanda’s Pantry, the kids at school, and now Ned. That was plenty of people for me.

Maybe when you live with so many characters in your head—and to me, they weren’t just fictional characters, but rather people in their own right—there wasn’t a need to populate your life with myriad real people.

Really, between all that and my fictional characters, I was good.

Maybe there was a book about a teenager who spent more time with fictional characters than real people. Maybe—

“Piper?”

I realized I’d drifted and poor Anthony was still talking to me. “Sorry. Drifting away is an occupational hazard, at least for me.”

“You had an idea for a book?”

I nodded.

“I’d love to hear more about how your process works,” he said. “Maybe you’d meet me for dinner sometime?”

“Are you asking me for a date?” I asked, wanting to be sure I had it right. After all, he might simply be someone who was thinking about writing himself and wanted to pick my brain.

He laughed as we twirled around the dance floor. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Rather than admit it was and sound pathetic, I laughed and said, “Of course, I’m going to say
no, your asking was not a surprise at all
. I was simply surprised it took you so long to ask.”

We both continued to laugh as we danced. And though I’d never officially answered his question, we both knew I’d have dinner with him. Before the evening was over, we exchanged phone numbers.

That night Amanda was in the forefront of my thoughts. I pulled off my grown-up clothes and changed into a pair of well-worn yoga pants and a sweatshirt, then took the leather journal and went out to the front porch.

The school had floodlights for security. So at night my front porch was bathed in a soft glow of light that I knew from past experience was just enough to write by.

I loved my porch at night. Some of the neighboring houses had lights shining through their windows. You could tell the ones that came from televisions. They flickered and changed color.

A car drove by. I wondered where they were going so late at night. Were they coming in from some social function, too? Or were they on their way out to meet friends?

At midnight, the neighborhood was very quiet. I could see the school’s playground bathed in light, but empty. Silent.

It was as if the hustle and bustle from the day was a distant memory.

I picked up my pen and the noise of the first scratch across the paper seemed amplified in the silence.

Dear Amanda,

When I was pregnant with you, I borrowed a baby-name book from the library. I knew I wouldn’t keep you—that I couldn’t keep you—though it took me months to admit it. My mother had gone back to school for her doctorate and she offered to quit and help, but that wouldn’t have been fair to her or to you. Even with her help, I couldn’t have given you the life I dreamed for you. You deserved so much more than a teenage mother who had two years of high school left could give you . . .

As I write those words, I realize you are now the same age I was when I got pregnant with you.

I put down my pen and tried to digest that fact.

I hoped Amanda’s mother had talked to her about sex . . . more than that, I hoped Amanda had listened.

I thought about telling her about her father tonight, but I wasn’t ready for that yet, not that my story was unique. I thought I knew what love was, but the flash-in-the-pan feeling wasn’t love. That sizzle was like a firecracker. It was bright and loud, but burned itself out quickly.

I was so young, not that I realized it at the time. When I was fifteen, I thought I knew it all. I was sure my life would be a fairy tale, and maybe in some ways it has been. I’ve built a life I love.

But there is a hole in my heart and in my life. That hole is filled with the absence of you. I didn’t give you up in order to build a better life for myself, but because I wanted a better life for you.

And though I knew your new parents would give you the name you’ve grown up with, I needed to name you. I only held you for that hour, trying to store up a lifetime of memories and love in sixty short minutes.

And when the nurse came to take you, she opened the door and I caught the barest glimpse of the parents who would raise you. They looked . . . ordinary for that first second, but as the nurse put you in your new mom’s arms, she was transformed. She was absolutely beautiful in her joy. Your dad, too.

As the door swung shut, I called out, “Good-bye, Amanda,” and I tried to let you go.

It’s been fifteen years and I’m still trying.

Amanda means “deserving of love.”

You do deserve that and so much more.

I hope that by giving you to your mother and father, you found love and a happy home.

Love,

Piper

Ned’s car pulled into his driveway. Even though I hadn’t turned on the porch light, he saw me.

“I just dropped off Mela,” he said as he got out of his car. Then he added, “You look more like yourself,” as he walked the few steps to the edge of the porch.

I didn’t take offense that, in Ned’s eyes, looking like myself meant wild hair and oversized sweatshirts. “I feel more like myself. I swear my hair whimpered with gratitude when I took it down.”

He laughed, then saw the notebook on my lap. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

“I was just finishing up and getting ready to head to bed. I don’t do late nights very well.”

“I’ve got to go to the office tomorrow, so I need to call it a night, too.” But rather than turn to leave, he said, “It was a nice evening. Everyone danced and seemed to enjoy themselves.”

“I’m glad. Everyone was very generous.”

“Your speech was short, but good. I mean, I know how much you love the limelight.”

I snorted my response. “Yes, I do love the limelight. And I’m a huge fan of root canals, too.”

For a moment, his teasing ebbed and he looked serious as he said, “I think that makes what you did this evening all the more impressive . . .” he paused and then added, “Pip.”

“Thanks, Fox.”

“Night,” he said, chuckling.

I watched as Ned walked to his own front door. He unlocked it, then gave a little wave before he went inside.