Free The Law of Bound Hearts by Anne Leclaire

nourishment, celebration or diversion, or even denial. Now it was about chemistry. A precise monitoring of sodium and potassium, of phosphorus and protein.
    She set the menu down. It had been a mistake to come.
    As if reading her mind, Richard looked up. “Is there anything you can have?”
    Mentally, Libby ran through the booklet the nutritionist had given her, “The Healthy Food Guide: A National Renal Diet,” pages that had become her new bible. “I’m sure there’s something,” she said, forcing a smile. Potatoes were out, of course. Too much potassium, as was anything with tomatoes. The roast chicken would be all right, but not the cherry veal sauce. She would have to ask that they skip that. And there was always a tossed salad, undressed. The kitchen here was accommodating. They would provide something, but for what it was going to cost she and Richard might as well have stayed home.
    â€œYou sure?” he asked.
    â€œAbsolutely.”
    â€œWe could leave.”
    â€œFor God’s sake,” she said, her voice sharp. “I said it’s all right.”
    He looked down, chastened.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œNo. My fault. I’m sorry.”
    â€œThe chicken looks good.” It was not his fault. Not his fault. She kept reminding herself of this.
    â€œYes,” he said, openly relieved she had found something.
    â€œHow was your day?” She’d pretend everything was normal. Really it was the best way.
    â€œBusy. We had the department meeting.”
    â€œAnd your lesson with the James girl? That was today?”
    â€œYes,” he said, his face lighting up. Usually the truly talented musicians went east. Juilliard. Curtis in Philly. Berklee or the Conservatory in Boston. When someone like Sarah James landed in his care, he behaved as though he had been awarded a Nobel.
    She was relieved and sensed he was, too, when the waiter came for their order. The chicken and salad for her. The veal chop with mushroom-and-white-vermouth sauce for Richard. And a glass of cabernet. “Do you mind?” he asked, his face all apologies about the wine.
    â€œOf course not,” she lied. She minded that everyone in the place was eating and drinking whatever they desired. She railed against the unfairness of it. For days she’d had this craving for hot dogs. The worst possible thing. She didn’t even like them and hadn’t eaten one in years. God knows what they put in those things. Everyone had heard the horror stories. Pig intestines. Rats. Still, the craving persisted.
    The food restrictions were bad enough, but limiting fluids was really a bitch. Four cups a day, no more; everything counted. Gravy, ice cream, ice cubes. Even the liquid in string beans. She had learned to suck on ice chips and chew gum to moisten a dry mouth, to take her pills with applesauce, saving water for the times when she was desperately thirsty.
    Richard’s wine came and he raised his glass. For a moment she thought he was going to offer a toast—to what, she could only imagine, certainly not to what lay ahead. She escaped before he could speak. “I’ll be right back,” she said, rising.
    The restrooms were on the basement level, along with a martiniand -cigar bar, and as she made her way down the steps, the aroma of tobacco enveloped her. Unlike most people, she liked the smell of cigars. It triggered memories of her father. His favorite chair, a brown leather wingback, was currently at home in her den and occasionally, even now, she would bury her face in the crease where one of the sides met the back, and inhale. The aroma was still there, deep in the pores of the leather, the cells of the stuffing. The faint, very faint, scent of him. Of cigars.
    There were four men sitting in the lounge, smoking and drinking amber liquid from short glasses. They looked up when she entered, then returned to their whiskeys and conversation, dismissing her. There