Second Hand Heart by Catherine Ryan Hyde Read Free Book Online Page A

that only I existed in the world, because everything else felt like a dream.
    “My mom wasn’t kidding in her letter,” she said. “It really was a matter of probably days. I was going to die that soon. You really get a chance to look death right in the face. You know?”
    “Is that what the worry stone is about? That is a worry stone you’ve got there in your hand. Isn’t it?”
    She held it up under the lamp, as if to scrutinize it more closely. Or to allow me to. Or both.
    “Come here,” she said. “I want to show you this.” I moved closer, not sure what I was trying to see.
    “See how it’s smoother right there?” She indicated the spot with her thumb. Then she held the stone by the edges.
    I looked closely, but I wasn’t sure if I could see or not. Maybe it was a little smoother. The difference wasn’t all that clear.
    “I actually did that with my thumb,” she said. “Wore away stone.”
    I touched her thumb. I wanted to feel it, to see if she had a callous. To see what had worn away more of what. Who was really winning.
    The sudden touch electrified us. Or, actually, maybe it only electrified me. How would I know about her? She did have a heavy callous on that thumb, the kind guitar players have on the tips of their fingers.
    “It’s like water,” she said. And I had no idea what was like water. Certainly nothing I could see. “You wouldn’t think water could wear away stone. But it does. It just takes its time. I want to see if I can wear a little groove right into the center of this rock. It may take a while. But I’ve got time. Now I do.”
    “I should go,” I said.
    “Do you believe in love at first sight?” Without hesitation I said, “No.”
    “No? No? I didn’t think anybody would be cynical enough to say no.”
    Her thumb returned to its almost circular pattern over the worry stone. I guess if your goal is to wear a groove into solid rock it doesn’t pay to take vacations.
    “Well, I stand by my answer,” I said. “But it’s not cynicism. Just the opposite. I have too much respect for love to believe that. I don’t even believe in the concept of falling in love. The falling part, I mean. We should all be so lucky that love is something you just fall into. Like, “A funny thing happened to me today. I was walking down the street and I tripped and fell into some love.” You don’t fall down to love, you climb up to it. There’s hard work involved. That’s why I believe you can’t love someone you don’t know. Loving someone is knowing them.”
    Then I stopped myself, breathed. Felt half-dizzy, as though I weren’t in the room at all, which I’ve been feeling a lot these past few days. And I realized I’d said a great deal more than necessary.
    I’ve been talking too much lately. On the rare occasions when there is anyone around to talk to. I never used to be a man who talked too much. Everything is changing.
    “Then I need to know you,” she said.
    The door to her room swung open, and a woman came in. I knew it was Abigail, Vida’s mother. I could tell. I’d known it would be.
    I jumped to my feet, defensive somehow, as though I’d been caught doing something wrong.
    Her head tilted, questioningly, probably hoping I would identify myself without forcing her to be so rude as to ask.
    “Richard Bailey,” I said.
    Her face softened, and she hurried across the room and threw her arms around me. And did not let go. I stood awkwardly, not quite embracing her in return. In time I managed to put one hand on her back, a sort of brotherly pat, and she turned me loose.
    I realized I’d been forgetting to breathe.
    She was small and short and had to crane her neck back to look up into my face. And I’m hardly a giant. Her eyes held too much, and too much of it was for me. I didn’t want all that, so I looked away.
    “You got my letter,” she said.
    “Yes. Thank you for that.”
    “I meant what I said, Mr. Bailey, I want you to know that. We are so, so sorry for