The Law of Bound Hearts (17 page)

Libby

When Libby got home, there were three hang-ups on the answering machine and a message from Richard, calling to say he'd slated a private session with one of the students and reminding her, too, that he had the full rehearsal for the Music Department's fall concert. He told her not to hold dinner. It was the first time in months that he'd stayed at school late, a sign that he was returning to his normal schedule. She supposed she should be glad, but she wasn't. It was perverse of her, she knew. Hadn't she been urging him for months not to worry about her, not to alter his schedule to tend to her, not to pass off all his duties to his teaching associate? But his message left her off balance, as if he had, in some way, gone on with life without her.

In the kitchen, the dishes were still in the sink from breakfast and she filled a pan full with soapy water. She could have put them in the dishwasher, but the ritual of doing them by hand calmed her. There was something almost meditative about immersing her hands in the warm water, wiping each dish with the sponge, and then rinsing the piece free of suds.

When she finished, it was a little after three o'clock, with the remainder of the afternoon to get through. There was always television, but she hadn't the least interest in watching talk shows or soap operas or, God help her, reruns of situation comedies.

The wide gray stillness of the house encased her. She missed Richard. She missed the twins. She thought about how Hannah Rose could no longer have children, and she tried to imagine how bereft her own life would be without them. All her memories were wrapped up in them. Big moments, of course, the ones every mother keeps in her memory bank (all the firsts: tooth, step, school), but small, cherished ones, too, individual to her children. The time at the aquarium when Matt stroked the silken back of a moray and said, “I wish I had a pillow just like this.” The day she'd looked out the window to see him sitting on the porch, eyes determined, chin slick, as he tried to learn how to spit. Or Matt at seven, when his hamster died and he refused to allow anyone else to bury it and she had watched from afar as he laid the stiff little body in the ground. She remembered the glee on Mercedes' face the day she mastered layups in basketball, and her Christmas list the year she turned twelve: a soccer ball and pink lipstick. And her rage when she learned about the cruelty that turned calves into veal, and her subsequent, stubborn refusal to eat meat.

Motherhood, she realized, was a series of memories and a gradual progression of loss. Each day, with each new step of independence, children grew farther away until they left, claimed by their own life.

Mercedes was better than Matt about keeping in touch. She e-mailed regularly, giving Libby news of campus life, her take on her professors, and, after she learned about the dialysis, cheery “be well” messages. But the last three times Libby had called Mercy's dorm, her daughter hadn't been there. Nor had she returned the calls.

She knew it was trite—that all mothers said this—but it
did
seem like only yesterday that her life had revolved around the twins' activities. This time of day, they would both be home: Mercy studying at the kitchen table, or in the den curled up in the leather chair that had once belonged to Libby's father, engaged in one of her endless girlfriend conversations; Matt planted in front of the refrigerator, disarming her with his grin, or zigzagging across the backyard, weaving a soccer ball between his feet with an agility that astonished her. She wouldn't have thought it possible, but she missed the detritus of their daily lives strewn about her home. Gym bags and backpacks, discarded jackets and ball caps, empty Diet Coke cans, pizza boxes and orange peels on the den coffee table, grimy sweat socks on the bathroom floor.

She and Sally Cummings were the only two in their group of friends who hadn't filled the postchildren years with employment or volunteer activities. Richard used to encourage her to get a job, even part-time. But what could she do? Work sales at Williams-Sonoma or B. Dalton? She couldn't imagine. Before her illness, she and Sally used to meet for lunch and trade news of their children, and she missed that, too, even if it had only been surface chat, for the most part, not touching on the secret longings and linkages of motherhood: how one could be torn almost in half by fear or brought to one's knees with love.

Libby was overcome suddenly by a simplicity of sorrow, by all the losses of her life—her parents' deaths, her health gone, her children out in the world, Richard lost in his work, Sam estranged from her— all one great symphony of sadness. She felt weighted with forty years of accumulated disappointments and grief and loss. But she also knew that if someone walked into her home at that minute and asked her if the worst had already happened to her, she could not have said yes. Somehow she knew the worst was yet to come.

