Second Hand Heart (35 page)

I
walked from Richard’s little cabin back to the rim. It was just barely light. There was no one around. I guess I beat them all awake.

I could feel all kinds of things I don’t think I would have felt before. Not big, dramatic things. Just little ones. The breeze on my face. The bottom of my feet touching my sandals whenever my sandals touched the ground. The stem of the rose in my fingers.

I thought there would be somebody out on the patio, but just for that moment I had it all to myself. Which was nice. Because then I could do this out loud.

Only, you know what? I think I would have done it out loud anyway. But it was nice how there was nobody there to hear me and think I was some kind of loon.

I stood all the way at the edge, near the low stone wall. Looked over the side. It wasn’t a straight, sheer drop. I mean, there were some rocks that stuck out a little farther than the patio.

Then I looked up and out. And I cocked my hand back, winding up to throw the rose as high and as far as I could. But I didn’t throw it yet.

“I don’t think he meant to give this to me,” I said out loud. “I think he really meant to give this to you. Here. Are you ready? Catch.”

And I let it fly. It sailed up and flew end over end for a couple of turns, but then it looked like it was going to stall. It was so light, I thought maybe it wouldn’t go much of anywhere at all. But then a gust of wind came along and took it farther out. It came down on some rocks, but I watched it, and it half-rolled, half-bounced off the edge, and then the wind caught it again, and lofted it farther out into the canyon. And then it fell, and I couldn’t see where it went after that.

I’ll never know how far down in the canyon it ended up. As far as it needed to go, I guess.

Just before I walked away I said, “OK, ’bye.” And then I walked a step or two, and then I turned around and said, also, “Thank you.”

I didn’t say specifically for what. I figured she would know.

•  •  •

It was just getting all the way light when I let myself back into the tent with Victor.

I knew he was awake because he quickly rolled over the other way, so his back was to me. Jax licked me all over my face, like he hadn’t seen me for months. It was nice. At least somebody in the tent was still speaking to me.

I lay down on the sleeping bag close behind Victor’s back.

“Sorry,” I said.

“You slept with him, didn’t you?” He sounded like he was crying. Like he was trying really hard not to cry, but pretty much doing it anyway.

“Yeah, that’s what I was just apologizing for.”

“Well, don’t apologize. Why should you care? We’re just friends, right? I’m nothing to you. You don’t care anything about me. Right?”

“Victor,” I said. “That’s so stupid I’m not even going to answer it. I’m going to tell you something else instead.”

I waited. In case he didn’t want to hear anything at all from me. In that case, he would have time to tell me so.

“OK, what?”

“It’s not going to happen any more anyway.”

Silence. “You and him?”

“Right.”

“Why? Did he dump you? Did he break your heart? Because if he broke your heart, I’ll go kill him. I mean it. I’ll go right now.”

“Victor. Relax. He didn’t break my heart.”

“So why is it over?”

“Because it wasn’t ever really about me. It was always about the heart.”

Nobody said anything for a long time, and then after a while he rolled over, and his eyes were all puffy and red. I thought that was really cool, that he would let me see he’d been crying. I mean, being a guy and all.

I’ve been hitting the jackpot with that today, haven’t I?

“What are you talking about?” he said. “I have no idea what that means.”

“The heart.”

“What about it?”

“Oh, my God. I didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“He’s the guy who gave me the heart. It used to belong to his wife, but then she died. Did I really not tell you that?”

“You really did not tell me that.”

“Oh. Sorry. I guess I thought I did.”

“So … Wow! I think I get it now.” He sounded amazed and sort of … reverent. I don’t use that word a lot, but it seems to fit here. “So it was really more about how he feels about his dead wife, and not so much about you.”

“Right. And also how she felt about him.”

“You mean, you sort of remember that, too?”

“Right.”

“Wow. That’s weird. I mean … I don’t mean weird. Just … That must be really intense. So, that’s it? It’s just over now?”

“Kind of. I guess. I mean, we sort of figure the more time goes on the more it’ll be really my heart, sort of all the way mine, if you know what I mean.”

