The Law of Bound Hearts (29 page)

Sam and Libby

Are you afraid?” Richard said.

“A little.” A lot, really, but what good did it do to share that?

They were alone in the room now. He was sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her hand. Mercy and Matt had just gone off to get coffee, finding strength in each other as they always had. Gabe had been in earlier with an orchid, which now sat on the windowsill. Carlotta had dropped by, along with the anesthesiologist, who had told Libby exactly what she could expect in the next hours and had given her a form to sign. Eleanor Brooks had stopped by, too. She'd left an affirmation card for Libby. “Hold on to your dreams,” it said. “They are your transport to the stars.” Libby had Richard tape it to the wall over her bed, right next to the good-luck card Jesse's prayer circle had sent.

“Richard?”

“Yes.”

“I just want you to know, if anything goes—” She stopped. She had taken care of things. Earlier in the week she had signed her will, as well as the paper making Richard her medical-care proxy and stating that, if something should go terribly wrong, under no circumstances was she to be put on life support. There
were
things worse than death. She had filled out an organ donor card. Once that would have chilled her, if she had considered it at all, but now it had brought her a measure of quiet satisfaction.

She had cleaned out her underwear drawer. (She couldn't imagine anything more depressing than having to sort through someone else's worn underpants.) And she had unearthed the diary she'd kept during the bad time six years ago and burned it, while contemplating the human compulsion to write down those things that could not be spoken.

The twins were no longer children, and that gave her great consolation. These last few days, reflecting on the past, she had realized with some surprise that she'd lived a good life. A good life, not just a good-enough life. A full life. Rich with both joy and sorrow.

She didn't actually believe she was going to die. Carlotta had been thoroughly reassuring on that point. Still, she had written a letter to each of the twins. She was not being melodramatic or morbid, just covering the bases. No matter what reassurances Carlotta gave, surgery involved risks.

“Nothing will go wrong,” Richard said, as if reading her mind. He was fiddling with her Walkman. He'd prepared a tape of music for her to listen to during the operation. Some Schumann, some Mozart.

“But I'll be under anesthesia,” she'd protested when he gave it to her.

“Play it anyway,” he'd said. He'd been researching on the Web. There was evidence that surgery was easier and recovery swifter when patients listened to music, even while unconscious.

The floor nurse poked her head in and told Richard he'd have to leave.

He bent and kissed Libby. “See you in the recovery room,” he said.

“I never got to write you a letter,” Libby said, reaching for his arm. “Or Sam. I never got to write to Sam.”

“There's no need,” Richard said. “We know.”

“Where is Sam, anyway?” Libby said.

“I saw her in the corridor,” Richard said. “She just got here. She's gone across the hall. She'll be here in a minute.”

Sam opened the door quietly.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” Lee said.

She wondered if his smile would ever lose the power to heat her belly, turn her knees liquid. “I've only got a minute,” she said as she kissed him. “They're going to be kicking us out pretty soon.”

She crossed to the bed. “How are you doing?” she said to Alice.

Alice smiled. “To tell you the truth, I've been wondering exactly how much a kidney weighs. This could be the easiest diet I've ever been on.”

Sam laughed. She stroked Alice's hand. “Do you need anything?”

“Not a damn thing,” Alice said. “I want you all to know that just because Libby's getting my kidney no one has to feel pressured into naming the baby after me.”

“What baby?” Sam asked.

“Yours and Lee's.”

Lee laughed. “What did I tell you,” he said to Sam. He turned to Alice. “Have you ordered a bassinet yet?”

“Why on earth would I do that?” she said. “There's a perfectly fine one at home in the attic. It held you and your brother and it will hold my grandchild, too.”

Sam dug in her purse, found what she was looking for. “Here,” she said.

Alice took the stone. She ran a finger over the white line in the middle. “Why, this is your lucky rock,” she said.

“It's yours,” Sam said. “It was meant for you all along.”

“Thank you,” Alice said. Then she added with Yankee firmness that no one could dispute: “I'll take it, but I won't need it. I'm going to be just fine.”

The nurse came in and shooed them out.

“Will you wait for me downstairs?” Sam said to Lee.

“I'll be getting coffee,” he said. “Take your time.”

Sam slipped into Libby's room and found her sister was alone. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

“I thought Richard would be here,” Sam said.

“He just left.”