She thought back to the moment on the prairie earlier that afternoon when she and Gabe had seen the deer. She closed her eyes and tried to call up the momentary hushed certainty when she had felt on the verge of some tremendous understanding, the sense that all was well and that she was connected to everything. Now that moment of pure peace seemed elusive, imagined.

A memory, triggered perhaps by her prairie reflections, arose in her mind. She suddenly thought of her poetry professor at Oberlin. Libby could picture her clearly, even after twenty years. Anna Rauh was a strikingly dramatic woman, nearly six foot four, with silver-streaked auburn hair and hazel-green eyes. She dressed in long skirts with vibrantly colored overblouses, turquoise and purple and deep blues, and, around her neck, ropes and ropes of beads. Her voice, Libby recalled, was so low it could have been mistaken for a man's.

Funny to think of her now. Libby remembered how Anna would stand in front of the class and make pronouncements that carried the weight of truth and that Libby would dutifully copy down in her notebook as gospel. Even now, she could recall these declarations. “Some things are unfixable,” Anna Rauh had said, urging them to have the courage to toss poems that were not working. “Notice all things,” she had told them. And this: “When the heart opens, everything matters. Everything.”

Libby thought again of the prairie. Was that what had happened to her in that moment when she saw the buck and his doe? Had her heart opened? Well, it was dangerous to unseal your heart. If Libby knew anything it was that. It opened one to loss and disappointment. It was better not to chance it.

There was something else that Anna Rauh used to tell them: “Follow love whatever the consequences.” She had made it sound easy, but another thing Libby knew was that love was never easy and consequences were often more than a person could endure.

The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. Richard calling to check in, to find out how the morning's treatment had gone, she assumed, and she reached eagerly for the receiver. In the past days, she had softened toward him. She had come to appreciate the depth of his concern, had allowed it to heal the rift that lay between them, unspoken, but not forgotten. Nor forgiven, if Libby was honest about it.

“Elizabeth?”

“Yes?” Not Richard. Foolish to feel this disappointment, she told herself.

“I'm so glad I got hold of you.”

“Yes?” She tried to place the voice. It was vaguely familiar.

“It's Eleanor.”

“Eleanor?”

“Eleanor Brooks. From dialysis.”

“Oh, yes. Hello.” Libby's tone was polite. It had been a mistake to give out her number.

“I'm so glad I got you. I called earlier but there was no answer and I didn't want to leave a message.”

“I just got home.” She envisioned daily phone calls, attempts at friendship.

“Well, I'm glad I reached you. I only now heard and I thought you'd want to know about Hannah.”

“What about her?” Libby exhaled, more sigh than breath, already dreading what was to come. Every piece of bad news that she'd ever received had come in a phone call.

“Her husband told me. I called Hannah's house to see if she wanted to contribute to the flowers we're sending to Harold, and her husband answered.”

“What about Hannah?” Libby said again.

“Well, that's what her husband told me. He was on his way back to the hospital when I called. Hannah's in a coma.”

She says every day must be one of the good ones.
“Is she all right?” Stupid question. Of course she couldn't be all right.

Eleanor said. “I don't think it's good. Her husband asked me to pray for her.”

The line fell silent. Libby thought of Gabe, the fierceness of his love for Hannah.
I swear I'd give her the other one if they'd let me.

“Some of us are getting together on flowers,” Eleanor said.

For the second time that day, Libby railed at the unfairness of life. Her body felt pocked with pain, her head ached with the intensity of tears held in. After a while it became impossible to stay in the claustrophobic solitude of the house. The need for escape, for consolation, drove her to Richard. She needed him as she hadn't in a long, long time, needed the comfort of his arms.

She parked in the visitors' lot by North Hall—Richard had never gotten around to picking up a faculty sticker for her car—and crossed to Reid. Classes were over for the day and the building was deserted. Richard's office was locked, but an adjacent office was open and Libby knocked on the door. A woman sat at the desk, a professor Libby had been introduced to at a faculty party but whose name she couldn't now recall.

“Hello,” Libby said. “I'm Elizabeth Barnett. I'm looking for Richard. Have you seen him?”