“I think so.”

He rolled over on to his back and put his hands behind his head, and looked up at the trees through the open mesh on the top of the tent. He didn’t have the rain skirt over the tent because it was so warm and nice.

I put my head down on his chest, and then he put one arm around me.

“I’m sorry you had a bad night,” I said.

“So … what about us?”

“What about us?”

“What do we do now?”

“I want to go home and see my mom.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I think she might be in therapy. So I have to give that a shot. Besides, I promised her. I mean, she is my mother and all. She just kind of got stuck in a cycle, I think. I changed so fast she got dizzy trying to keep up. Oh, and I have to pick up Esther’s ashes.”

“Then what?”

“Then we could travel some more.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Why not?”

We both looked at the trees for a while, and then Victor said, “Just friends?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see. We’ll find out, I guess.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Well, at some point we have to stop and see Eddie again. And then maybe I’d like to go to Germany.”

“Germany? That’s an awful long way.”

“Afraid your car’ll break down?”

“You’re kidding. Right?”

I sat up and punched him hard on the shoulder. And he said, “Ow! What was that for?”

“Of course I’m kidding. How stupid do you think I am?”

“Well. You’ve been shut in a lot.”

“Sick kids study geography too, you know.”

“OK, OK. Sorry.” He rubbed his sore shoulder a little. “I’d have to get somebody to take care of Jax. But we could go to Germany. I guess. I mean, I don’t know how. Hell, I don’t even know how we’re supposed to get home. But we’ll figure it out. Somehow. So, how does your heart feel now?”

“Tired,” I said. “And sad. But it feels like it’s just a tiny bit more mine than it was before.”

I put my head back down on his shoulder, and after a while I think we both fell asleep.

I know I did.

•  •  •

Just as we were driving out of the campground, I grabbed Victor’s sleeve.

“Ooh,” I said. “Go that way. OK? Please. Go back to the lodge, OK?”

He’d been just about to turn away from the canyon. You know. Toward home.

“Why? Did you forget something?”

“I have to get a postcard.”

I watched his face fall. “Vida …”

“No, Victor. It’s not what you’re thinking. It’s not for Richard. I have to get a postcard for my mother.”

“Oh. OK.”

He sounded a little confused. Maybe wondering why it was so urgent all of a sudden. But he didn’t argue.

He drove us to the parking lot at the lodge, and then he waited in the car while I got out and took that walk toward the rim for what I figured would probably be the last time. Not to sound morbid or anything. Maybe I could come back and see the canyon again someday. It’s just that I sort of have it in my head that I want to see new things. Not so much the same ones over and over.

And, also, even though it’s nice that this place meant so much to Lorrie, I’m not Lorrie. I’m me.

I halfway wondered while I was walking if Richard was still around here somewhere. Maybe he’d already checked out and gone home. Or maybe I would bump into him any minute. I found myself looking at all the cars, like I could tell whether his car was there or not, which is incredibly stupid, because I wouldn’t know Richard’s car if I saw it.

I stepped into the gift shop, and there was nobody else there. Which seemed kind of nice. You always expect a crowd near the Grand Canyon, so the fact that I stepped into this little time warp of a lull in traffic seemed … well, like I said, nice. Actually it seemed even better than that. It seemed destined. Like I was parting time just by walking through it.

OK. Sorry to sound weird.

The lady behind the desk had gray hair and incredibly blue eyes and she smiled at me with all her front teeth, but not in a fakey way. In this really genuine way, like it made her feel great to see me.

I always think it’s really nice to suddenly bump into someone who does that. But I don’t want to get too far off track.

“Do you sell stamps?” I asked her.

“I have a few in the drawer,” she said. “How many do you need?”

“Just one.”

“Oh. That’s no problem, then.”

“Oh, shoot. I didn’t bring a pen.”

