The Law of Bound Hearts (25 page)

“Because you gave me courage. I always felt stronger when it was the two of us.”

“I gave you courage?” Sam said, eyes wide in astonishment. “I was always afraid of everything.”

“You loved me,” Libby said.

Lee left shortly after lunch. The others tried to talk him into waiting until the next morning, but he had appointments he couldn't reschedule. And then there's Alice, he said, winking at Sam. He told them he had to get back and get his mother under control before she made all the wedding arrangements.

When he went upstairs to pack, Sam followed him. Part of their conversation drifted down to Libby. She heard him ask Sam how long she was going to be staying, and her answer: I don't know. Then a door closed and she could hear no more.

“Don't forget I owe you a sail on the lake,” Richard said. They were standing on the porch, saying good-bye.

“I'm glad I finally got to meet you,” Lee said to Libby, and she could tell he meant it. “Take care of yourself. Get well.”

Then he and Sam walked down the steps to the truck. Libby saw them kiss. Watching them, strengthened by the reflection of their love, Libby permitted herself to believe pain and loss were really in the past. She allowed herself to hope.

And then the phone rang.

“I'll get it,” Richard said.

She waited.

“Hello, yes?” he said, his customary opening. He listened for a moment, and his face altered, as if for an instant the fiber holding flesh to bone had given way. Libby felt a rusty band circle her heart.

“I see,” Richard said. And then: “I'm sorry. Yes, I'll tell her. Yes, of course. As long as you want. No.” He hung up and turned to her. She felt the band tighten.

“Who was it?”

“Gabe,” he said. “Hannah's passed.”

Libby and Sam

Shortly after Gabe's phone call, Libby went up to her room, taking the greyhound with her. “For a nap,” she said, but an hour later, when Sam walked down the hall past her sister's room, she heard Libby crying. She hesitated, debating whether or not to go in, then tiptoed past.

Alone in the guest room, Sam curled up on the bed, but she could not rest. She missed Lee, although he had been gone only an hour. She crossed to the dresser and picked up the ring he'd given her. It already felt more brittle than it had been that morning and was fragile in her fingers. There must be some kind of fixative, she thought, that would preserve it. She would ask Lee. She set it carefully back on the dresser, then looked at her watch. Right about now, if he hadn't run into any holdups, Lee should be halfway through Indiana. She'd made him promise he would stop somewhere overnight and not drive straight through.

She found her cell, called him.

“Hey,” she said when she reached him. “Guess who.”

“Could I possibly be speaking to the future Mrs. Hardwin?”

Mrs. Hardwin. Samantha Hardwin.
If she'd had a pencil she would have doodled the words like a teenager.

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” she said in a voice belly-soft.

“Only one,” he said. “Only you.”

“Where are you?”

“Indiana,” he said. “Home of James Dean and David Letter-man.”

“I mean specifically. What town?”

“Just west of South Bend,” he said. “I'm making good time.”

“When are you going to stop?”

“I'm not sure. I'll see how it goes. Probably around Cleveland. Or maybe as far as Youngstown.”

“But you're not going to drive straight through, right? You promise?”

“Hey,” he said. “Are you going to be a nagging wife?”

“Count on it,” she'd said.

“I am,” he said.

At six, she went back downstairs and found Richard in the kitchen preparing dinner. Libby was still in her room.

“Is she sleeping?” Sam asked.

“I don't think so. I heard her a while ago talking to the dog.”

“Have you told her about Mercy?” Sam kept her voice low.

“No,” he said. “That's the last thing she needs to be thinking about now. She's taking Hannah's death really hard.”

“Were they good friends?”

“Hannah's younger. In her twenties, I would guess. I think they became close while they were at the center having treatments.”

Sam crossed to the stove and put the kettle on to heat. “Want some tea?” she asked.

“Yes, thanks. Listen, has Elizabeth mentioned anything about the bonfire to you?”

“No,” she said. She found mugs and tea bags, a jar of thyme honey, and set them out.

He told her about the annual event. “It's tonight,” he said. “I think it would do Elizabeth good to get out of the house. See if you can talk her into it.”

“Talk me into what?” Libby stood at the door. Lulu was at her side.

“The bonfire,” Richard said. “I was just telling Samantha about it. I thought it would be a good idea if you went.”

She surprised them both by saying yes.

There was no moon; the meadow was cloaked in shadows. Sam was aware of a crowd but had no idea of its size. Flashlights bobbed and weaved in the dark as people approached. It had turned chilly in the past hour. She shoved her fists into her pockets and hunched her shoulders against the cold. “Are you okay?” she asked Libby.

“I'm fine,” Libby said.

There was an uneasy truce between them; things had softened but were not resolved.

Two men with spouted gallon cans circled the pyre, sending arcs of kerosene over the stacked wood. Sam could smell it from where she stood. Parents pulled their children back. The crowd stilled. Flashlights were flicked off. It grew quiet, as if everyone had drawn one long breath of anticipation. Then a match was struck, torches were lit. The fire starters held the torches to the pyre. There was a hollow whoosh—the roar of combustion—and the flame leapt upward. Sam jumped back involuntarily. Several mice ran from the pile, and a squirrel. Three or four songbirds flew from the top.

From somewhere behind her came the sound of a single bagpipe. Then, in the distance, an answering call. Sam's breath caught in her throat. Libby hadn't told her about this. She wished Lee could have stayed, could have been here with her. She wanted to share everything with him.

She looked over at Libby. For a moment, she nearly didn't recognize her. In the leap and flicker of the flames, her sister's face had been transformed into a mask of sorrow, bones etched with grief. Sam looked back at the fire, as if the flames were capable of burning away the image of Libby. A spasm of pain, nearly electric in nature, shot through her chest, and for a moment she wondered if she was having a heart attack. Wouldn't that be the perfect irony, she thought.

She dared another look at Libby, saw a tear trace down her sister's cheek.

Three times, Lee had said. Three times to grant forgiveness.

The flames leapt as if their hunger would never be assuaged. Sparks flittered up into the night like fireflies. The echo of pipes faded into the moonless sky.

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.