Free Second Hand Heart by Catherine Ryan Hyde Page A

don’t think. Oh, hell, of course I did. I just didn’t do it consciously. You asked me why I wasn’t off gazing into the eyes of that old woman in Tiburon. But then you told me about the photos, and that pulled me all off track. But I guess I wanted it to.
    There’s really no answer, anyway. I really have no idea. If I hadn’t gotten distracted, all I could have said was something like, Good question, damn you.
    Maybe it’s because I never shared any personal visits with Lorrie’s eyes while she was asleep.
    From:
Myra Buckner
To:
Richard Bailey
    Dear Richard,
    I think college made a huge difference for Lorrie. When she was living at home, her sisters seemed always to overshadow her. They both had strong personalities. And I guess Lorrie did, too. But by the time she came along, they’d had so much practice. It’s almost like she couldn’t compete with them.
    But at the same time she had that strength modeled for her.
    It felt like the minute she stepped out of the house and started living on her own, she became the strongest of the lot. It’s as if she’d been saving it. Like it was there all along, just waiting to be activated.
    I always forget you didn’t know her until she was in her twenties.
    I wish I could give you what you missed.
    Love, Myra
    PS:
Take care of yourself, Richard. I’m worried about you.
    From:
Richard Bailey
To:
Myra Buckner
    Dear Myra,
    What if Vida smokes?
    I was up almost all night last night. I dozed off for about an hour or so, and then I woke up, and I started thinking there’s no way to assure that Vida is taking good care of that heart. What if she smokes, or eats nothing but deep-fried foods?
    I didn’t give her the heart to abuse.
    But then I lay awake the whole rest of the night because I knew that even if she were taking very bad care of the heart there would be nothing I could do about it.
    Does that sound like a normal concern to you? Or am I really swan-diving into the deep end here? I swear I can’t even tell any more.
    It’s scary.
    With love, Richard
    PS:
I’m worried about me, too.

The Maybe Place
    V ida called me from home. I could see the difference in the number on the caller ID. It was late. After 1 a.m.
    “I’m home now,” she said.
    “So I gathered,” I said.
    “You never came to see me in the hospital again. You told my mother you’d come.”
    “Actually, I didn’t promise. I said I’d make an effort.”
    “So?”
    I was sleepy, and it sounded like a hard question. “So … what?”
    “So, did you make an effort?”
    A long pause while I decided whether to be irritated, intimidated, or guilty. Or some part of each.
    “There’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask you, Vida.”
    “OK. Ask.”
    “Do you smoke?”
    “No. I don’t smoke.”
    “Did you ever smoke?”
    “Not once. Not one cigarette. Can’t really afford it, you know? Have enough problems with the system as it is. Besides, I’ve never been out from under my mother’s thumb long enough to sneak anything.”
    That was a good point. One I’d never thought of before. I lay in bed with the phone in one hand and the other hand behind my head. Staring at the ceiling and feeling oddly relieved. Almost satisfied.
    But then it hit me that I was only taking her word. And it was the type of issue a person would lie about. Especially someone who smokes when she can’t afford it.
    “Let me ask you another question, then. Do you ever lie?”
    “No. Never. I always tell the truth.”
    “Nobody always tells the truth.”
    “I’ve definitely gotten the sense that it’s unusual,” she said. “But I always tell the truth. I don’t know why I’m different from just about everybody else that way. But I always tell the truth.”
    A break. A silence. During which I pondered the idiocy of asking someone if they lie. And assuming their answer will be the truth.
    “OK,” she said out of nowhere, startling me. “Maybe not every bit of the whole truth every time. I can think of one