I knew there was at least one in the glove compartment of Victor’s car, but it felt like a long round-trip walk. Why hadn’t I remembered to bring one with me? I felt a little spacey, like I’d just woken up. And I don’t even mean from that nap we had today. More like I’d been asleep the whole time, my whole life up until now. Like I’d just woken up in general. To everything.

“I’ll let you use mine. If you just want to write a postcard right now.”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what I want. I want to write a postcard right now, and get it in the mail right away. Today. I want it to get home before I do.”

“You can leave it with me, and I’ll put it with our outgoing mail.”

She handed me the plastic ballpoint pen from behind her ear, where it had been behind her hair, and I hadn’t noticed it. I took it, and held it tight in my hand, thinking I was lucky that everything I needed was landing on me. It felt warm on one side, I guess where it had been tucked up against her scalp.

I found a really nice postcard.

They were all pictures of the canyon, of course. But it’s funny how you can take a hundred pictures of it and no two of them ever really look the same. I picked one with dramatic lighting. The sky was blackened by weather, with rays of light breaking through on a slant, making the rocks look redder and more volatile. Is that the word I’m searching for? Volatile? It looked almost dangerous. Which you wouldn’t think would make it an obvious choice for my mother. But I wanted her to know what an important adventure this had really been.

I didn’t want her to think I put her through all this for nothing.

Then I put it on the woman’s counter, so my writing would come out neat.

“Dear Mom,” I wrote.

It’s funny how this time I knew exactly what I wanted to say. Like the right words had been in there all along, and I just didn’t know it.

“Ever notice how kids who get mostly freedom want care and attention, and kids who get a lot of care and attention mostly want freedom? I’m not making excuses for myself, but maybe that’s why I forgot to thank you for all the care and attention. I’m coming home now. Let’s start over.”

And then I signed it, “All my love, Vida.”

I stuck a stamp on it, and gave the lady back her pen, and the whole thing came to less than a dollar. I got a few cents change back from my dollar.

And it’s interesting, in a way, because that dollar was exactly what I had left over from that nice lady’s fifty.

We had almost a full tank of gas, and after that, some figuring to do. Or an adventure, depending on how you want to look at it. But I guessed we’d probably get where we were going. People pretty much always do. One way or another.

Then I suddenly knew I wanted to add a PS, so I borrowed the pen back.

“
PS:
Did you notice that I wrote something on this one right away? And mailed it? I’m making progress. Love, V.”

I looked up at the lady when I gave her the card. “You’ll make sure this gets into the mail, right?”

“I promise. It’s important, I take it.”

“Yeah, it’s for my mom.”

“Yeah. Moms are important. I should know. I am one.”

“I owe my mom. I’ve been pretty hard on her.”

“I’ll see to it that this gets on its way to her, then.”

“Thanks.”

Then I walked out into the sun, into the day, and looked up at the sky one last time. Like maybe there was something more for me to do. Something left over. Some sort of goodbye to say.

But it didn’t feel that way. It felt like I was all done here.

So I just walked back to Victor’s car and got in and said, “Let’s go home now, OK? I’m totally ready to go home.”

So that’s what we did.

From:
Richard Bailey
To:
Myra Buckner

Dear Myra,

I’m home now. Back from the last of my fool’s errands. For better or for worse I do believe I’m done with all that, and looking more ahead.

I called Roger, and he was very understanding about my previous behavior, and had not yet fired me. So hopefully before too long I’ll be giving work another try.

I guess you know there’s a summing-up here. I suppose you feel it coming.

You’ve given me a lot of advice over these months, most of which was welcome, some of which was not, and there is obviously a note left hanging about rightness. Sometimes I felt you were right, other times that you were perhaps too cautious, which is certainly your prerogative.

There’s a temptation for me to look back now, having gone down some ill-advised roads, and say you were right all along, and that I should have listened to you. But that’s not a hundred per cent of the truth.

Here is the truth, as best I can express it.

You were half-right. You said it would bring me nothing but pain, and you were half right. It brought me pain. But it didn’t bring me nothing but.

Still glad for your support, no matter who was right and who was wrong. Mostly we’re all walking around being both, I think, at almost all times.