Sam crossed to the window and looked up. “A full moon,” she said. She loved it when the moon was visible in the daytime sky.

“You know what that's made of, don't you, Sam-I-Am?”

“Let's see. Spun silk or cotton candy, or the salt lick for cows.” Sam opened her tote. “I have something for you.” She handed her sister a gift bag.

Libby looked inside. “A book,” she said.

“It's made by hand,” Sam said.

“It's beautiful.” Libby opened it, saw the blank pages.

“Do you know what it's for?”

“A diary?”

“It's for your poetry, Lib. For your book of poems.”

Libby ran her hand over the pages. “Thank you,” she said, meaning for much more than the book.

“There's one more thing,” Sam said. She handed Libby an envelope.

“What's this?” Libby said. “A letter? I was going to write one for you, too. I feel bad I didn't.”

“Open it,” Sam said.

At first Libby didn't understand. “Tickets?” she said.

Sam grinned, so pleased with herself. “Air tickets to London,” she said. “And the winter schedule for concerts at St. Martin-in-the Fields.”

“How did you know?”

“Everything is waiting for you, Lib,” Sam said. “All your dreams are still ahead.”

What was ahead? Libby hadn't allowed herself to think too far into the future, to consider the possibility her body would reject the transplant. One day at a time.

She was staring at the tickets when she heard the voice. It was so clear she turned to see if Sam had, too, but her sister was leaning over to kiss her.

“See you when it's over,” Sam said. “We'll all be waiting.” She blew a kiss from the door and was gone.

But Libby
had
heard it. Hannah's voice.
Hold on,
it had said, just as it had in the hotel corridor weeks before.
Hold on.

A nurse entered the room. “Time to get you ready.” Libby let her take the envelope and book and place them on the bedside table. “You're going to feel a little pinch,” the nurse said, and she injected the sedative into Libby's arm. “This is to relax you. In a few minutes, you'll feel drowsy.”

The nurse explained the procedure as she accomplished each step: inserting the IV tube to keep Libby from getting dehydrated and to increase her flow of urine; shaving and disinfecting the area of the surgical site. Her hands were sure, her motions efficient. She hummed while she worked.

Libby lay, perfectly calm, waiting for what was to come. Hold on, Hannah had said. To what?

To dreams? On the wall over the bed she saw the card Eleanor Brooks had brought.
Hold on to your dreams. They are your transport to
the stars.
She wondered how Hannah had held on to her dreams in the face of her death, had talked about opening a nursery when she knew she would not have children. This seemed to Libby a courageous thing.

Hold on.

To hope?

To every good deed and promise?

To love?

To life?

A single life seemed so fragile, at once insignificant and magnificent. She wondered how one had the fortitude to bear any of it, let alone all of it. “Life is messy,” a minister had once said back when she and Richard still attended church. “It's messy and complicated and difficult at times, but it is not without a pattern. If you stand apart and look back at it from a distance, there is always a pattern. Have faith in that,” he'd told the congregation. “Hold true to that faith, even when the warp and weft are invisible to your sight. Especially then.”

The sedative began to take effect. She closed her eyes. Against the darkness of her lids, she saw . . .

A spider's web.

It spread out in an intricate pattern, just like the one she had seen on the prairie in September. She could remember it so clearly, that garden spider's web with the zigzag in the center. It was nearly two feet across. Its myriad threads had been woven with great and tender care into an unmistakable design and, as fragile as they appeared to her eyes, they held the tensile strength to withstand the fiercest of winds, the worst of prairie storms.

A miracle.

Really.

When you thought about it.

Acknowledgments

My gratitude to The Ragdale Foundation for providing me with a nest at the edge of a tall grass prairie in which to give birth to this book, and to The Virginia Center for the Performing Arts for granting me the gift of time and space in which to write major portions.

I am indebted to the transplant patients and donors who were willing to share their experiences with me. I am especially grateful to Jim and Marcia Smith, John and Judy Delehanty, and Brian Baltz for their enormous generosity in this regard.

