Second Hand Heart by Catherine Ryan Hyde Page A

lieu of sleep.
    “I’m bored now,” she said. “It’s boring in the hospital. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been here already?”
    “Um. No. I’m not very good with time.”
    “Well, I’ve been here for ever. Almost a month before I even had the surgery. Please come visit me tomorrow.”
    “Maybe,” I said.
    “Not good enough. Promise.”
    “No. I can’t promise.”
    “But you already did. You promised me already. You can’t just take it back. It’s not fair.”
    “I can do my best. I’m doing my best, Vida. And that’s all I can do.”
    “Why is this so hard for you?” she asked.
    It rankled me. More so than I could have imagined. Something about having to explain myself. So much energy.
    “You don’t know much about grief,” I said. “Do you?”
    Quick silence on the line. Then, “I don’t know much about grief? Is that what you just said to me? I don’t know much about grief? Me? That’s all I know. I don’t know just about anything else.”
    “That explains a lot, then,” I said.
    “What does it explain?”
    “Maybe why you have trouble recognizing grief when you see it.”
    “Promise me you’ll come.”
    “All right,” I said. “I promise.”
    I’m such a fool. I didn’t used to be. Or at least I’m pretty sure I didn’t used to be. But now I am. That’s one of the very few things I know for sure.
    •  •  •
    The following night I drove to the hospital and parked in the parking lot.
    And got no farther.
    It was fairly late in the evening, which was rather telling in itself, because visiting hours were about to end. I’d left only about fifteen minutes to spare.
    The sun was not exactly still up, but it was not exactly done going down, either. It glared over the hospital roof, blazing into my eyes. I shaded them with one hand, which didn’t help much, if at all.
    I knew I wasn’t going in.
    I looked up at a bank of windows, any one of a number of which could have been hers.
    I was in the act of conscious breathing. Reminding myself of each breath, concentrating as if the whole system could fall apart otherwise — which I can’t swear was not the truth — and longing for the days when I’d breathed quite expertly without so much as a thought.
    There was a small figure framed in one window. Patient, visitor. How could I know? I wasn’t close enough to see. It could even have been Vida; I can’t swear it wasn’t. But the odds seemed to be against that.
    But then it struck me that the figure could see me far better than I could see her, what with the sun shining on me and obscuring my vision. Assuming it was a her. Vida or no, it made me feel vulnerable. Fated to be at a disadvantage. It made me feel, suddenly, as if I were walking on a partially frozen lake. Feeling the ice shift. Wondering if the next step would be the one to break me through. Plunge me down.
    I got back in the car and drove home.
    I’m either a terrible coward or I finally wised up. Depending on whether one put Vida or Myra in charge of the assessment. And if it were me in charge? I either have no opinion of my own, or I’m torn. Or my own opinion is torn.
    I don’t guess that counts as a visit.
    I don’t suppose that qualifies as a promise kept.
    •  •  •
    Vida called me from the hospital. It was early, for her. Before nine. I hadn’t been home all that long.
    “I saw you,” she said.
    “You could be wrong.”
    “I’m not. I’m not wrong. I was looking out the window. I’m always looking out the window. It’s the only place I can stand to look. I can’t even look at these awful hospital walls any more. They’re driving me crazy. They’re killing me.”
    “You’ll get to go home soon.”
    “I saw you in the parking lot. Why didn’t you come in?”
    “It’s hard to know what you’re seeing from so far away.”
    “How do you know how far away I saw you from?”
    “I’m tired, Vida. I’m going to go to bed.”
    “Why didn’t you come in?”
    “I don’t