The Law of Bound Hearts by Anne Leclaire Page B

Libby’s hands. “I know it sounds scary. It’s the unknown. The thing to keep in mind is that most people on dialysis start to feel better almost immediately.”
    Is
that
a promise? she wanted to ask.
    â€œI’ll make the arrangements,” Carlotta continued. “We’ll set you up at the clinic for three times a week, either Monday, Wednesday, and Friday or Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, depending on what works best for you. You’ll need to plan on four hours each day.”
    â€œFour hours?”
    â€œBooks or knitting help pass the time. Some patients have found it helpful to talk to someone who is actually undergoing treatment before they begin,” she said. “Would you like me to get you a few names?” Libby did not.
    Carlotta explained that Libby would need to see a vascular surgeon for the creation of an arteriovenous fistula in her left arm. She gave her a leaflet that detailed this procedure, how it would establish a connection between an artery and a vein in her wrist through which blood would leave and return to her body during dialysis. And she also would need to have a temporary catheter implanted in the subclavian vein, below her collarbone.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œFor access until the shunt is properly healed and ready for use.”
    Shunt. Catheter. Fistula.
Just the words made her feel queasy.
    â€œKidney patients live long, full lives on dialysis,” Carlotta went on, “but I want you to be considering other treatment options, too.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œTransplantation. The ideal situation is a living donor. There is less chance of rejection than with a cadaver donor.”
    Cadaver donor.
For a moment she feared she would faint.
    â€œThink about family and friends who might consider it. Your husband might want to be tested to see if he’s a match. Do you have siblings?”
    Libby paused.
Sam,
she thought. “One,” she said, glad Richard wasn’t there to contradict her. “A brother.”
    â€œYou’ll want to contact him. Let him start thinking about it. Getting things in place. Pretests for compatibility. How old is he?”
    â€œForty-eight.”
    â€œNot a twin, huh?” Carlotta had said. “A twin would have been perfect.”
    A breeze had come up. It rippled over the grasses, caused the spider-web to sway, chilled Libby. She rose from the bench and headed back toward the car. Her legs ached and she was out of breath by the time she reached the parking lot. She hated this, the betrayal of her body. She ran a finger over her breast, felt the hump of the catheter. She tried to imagine what it might feel like to have part of another person’s body—another’s organ—inside her. The thought made her slightly ill.
    A twin would have been perfect.
A memory splintered in. Her mother used to call her and Sam the Siamese twins. They were inseparable. Once.
    Sam, she thought.
    She felt numb with regret and sorrow and loss.

Sam
    Are you ready?
    They sit on the chaise, legs trussed at thigh, knee, and calf by three of their
mother’s square floral scarves.
Are you ready?
At this signal, they stand in
unison, wobbling for a moment until Libby curls her arm around Sam and
steadies them both. They are playing Siamese twins, a game they made up after
they had seen a picture of conjoined brothers. They discovered the photo one day
when they were playing in the basement, leafing through the pages of a musty
Life
magazine and clipping pictures to furnish homes for their paper dolls
. Refrigerators and stoves, couches and tables. Plates of food. Boxes of Band-Aids. The photograph of the twins, fused at the chest, stopped them short. Sam ran her fin
gers over the picture, stared at the brothers, while Libby read the text aloud:
Their names were Chang and Eng; they were from Siam; such twins occurred
only once in fifty thousand to eighty thousand births. The brothers stared
straight out at