“Yes, this is Richard.”
“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
I’m loath to admit how early I go to bed these days. It’s humiliating. “Well, I cannot tell a lie,” I said. “I fell asleep in front of the TV.” Obviously, I could tell a lie. Obviously I was lying when I said I couldn’t lie. I had gone to bed. Purposely.
I still had no idea who I was lying to. “Well, I’m sorry I woke you,” she said.
A long silence, which I hoped would speak for itself. I felt an aversion to having to ask.
“This is Connie.”
“Oh. Right. Connie,” I said, waking up fast. “I didn’t recognize your voice. Interesting you should call. I’ve been wishing I had your phone number. Because I got a postcard from Vida. And I was wrong when I told you that she only remembers me. Apparently she also remembers that Lorrie was a hiker. She asked me if Lorrie was a hiker.”
“But you can’t answer her. Right? Because she’s gone.”
“Right. She’s gone.” A long silence. Long. Horrifically, painfully long. “But I didn’t mean to talk over your reason for calling.”
“Oh, no, please do,” she said. “Please talk over my reason for calling.”
More silence. The uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach callously announced that this was no surprise, and I should not even bother to pretend otherwise. And that it had warned me. What it said, more or less, was, “You knew this all along.”
Connie jumped into the gap.
“OK. I’m a total idiot. That’s just a given. I have a good grasp of certain scientific details, but it doesn’t mean I necessarily handle the rest of my life like a science. I’m just like everybody else. I called to make a confession.”
“OK.” My lips felt numb as I said it.
“Those articles I told you about … I don’t need to send them to you. They’re right out on the Internet. I could have linked you to them, very easily. I could have written two or three links on a cocktail napkin right then and there. I just didn’t want to completely drop out of touch with you.”
“Oh.”
“Look, don’t even say anything, OK? Because I know. I know it all. I know you just lost your wife. Please don’t point out that you just lost your wife, because I know. And please don’t pass judgment on the fact that I would even find myself drawn to a man who just lost his wife, because I have two best girlfriends and a therapist to do that job for you. And I also know you’re a good ten years younger … I know all of it, so just don’t say anything.”
I waited. Having been told not to say anything.
“Oh. Right. You can say something,” she said.
“Can? Or may?”
“OK, you may. Can you?”
“Not really. No.”
“Look. All I’m saying is, maybe we can not drop completely out of touch. I’ll be up in San Francisco in October. Maybe we could just get together and have coffee or something. Maybe go for a hike!”
“Sure. That would be fine.”
“You sound totally lost and confused.”
“I am.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I was before I met you.”
“So … where did she send you a postcard from?”
My brain raced to keep up with her sudden change of tack. Nearly tripped over itself and went flying. “Oh. Vida? From Independence. California.”
“Seriously? Independence?”
“Something special about Independence?”
“There is to me. It’s about eleven feet from Manzanar.”
I knew what that was. Manzanar. I just couldn’t access what I knew. Not on short notice, anyway.
She raced on.
“The Japanese-American internment camp. My grandfather died there during the war.”
“That’s horrible. I didn’t know people died there.”
“Lots of people died there. Take that many people and hold them for years, some of them are going to die.”
“Oh. I see. You don’t mean they killed him.”
“Open to interpretation. He had a heart attack. He was a big stress monster, you know? And then all the added pressure of being interned against his will, and especially not being able to save his wife and son from that same fate. His barrack-mates tried to get him some medical help, but nobody got to him for hours. My father was six, and he stood there and watched his father die in his mother’s arms. I’m not going to make a big, sweeping statement about the state of healthcare at Manzanar. Because I wasn’t there, thank God. I wasn’t born yet. But it sure let my family down.”
“I’m really sorry. That’s unforgivable.”
“Yeah. Well. Here’s the problem with unforgivable. The more I research the bodymind, the more I get that the only workable path to workable health is to forgive the unforgivable in spite of its unforgivability. Otherwise we just destroy our own cells with the byproducts of all that hate. We don’t hurt Manzanar any. Just us. You don’t suppose Vida was there because of the camp, do you? No, that doesn’t make any sense. She’s not Asian, is she?”
“No.”
“Couldn’t be, then. Got to be coincidence. I just couldn’t think of any other reason why someone would go to Independence.”
“The postcard had a picture of Mount Whitney.”
