Second Hand Heart
Second Hand HeartCatherine Ryan Hyde
Vida is 19 and has never had much of a life. Struggling along with a life-threatening heart condition, her whole life has been one long preparation for death. But suddenly she is presented with a donor heart, and just in time. Now she gets to do something she never imagined she’d have to do: live.
Richard is a 36-year-old man who’s just lost his beloved wife, Lorrie, in a car accident. Still in shock and not even having begun the process of grieving, he is invited to the hospital to meet the young woman who received his wife’s donor heart.
Vida takes one look at Richard and feels she’s loved him all her life. And tells him so. Richard assumes she’s just a foolish young girl. And maybe she is. Or maybe there’s truth behind the theory of cellular memory, and maybe it really is possible for a heart to remember, at least for a time, on its own.
Second Hand Heart is both a story of having to learn to live for the first time, and having to learn to live all over again.
In memory of my niece Emily, whose heart gave out on her, and in honor of my niece Sara, who survived with distinctive grace.
CHAPTER 1: VIDA
On My Upcoming DeathI
’m probably going to die really soon. Maybe in my sleep tonight. Maybe next week. Maybe three weeks from Thursday. It’s kind of hard to tell.
I guess that’ll sound like a big deal to you. Whoever you are. Whoever will read this someday. It doesn’t sound like such a big deal to me. I’m pretty used to it.
I’ve been practicing for almost twenty years. Ever since the night I was born.
Not to rock your world too completely, but you’re going to die, too. Probably not as soon as I am, but you never know. See, that’s the thing. We don’t know. None of us. I could get a donor heart and live happily ever after, and you could walk out in front of a bus tomorrow. Hell, today.
Here’s the difference between you and me: you think you’re not going to die anytime soon. Even though you could be wrong. I know I probably will.
Sometimes I wonder what it feels like to go to bed every night figuring you’ll definitely wake up. Lots of people do, I guess. Every day. But I have no idea what it would feel like to be them.
I only know how it feels to be me.
On My MotherM
y mother named me Vida.
I think it’s the stupidest name in the world. But I have to try to be patient with my mother. She has issues.
First of all, I’m an only child. And also, even though she’s had just as much practice as I have getting used to the idea of losing me, she hasn’t made much headway so far. She says it’s because she’s a mother, and I really have no choice but to believe her. For myself I wouldn’t know. I’m not a mother and I never will be, unless I adopt. My heart could never take childbirth.
I’m lucky it got me through today.
In case you don’t know any Spanish at all, “Vida” means “life.” Get it yet? You know. Like, make sure this kid stays alive. Not that we’re Spanish. We’re not. But I guess naming your only daughter “Life” or “Alive” might be a little weird. Even for her.
My mother has control issues, but I honestly don’t think she knows. I haven’t told her yet because she has a lot going on, and I’m not sure I want to stack that on top of everything else.
She rules our little world very tightly.
It’s funny, too, because … Well, it’s hard to explain why it’s funny. But if you saw her, you’d get it. She’s about four foot ten (she says five feet but she’s totally lying), and has apple-red cheeks and a big smile, and looks like one of Santa’s elves. If Santa had girl elves. She doesn’t look like the dominatrix type.
But man, can she hold on.
On My Really Good Friend EstherE
sther used to be in a concentration camp. Buchenwald.
When I say Buchenwald, it comes out sounding different than when Esther says it. Even though she’s been in this country for more than sixty years, she still has a very thick German accent. Most people drop the accent after a few years, but Esther hasn’t dropped it yet. So she must still need it for something. When she says Buchenwald, the
ch
sound does this very complicated hissy thing in her throat (which I could not do if I tried, and I’ve tried), and the
w
sounds like a
v
.
When Esther was my age, she was in Buchenwald. She’s very old now. I don’t know how old. She won’t tell me. But you can figure the years based on when the Allies liberated the camps (I’m very good on the Internet, because I spend so much time indoors, and it’s something I can do without anybody getting worried and telling me to take it easy), and then do some simple math and figure she must be at least ninety.
She actually looks older. So I’m thinking maybe she lied a little about how young she was when her whole family got rounded up and put on the train.
I guess it’s like my mother saying she’s five feet tall when she’s only four ten. I guess people do that a lot.
I don’t. I tell the truth. I’m not even sure why. Esther gave me this blank book. The one I’m writing this all down in, right now. The one you must be holding if you’re reading this.
She said it’s a journal, but it looks like a book. A regular bound book. Just with nothing on any of the pages. I was very excited when she gave it to me, because I figured it was a real book. I like books a lot. I rely on them.
This is true of most people who can’t do much of anything without dying.
Esther said if I wanted it to be a real book, I’d have to write in it myself. I’d have to write my own. Sounded like a tall order, especially for someone who might be a little short on time. I guess in a weird sort of way that was part of the idea of the thing.
Esther says nobody can tell you when you’re going to die.
She says a few days before the Allies came and liberated Buchenwald, one of the camp guards laughed at her and taunted her in German. When she tells me this story — which she does a lot — she repeats what he said in German. I can’t do that. But anyway, what he said translates to mean something like, “You will die here, little Jewess.”
Esther figures that guard is dead now. I figure she’s probably right, which is a satisfying thought.
She’s our upstairs neighbor and she’s my best friend. She also gave me the worry stone.
On the Worry StoneT
he very first day I was in the hospital (and by that I mean this time around — there have been lots of hospitals and lots of times), Esther came to see me and brought me the worry stone.
It’s some kind of quartz, and it’s very smooth. About the size of a walnut, but flatter. Esther said she brought it all the way from Germany with her. I think that means she must have gotten it after she was liberated. Because I don’t think they let you keep any of your stuff when they put you on the train.
I guess it makes sense that when you’ve spent years in a concentration camp, and you are the only member of your very large extended family to walk out alive, and you’re about to go all by yourself to a new country on the other side of the world, you might want something that could possibly absorb your worry.
What I don’t get is why she gave it to me. I love it. I just don’t get why she gave it up.
She came in that very first morning. As soon as visiting hours started. She was wearing a scarf on her head, and a coat with a big fur collar. And, honestly, it wasn’t very cold outside, so far as I knew.