A number of people were invaluable in educating me about the intricacies of kidney disease, pastry making, boat building, sailing, and prairies. The knowledge and kindnesses are theirs. Any mistakes should be laid solely at my door. My thanks to Dr. Tyler Miller, my steadfast guide through the complicated territory of kidney disease; Kim Smith, director of the Lynchburg Dialysis Center in Amherst, Virginia; Brad and Mike Pease at the Pease Boat Yard, Chatham, Massachusetts; pastry chefs Tracy Maes and Diane Bliss; Jeremy Batson at the Open Lands Association in Lake Forest, Illinois; and Daniel Adams.

Additionally, I am particularly grateful to Susan Tillett, Zack Linmark, Constance Alexander, Rev. Christopher Leighton, Ronna Wineberg, and Marilyn Kallett, all of whom shared long conversations with me about forgiveness and families, and to Alice George and Peter Saunders for poetry consultations. Thanks to the staff at Lovells of Lake Forest, who were gracious and accommodating.

Thanks to Kay Ruane for the beautiful art that graces the cover and to Margaret Braun, whose magnificent book,
Cakewalk,
was the inspiration for Sam's cakes.

As always, I thank Deborah Schneider, agent extraordinaire and wise friend, and the dream team at Ballantine: Maureen O'Neal, Gina Centrello, and Kim Hovey.

I thank, too, the usual cast of characters who enrich my writing and my life: Ginny Reiser, Margaret Moore, Jebba and Larry Handley, Ann Stevens, and Jackie Mitchard, and my assistant, Jean Needel, who keeps things running smoothly.

Lastly, and always, I thank my family. Their love and support sustains me.

A READER'S GUIDE

The Law of
Bound Hearts

ANNE LECLAIRE

A CONVERSATION WITH ANNE LECLAIRE

Dr. Marilyn Kallet
is a poet and the author of ten books, including
Circe, After Hours,
and
One for Each Night: Chanukah Tales and Recipes.
She coedited
Sleeping with One Eye Open: Women Writers and the Art of Survival.
Dr. Kallet teaches creative writing at the University of Tennessee, where she holds the Hodges Chair for Distinguished Teaching in the
English Department.

Marilyn Kallet:
Anne, you and I have been friends for years, thanks to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, where we have both worked on writing. I think of you as a sister spirit and refer to you as a “sister writer.”
The Law of Bound Hearts
has prompted me to think more about sisterhood, both as metaphor and as reality. In this novel, you have drawn a compelling portrait of the bonds between siblings Libby and Samantha. Readers will want to know whether or not you actually have a sister.

Anne LeClaire: I do. I have several sisters of choice and two birth sisters, one of whom passed away many years ago. So I have thought a lot about sisterhood. It is obvious, and yet I didn't really “get it” completely until I wrote this book—how
key
our siblings are. They are our oldest peers and witnesses.

MK:
I'm sorry to learn about your sister. You're right, of course. Our sisters offer sanity. And
mishegas
. (That's Yiddish for craziness.) After a recent phone call with my sister, I ate half a turkey!

AL:
With me, it's chocolate!

MK:
In writing the book, did you draw on the bonds you felt with your own siblings?

AL:
Not in specifics, but in understanding that weaves its way from my life into my books. I never consciously draw on my own experience in any of my books, in that the characters are not me or people in my life.

MK:
As to your characters—how did you decide to make Libby a poet and Samantha a pastry chef?

AL:
Ah, the two sides, passions of body and mind! And I'm happy that Sam's boyfriend, Lee, is also passionate about tangible things, the earth and the sea. A person's creativity is such a key part of who he or she is. When I look back, I see that most of my characters have consistently expressed creativity in some way.

MK:
That's right. You mentioned the boyfriend, Lee. I think that one test of a good novel is how well the secondary characters come alive. For instance, in this book, Stacy and Lee are lively and engaging. Stacy is funny, salty, and expressive, and Lee is a studly angel!

AL:
I love Lee! I sometimes feel that these characters deserve a book of their own. Maybe it's my theatre background, but it seems to me that they're all part of a “cast” that creates a whole. We don't get a true picture of the protagonist unless we observe how the others play off her. And we can grasp a well-rounded character by the way she interacts with those around her. Setting is also a character.

MK:
You mentioned your theatre background. Please expand on that.

AL:
For a short time in college I majored in theatre, but decided that course of study wasn't practical. For a long period in my adult life, I acted, doing summer theatre and dinner theatre. That experience has proved very valuable to me in writing, as an aid to understanding character, dialogue, and structure.

MK:
I have been wondering what your childhood was like, whether you created plays as a child?

