Second Hand Heart by Catherine Ryan Hyde

pumps blood, and that’s all.
    I apologize for putting that so bluntly. I remember how you said the truth is a type of violence to you now. But really, that’s why I’m saying this. I thought it might be better to hear it from me than to cut open a vein with it in the real world.
    You’re tender now, Richard. We’ve suffered a terrible loss. Don’t go.
    It’s just an organ, Richard. It doesn’t carry anything but blood. Someone else’s now.
    With love and apologies, Your mother-in-law (yes, still),
    Myra
    From:
Richard Bailey,
To:
Myra Buckner
    Dear Myra,
    Are you sure?
    Is there even a very small chance you could be wrong?
    Also, it’s too late. Sorry.
    Can’t tell you who was right and who was wrong about going because the jury is still out on that.
    My best to you,
    Richard

The Rubber and the Road
    V ida called me from the hospital. It was late, nearly 1 a.m.
    “Did I wake you?” she said. Of course she had.
    “How did you get this number?”
    “It’s … listed?”
    “Oh. Right. It is. Isn’t it? What’s on your mind, Vida?”
    “I was just thinking about that expression, ‘Where the rubber meets the road.’ I think it used to be from a tire commercial. But I had this pen pal once who used to use it, like … You know. Like an expression. She would say, ‘Yeah, that’s where the rubber meets the road.’ She meant, like, the bottom line. Like that’s what’s really the heart of the matter, you know? And that’s another expression I’ve been thinking about. The heart of the matter. They’re both ways of saying what’s really important. I just thought that rubber one was interesting, because of what happened to your wife.”
    We both allowed a long silence to fall.
    “Well, it certainly is the bottom line at my house,” I said.
    That proved to be a definite conversation-stopper. Then, determined to start off in a cleaner direction, I said, “I was meaning to ask you if you keep a journal.”
    “Yeah, I do. I sort of call it a blank book, though. But I shouldn’t. Because it isn’t blank any more. Esther gave it to me. Do you?”
    As if I would automatically know who Esther is. As if all details of her life were self-explanatory.
    “Actually,” I said, “yes. I do.”
    I was just about to admit that it was very recent, and that I had picked up the habit from her. I think I was seeking some sort of instructions. As if there must be more to it than what I’ve been doing. As if I needed an expert to show me the way.
    Before I could launch into any of that, she said, “Oh, wow! That’s really cool. We have something in common.”
    And then I couldn’t bring myself to disappoint her. “Will you come visit me again?” she asked when I didn’t say anything.
    “Yes. But right now I’m going to go back to sleep.”
    “Promise you’ll come?”
    “Yes.”
    It was a promise made to end the conversation. Maybe I would go or maybe not. But I was acutely aware that the option was mine. I could promise, yet not go. I could simply break a promise. People do it all the time. They are not usually me. Still, a broken promise is a common enough occurrence.
    It was a comfort to me, knowing I could lie if I ever chose to. An odd refuge in the otherwise unfriendly reality of everything changing.
    Vida called me from the hospital. It was late. After two.
    It was five days later. Five. Exactly. I counted. “You promised,” she said.
    “I didn’t promise I’d come in five days or less. Just that I would.”
    “Well you said you’d come see me in the hospital. And if you wait much longer, I’ll be home.”
    “No. That’s not what I said. You said, ‘Will you come visit me again?’ And I said, ‘Yes.’”
    I wondered if I was parsing promises too tellingly. And, speaking of telling, if I was tipping my hand on the attention I paid each and every word of our interaction. Maybe she would think I merely had a photographic memory. Maybe she would not imagine that I recreated conversations in