A frown that could be taken for either concentration or irritation crossed the woman's features. “You might find him in the chapel,” she said.

Libby should have thought of that. Richard liked to give his private lessons in Hoyt Chapel. Something about the acoustics, he'd told her. It was the quality of the acoustics that made it the perfect venue for strings.

“Thank you,” she said, but Richard's colleague had already dismissed her.

When she opened the chapel door, she stood for a moment, absorbing the peace the place always brought her. This was her favorite building on the entire campus. Its lines were graceful—the ceiling vaulted and beamed. She loved the Tiffany windows and the hanging lights of stained glass. She lingered in the entry, listening to the lesson already under way. The playing was accomplished. This was no first-year student, tentative and weak. The choice of music, too, was more sophisticated than she would have imagined. Vivaldi. Music that breached defenses.

She entered the sanctuary. Richard was in front with the student, by the chancel rail. The girl was lovely; even from the back of the chapel Libby could see that. Richard stood behind the girl, his arms over hers, guiding her as she pulled the bow across the strings. His cheek rested on the girl's temple. His eyes were closed.

Sarah James. The girl's name came to her instantly, although she had never seen her before. She remembered how Richard's voice softened when he talked about her. The gifted Sarah James.

“Richard,” she said, her voice shaking.

They both looked up at her, startled. It was the look in his eyes that told her everything. A flash of guilt, then shame.

She did not wait for explanations. She fled.

“Elizabeth.” Richard called out her name but she did not stop, did not turn. “Libby, wait,” he cried.

She raced to the car, slammed it into reverse and pulled away. He ran toward the car, but she did not slow. He had to jump back to avoid being hit.

She did not look back. She heard him shouting her name even after he was no longer in view.

Sam

Sam carefully placed the 5 × 7-inch card next to the phone and read the notes she had made.

Sorry to hear about illness
Ask about Richard and twins
Don't blame
Don't get angry
Don't be defensive
Don't go over old history

The last item was underlined twice.

Sam had jotted down the list the night before, hoping it would keep her on track during this first contact, but there was really no way of preparing. Her stomach was tight, her hands were clammy. Keep it simple, she counseled herself. Let Libby do the talking. Just start with hello and take it from there. She hadn't been this nervous in years. She could have used a—what did they call them?—an intermediary. She considered waiting to make the call. Late afternoon or evening, a time when Richard might answer.

She stared at the phone and tried to imagine a conversation with her sister. “Hello, Libby,” she said aloud, testing her voice, which, while faint, did not shake, as she had feared. She read over the list a third time. Just do it, she thought. She punched in the number, pulse racing.

On the fourth ring, Libby answered. Sam's breath caught. “Hello,” Libby said. But not Libby, Sam realized. Libby's voice on an answering machine. Sam listened to her sister instructing the caller to please leave a message. And then the beep sounded.

“It's Samantha,” Sam said in a rusty voice. “Your sister. Give me a call. I'll be here all day.” She hung up abruptly, as if anything she said might be used against her, and then she regretted it almost immediately. She must have sounded uncaring. She should have said something about learning about Libby's illness from Cynthia. She debated whether to call back and leave another message, but finally decided to let it go. She had made the call. That was enough. She headed downstairs to the kitchen.

“So you and the Hunk are still on the outs, huh?” Stacy said when Sam entered the room.

“Why do you say that?”

“Like I can't see the clues?”

“Clues?” Sam was replaying in her mind the message she'd left on Libby's machine. She couldn't remember if she'd given her name. She wondered if Libby would recognize her voice.

She thought about calling Josh. There was so much she needed to know, like what exactly was wrong with Libby, and were they really sure it wasn't hereditary. But Josh would be at school and Cynthia was a dead end.

“Have you checked out a mirror this morning? You look like you spent the night sleepless in Somalia. Sucking lemons.”

Without bothering to answer—she knew she must look like road-kill, she certainly felt like it—Sam crossed to the coffee machine and poured a mug. She considered asking Stacy if
she
had seen a mirror yet. Today, her assistant's gel-spiked hair was tipped with blue, not the most attractive look Stacy had ever sported. But she kept the thought to herself. No sense taking her edginess out on Stacy. She settled in at the desk and went over the work sheet, glad for the distraction.