AL:
I had a rich, imaginative childhood for many reasons. I was a loner as a child. My dog Lady, a collie, was my best companion. I lived on a farm in Monson, Massachusetts, and I spent a lot of time in nature, creating whole worlds. There were woods near us, and there was a swamp nearby. Nature was my playhouse. I would go out into the swamp where there were white birches. There I could peel the bark and create little messages on the pieces. I made little birchbark canoes and imagined that Indians lived there. I created a whole settlement. In the woods there were five varieties of moss, and from these I created miniature gardens for fairies. I would take pie pans and create moss gardens and make tiny pebble walks. There was one moss called Indian pipe that was red and grew up out of the green. From this, I made a garden for the fairies to live in.

MK:
You are living proof of the theory that imaginative childhood play has a positive impact on adults.

AL:
My imagination was not just active in nature. I was constantly making up stories. I mean
lies,
telling huge and involved lies. Never out of malice. Sometimes to avoid punishment or responsibility, but mostly because my lies seemed more lively than reality.

MK:
Can you remember one of the lies?

AL:
I told my sixth-grade class that I was going to be on the
Ed Sullivan Show
!

MK:
(laughing) I also bragged about starring on television shows! How did you get yourself out of that fib?

AL:
I never really thought about the consequences—I just got involved in the stories, in what seemed interesting. I told my firstgrade class I was making my first communion, even though I wasn't Catholic. I have always been attracted to ritual, so I liked the dress and the ritual as I understood it, in my young, third-hand, non-Catholic way.

MK:
Earlier you mentioned place. Setting plays a major role in this novel. The prairie sets the scene for three of the most important revelations. Can you talk about the prairie and how it has inspired you?

AL:
I first encountered the prairie in 1991, when I was in residence at the Ragdale Foundation, in Lake Forest, Illinois. I have had nine residencies there and have seen the prairie in every season except summer. From the first time I set foot, I was drawn to it, in the way that the ocean draws me. The midwestern American prairie and the ocean have so much in common—the expanse, the wavelike motion. There was so much about the prairie in and of itself that fascinated me: the depth of the roots of the plants, the natural history, the need to set fire. A decade before I conceived of this book, I experienced a prairie fire, a controlled burn that ensures the life of a prairie by returning necessary nutrients to it and keeping trees from encroaching.

But the first time I experienced a prairie fire I thought it was an accident—and I was devastated. Three days later I was walking through and could already see green shoots. This event offered such a visual manifestation of the role of devastation in our lives. The image sank deep into me.

MK:
So, did witnessing that prairie fire lay the groundwork for the novel?

AL:
I don't know. It's such a mystery where all the elements of a book come from. I know that the fire was concrete evidence for me, in my life, of the idea that we can't always understand devastation. But it has a role. Out of destruction comes new growth, life. The prairie would not exist without the fires. Back in 1992, I told myself to remember this so that when disaster came into my own life, as either illness or loss, I would remember that it had its place.

MK:
This idea works itself into the novel. Libby's betrayal of her sister had a devastating effect on Sam and the whole family. The book tells the story of emotional healing, and of the healing that we hope will take place through the kidney transplant.

AL:
The last three books in particular, and the one I am working on now, have reflected my deep interest in the role of healing. I am concerned with the source of healing, with the importance of love, forgiveness, and gratitude.

MK:
Do you think forgiveness has healing power?

AL:
I know it does. Absolutely.

MK:
I wonder if the reader forgives Libby for betraying Sam?

AL:
Ah, I don't have a clue! I'm always suprised by what readers both bring to the books and take away. When I give readings and answer questions, I'm always amazed by how involved readers can become with characters. I'm surprised by how angry or or how much in love the readers may be with them.

MK:
In previous conversations, you have indicated that you yourself have become inhabited by your characters. In this book, they grapple in a visceral way with life and death.

AL:
If they don't, what's the point?

MK:
How hard was it for you to write this book, and how hard was the grief work?

AL:
Not writing “surface” is always hard. I think that dealing with grief is part of our work as writers. And certainly, understanding its role makes grief easier to bear. Yet it is always hard to write, since it involves sorrow, loss, and betrayal.

MK:
How do you manage the emotional upheaval?

