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

your loss. We wouldn’t want you to think that because we gained from it we’re not just as full of empathy for you.”
    “I don’t,” I said.
    I could feel myself needing to get away. Needing to go back into my shut-down mode. Needing to be home, with the covers over me, and no one watching. I felt unable to carry that moment.
    I had run out of gas.
    “I wouldn’t think that,” I said. “As close as you just came to losing a loved one, you probably understand better than anybody.”
    I edged for the door.
    “You’re not leaving?” she said.
    “I have to. I’ll be back. I’ll come back when I’m… I just have to get some fresh air,” I said. “Or something.” At the door I looked back at Vida, and of course she was still staring at me. Her eyes were still the only part of her fully alive, her thumb still the only moveable piece.
    “Thanks for the heart,” she said.
    It was a surprisingly simple statement in the midst of all that life and death and indebtedness.
    “You’re welcome.”
    I turned to leave. But then, for reasons hard to explain, I looked back over my shoulder one more time.
    Vida had taken a bound book with a blank cover off the table and picked up a pen. I was slightly curious. Was she journaling her life? Was she anxious to write down the details of our encounter before they faded away?
    I didn’t stay around to find out.
    •  •  •
    I drove the forty miles home and went to bed for two days.
    •  •  •
    While I was in bed, I thought about journals. I’d never kept one. I’d never given them much thought. Was there a comfort in them? There must be, or people wouldn’t bother with them. Still, I wasn’t sure I could imagine where such comfort would be hiding.
    Then again, how often can one really stand outside comfort and correctly imagine it, especially if it’s in an entirely new and unexplored realm?
    Even though I still don’t know for sure if that was a journal I’d seen in Vida’s hands or not, I finally got up out of bed this morning, two days later, ventured out of the house, bought this journal, and wrote down this account of my meeting with Vida and Abigail.
    I can’t honestly say whether I found the journaling comforting or not. Definitely compelling. There is something about telling a story, even to ourselves, that makes us want to continue with the telling.
    But comfort … I think it would take more comfort than this to break through my walls.
    Will there be more to my story with Vida and Abigail? I not only don’t know, I don’t even know my preference in the matter.
    Just in case, though, I bought a nice thick journal.
    From:
Myra Buckner
To:
Richard Bailey
    Dear Richard,
    I’m wondering if I might try one more time to talk you out of going to meet the girl.
    Here’s my concern: you asked me if I believe that the heart really is the seat of all human emotion. I’m not sure if you remember, but when I was down for the funeral, you asked me that. Just out of nowhere.
    I’m not sure if I do believe that. I’m not sure it was something I’d ever thought about before.
    At first I thought nothing of the question. Or little of it, anyway. I thought it was a more general curiosity.
    But last night as I was going to sleep, I put it together with something else you said to me when I was down for the funeral. Were they meant to be together? I still don’t know. But, if so, I’m troubled by what they add up to.
    You said you’d watched a program once, a year or so ago. A handful of people with transplanted organs. They seemed to feel some connection with their donors, the people they carried a small part of, inside. A trace memory here, a favorite food there.
    Do you remember saying that to me?
    It crossed my mind that possibly, just possibly, you might attach too much emotional significance to Lorrie’s heart. As if it can still love as she did. As if it were a valentine heart, and not a real one. But it’s an organ, Richard. Just an organ. It