Three days until the Chaney wedding and no problems that she could foresee. The couple—the two architects—had been charmed with her design. Narrow, silver-edged stripes in apple green and hyacinth, overlaid with gold and silver gilded ropes. The actual baking she'd leave to Stacy. The necessary supplies—food coloring, silver dust and pearl dust, sugar-paste dough—were all on hand. Tomorrow Sam would finish the sugar-paste tassels that would adorn the bottom layer and the sugar-paste roping that looped over alternate tiers. And Saturday morning she would decorate and assemble the cake, transport it to the wedding, where, after exchanging vows, the couple would slice into it and feed each other the first piece. Gently, Sam hoped. Respectfully. She absolutely hated it when the groom smeared the cake on his bride's face and then she returned the favor while people laughed and applauded. In spite of researching this, Sam had never learned where that particular custom had started or to what purpose. It was such a passive-aggressive way to begin married life. A couple needed all possible respect and gentleness from the git-go, and even that guaranteed nothing.

“Hey,” Stacy said after several minutes. “I forgot to tell you.”

“What?” Sam's heart jumped. Had Lee called while she was in the shower?

“So I looked kidney problems up in my Louise Hay,” Stacy continued.

Sam looked over at her assistant. After her call from Cynthia, she had told Stacy about Libby's illness and how her sister needed an organ transplant.

“You two must have some past-life karma,” Stacy had said.

Well, forget past life. They had plenty of karma in this one. Next to astrology, Stacy trusted most the New Age healer-guru for all manner of life information. Last April, when Sam had twisted her ankle, Stacy had informed her that, according to Louise, ankles represented mobility and direction and Sam's swollen joint meant she was changing direction in her life. When Carl was suffering from low back pain, Stacy had told Sam that it represented his fear of money and lack of financial support. “So do you want to hear what she says?” Stacy asked.

“About?”

“About kidneys.”

Not particularly, Sam thought to herself, but she knew there would be no stopping Stacy.

Stacy unfolded a slip of paper. “Problems with the kidneys represent disappointment, failure, and shame,” she read.

“Shame?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if that were true, Catholics and Jews all over the world would be standing in line for dialysis,” Sam said.

“There's more,” Stacy said. “If you want, I could bring the book in tomorrow.”

“Actually,” Sam said, “I find people like Louise Hay offensive. What, you get kidney failure because you're disappointed? It's that whole blame-the-victim thing. It's not someone's fault if they get cancer or break a leg.”

“She's talking about energetic levels. About patterns behind disease.”

“A rose is just a rose,” Sam said, “and a disease is just a disease.”

“I'm only trying to help,” Stacy said.

Before Sam could reply, the phone rang.

“Want me to get that?” Stacy asked after the third ring.

“I've got it,” Sam said. Libby or Lee? she wondered. She had to remind herself to breathe.

“Golliwog's,” she said into the phone.

There was a pause.

“Golliwog's Cakewalk,” she repeated. “Hello.”

“Samantha?” A male voice—not Lee.

“Yes.”

“It's Richard.”

Sam sank back in her chair. “Hello,” she said. She picked up her mug, took a slug of coffee.

“I just got in and heard your message.”

“I'm glad you recognized my voice,” Sam said. “I realized after I hung up I hadn't left my name.” Across the room, Stacy pretended not to listen.

“We have caller ID,” he said. “And you left your name.”

“Oh,” Sam said. “Good.” The 5 × 7 card was still upstairs. She set down the mug, jotted quick notes.
Keep cool.
“How are you?”

“I'm doing okay, given the circumstances.”

“And the twins?”

“They're off at school.”

“How's Libby?”

“She's holding her own, but everything is progressing a little faster than we'd hoped.”

“Is she there? Can I talk to her?”

Richard hesitated. “She's not home right now,” he said.

“Oh,” Sam said. It occurred to her that he might be lying, that Libby might not want to talk to her.

“Have you spoken to her at all?” Richard said.