AL:
I just go with it. Actors often say that they take their roles home with them during the run of a play. That's true for me as well. There are certain characters who are going to be with me, and their emotions stay with me for the writing of the book. I do four specific things to help ground me: walking, yoga, cooking, and eating. After the day's work I take a walk and then head for the kitchen.

MK:
In addition to being entertaining,
The Law of Bound Hearts
is also educational. I learned a lot about kidney disease and dialysis. The dialysis center is another setting in the book. Did your background as a journalist help you to do research and then write this novel?

AL:
Yes. As I look back, all of my past work has added dimensions to my writing. Acting taught me about character, dialogue, structure. Reporting really helped me to learn about researching, interviewing, asking the right questions, and setting deadlines. I am truly grateful to the people who have opened their lives to me, so that I can understand situations about which I have had no personal experience. I am amazed and humbled by how much of themselves others will give. When I was writing
Entering Normal,
parents who had lost children offered their stories. One mother said, “I want you to get it right.” If we're not going to get it right, why write it?

MK:
Telling someone else's story is a serious responsibilty.

AL:
It is a huge responsibility. There were a lot of people undergoing dialysis who let me sit close to them while they were on the machines. They let me talk to them about what their experiences were like, so that I could get as close as possible to what they were going through. I am eternally grateful to the staff of the dialysis center who opened the doors for me, who checked with their patients to see if they would be willing to talk with me.

MK:
I was impressed by how invisible you made yourself throughout the book. I was not aware of the author's presence while I was reading the novel. The characters tell their own story. Do you think of yourself as a medium for the story?

AL:
I try to get out of my own way, both in writing and in life. I try to keep my ego out of the story. Someone once asked me if I was trying to get a message across. Will Rogers said, “If you have a message, send a telegram!” I never really know what the theme of my book is going to be until I'm finished writing. If I had known this was going to be a story about grief and forgiveness, the novel would might have been heavy-handed. I just try to let the characters tell the story and be as faithful to the story as I can be.

MK:
The presence of ghosts in the story tends to reinforce the feeling of the storyteller as medium. The voice of Samantha's father, and the presence of Hannah as a healing spirit, give the reader an eerie feeling. There's magic there.

AL:
Our ancestors are always with us. Always. And I don't think there's a woman alive who doesn't hear the voice of her mother at times. Just as setting is a character, the ones who have gone before us are part of our story. Those spirits are with us, and they're talking.

MK:
So, part of telling the story is being quiet enough to let the spirit voices speak?

AL:
And not to be afraid to let them. The practice of silence over thirteen years has taught me to listen, not only to myself but to my characters as well.

MK:
Please explain your practice.

AL:
The first and third Monday of each month I spend in silence. Those are nonspeaking days, for twenty-four hours. This has been one of the biggest learning experiences of my life, consistently over the years. Over and over I'm reminded to listen. Someone said that in our culture conversation is talking and waiting to talk. On silent days, I don't have any responsibility to talk. I've learned to listen to myself.

MK:
And that has had an impact on your writing?

AL:
Yes, the whole experience of silence has had an impact.

MK:
I very much enjoyed Libby's poetry in this book. Did you write the poems for the book?

AL:
Thank you for your encouragement! I have been a closet poet for a long time. I'm in awe of poets and filled with admiration, because poets distill experience to its essence and make everything count. One of the little signs I have on my computer says “Make everything count.”

MK:
I love the poets whom Libby is reading, Sharon Olds and Adrienne Rich among them.

AL:
They are among my favorites, too. And Emily Dickinson, of course.

MK:
To whom you are related.

AL:
That's right. Back to Libby—I was trying to imagine Libby's life, to sum up who she was as a girl. I knew that she was a poet as a girl. She told me that. Yes, the poems were written for the book.

MK:
I hope that Libby writes some more poetry! I wanted another installment of this story, and of the poems.

AL:
Well, remember, Sam did give Libby a blank book for poetry! One of the most curious things for me, thinking about Libby as a girl—I asked myself how do we lose the passion, creativity, and feistiness as women? In the play
Shirley Valentine,
the question is dramatized: How do girls turn from being bad and lively and alive to being carefully controlled women? It was important to me to probe the question of how Libby changed from being the girl who superglued a cheating man's fly shut to being a woman who cared so much about the regime of housework. But when she's in crisis, she remembers everything her college poetry professor told her—there's another ghost voice.