“I haven't. She left a message a couple of weeks ago.”

“And you're just now returning her call?”

Don't be defensive,
Sam reminded herself. “Cynthia called yesterday. She told me about the dialysis.”

Stacy had given up all pretense of not listening.

“I see,” Richard said.

“When will she be back? I can call later.”

The line hummed. “I'm not sure.”

“You're not sure when she's coming home?” She fired the questions, as if she had a right to ask, despite the six years of silence.

“She's—she's at dialysis right now.”

“Richard,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You sound funny, that's all.” There was something he wasn't telling her. What did he mean, things were progressing faster than expected? Wasn't Libby on dialysis? Although she knew nothing about this, Sam assumed that once a person was on dialysis, the progress of the disease was slowed or halted.

Another silence. Then: “I'm just worried about Elizabeth,” he said.

“Naturally.”

“It's been a stressful time,” he said.

“I can only imagine,” Sam said. “Would it help if . . .”

“What?”

“If I came out there?” The words were out before she could reconsider or retract them. “I could fly out.”

“There's no need for that,” Richard said.

“If you're sure,” Sam said, ashamed to feel relieved.

“If you're sure,” Sam says.

They are sitting in Sam's bedroom. The smell of bacon and co fee rises up
to the bedroom. The others—Richard and the twins and Jay—are downstairs
preparing the holiday breakfast. Food first and then the gifts is the prescribed
order, their family tradition.

“Yes,” Libby says. “Absolutely.”

The box is small and it is wrapped in the lavender paper with silver filigree
ribbon that Libby has chosen for her presents this year.

“I shouldn't wait until we're downstairs with the others?” Sam asks.

Libby plops down on the bed next to her. “No. I want you to open it now,
while it's just us.”

Their heads are nearly touching. Sam can smell the peach-scented shampoo
that Libby uses. For the first time Sam notices fine lines fanning out from her
sister's eyes.“Okay,” she says, then giggles. She and Libby are famous for their inability to keep surprises from each other. It is a family joke that they give birth
day gifts months before the actual date. She tears the paper off. Inside she finds a small velvet box. Jewelry, no doubt. She bites her lip. She and Jay are on a firm
budget. They have argued about how much she should spend on gifts and he
won. Her gift for Libby is a collection of poetry by Mary Oliver that she found
in a secondhand bookstore.

“Go on,” Libby says.

Sam flips open the box, sees inside a narrow gold band. She catches her
breath, recognizing it even before she has slipped it out of the box, even before
she has checked the entwined initials of her mother and father. “But this is
yours,” she says.

“And now it's yours,” Libby says with a soft smile.

For a moment, Sam can't speak. She remembers the call that came in after
their parents' funeral. The jewelry store manager asked if someone was going to
pick up their mother's ring, left there for alterations. Their mother's knuckles
had swollen over the years, he told them, and the day before their mother took
the trip to Colorado, she had left the ring there to be enlarged.

“I can't take this,” she finally manages.

“Yes, you can,” Libby says.

“I always knew you were the one she'd want to have it. I got it by default,
because I was the oldest daughter.” She removes the ring from the box and slides
it on Sam's right hand. It fits perfectly.

“I don't feel right about this,” Sam says.

Libby curls her hand over Sam's.“Do you remember what Mother used to say
about it?”

From the bottom of the stairs, Jay yells that breakfast is waiting, people are
starving down there.

Sam closes her eyes. “She said she'd never need a four-leaf clover or rabbit's
foot as long as she had this.” A wave of loss overtakes her. When their mother—
in an aisle seat of row 23—had really needed her charm it had been sitting in
a jeweler's workroom.

“This ring was about the only thing I ever heard her be sentimental about,”
Libby says. “Her good-luck charm.”

“And what?” Sam says, attempting a joke. “So you think I need luck right
now?”

Before Libby can answer the twins fly into the room.

“Come on,” Matthew says, pulling at Libby.

“We've been waiting for hours,” Mercedes says, reaching for Sam.

Libby circles them all with her arms. “You're my good-luck charms,” she
says. “The three of you are all I'll ever need.”