“Yeah. That makes more sense for a white girl. Not sure what I was thinking there, for a minute.”
Another deadly silence, during which I was grateful for the diversion, yet at the same time realized it had played out and abandoned us.
“So … I’ll give you my phone number,” she said. “Do you have anything to write with? And on? Handy?”
I looked around blankly. The lights were off but it was summer, and not even entirely dark at nine o’clock.
“Not really.”
“I’ll email it to you.”
“OK.”
“Go back to sleep now. I’m sorry.”
It took me a while to think what to say in return. And, besides, before I could, my train of thought was broken by a dial tone.
From: Isabelle Duncan
To: Richard Bailey
Dear Richard Bailey,
Sorry it’s taken so long to reply, but the newspaper forwarded me a number of requests like yours, and it’s been quite overwhelming, and it’s taking me some time to get through them. Most are missing children. And I won’t do missing children. I just can’t. It would tear me apart. You didn’t specify. If this is not about a missing child, I’ll help if I can.
Isabelle Duncan
From: Richard Bailey
To: Isabelle Duncan
Dear Isabelle Duncan,
The missing person is not a child. She’s nineteen years old. And I don’t think she’s come to any harm. So I don’t think it would tear you apart. Thank you for your offer of help. It means more than I can say. How do I proceed?
Many thanks,
Richard Bailey
From: Isabelle Duncan
To: Richard Bailey
Richard,
If you could bring something that belongs to her, or even just something that she touched, that would help. If you can make it tomorrow at about 1 p.m., let me know, and I will give you my address.
Isabelle
Tired
It was raining on and off in Portland. In fact, it rained on and off all the way from the northern California border. But that hardly qualifies as a surprise. When is it not raining in Portland?
• • •
When she opened the door, Isabelle Duncan looked as though she hadn’t slept in days. If not weeks. She looked to be fifty-something, with hip-length hair of pure white. The circles under her eyes looked nearly black in comparison to the rest of her pale and pasty skin.
Her house smelled distinctly of the three large, aged dogs that circled my legs, wagging feebly.
“You look tired,” I said.
“So do you.”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess I must. It’s a long drive.”
&nb
sp; “Come in,” she said. “Come in.”
I had to walk slowly and carefully so as not to trip over the dogs, who seemed intent on reading fascinating smells on my pant legs.
“Where did you drive from?” she asked, indicating her worn couch.
I sat, and she sat very close to me. More or less in what I like to think of as my personal space. The one I’ve been guarding so cautiously lately. I owed her a debt of gratitude, so I let it go by. But it kept me on edge.
“The Bay Area,” I said. “California,” I added. Because there are bays in Oregon, too.
To say I’d driven from the Bay Area was only very loosely true. I said it because San Jose was even farther, and I wanted to make the drive seem less insane.
“You don’t live in Portland?”
“No.”
One of the dogs settled heavily on to the carpet with a deep grunt.
“How did you even read that article?”
“My mother-in-law lives here. She told me about it, and then I read it online.”
She clucked her tongue.
“Word does travel,” she said, making it clear that it would do far less traveling if she had her say. “You couldn’t have driven up just today.”
“No. I left late yesterday, after I got your last email. It’s more than a ten-hour drive.” A couple hours more, actually.
“This must be important to you. Where did you sleep?”
“In my car at a scenic overlook. Overlooking Lake Shasta. I’m sure I could have gotten a ticket for it if anybody had noticed. But nobody did.”
“That explains why you look tired.” She did not explain her own exhaustion, and I didn’t consider it my business to ask. “Well. Not to be rude, but let’s get started. I have a couple coming at two. Missing child. Yeah, I know. I broke my own rule. Shouldn’t have taken it on, and I know I’ll regret it. Already do. But I agreed, and there’s no getting out of it now. What did you bring?”
I gently placed the worry stone in her hand.
She didn’t close her eyes, or become trance-like. Nothing stereotypical. She just held it. Curiously. As if it were talking and she were listening with some detached interest.
“This belongs to a lot of people,” she said. “At least three.”
“It’s Vida’s. Really.”
“But it has three distinct energies. One is yours.”
“Yes.”
“So I’ll put yours aside for now. You said she was nineteen?”
“That’s right.”
“Good. Then she’s not the one who’s dead.”
“Dead? Somebody’s dead?”
“The person who first put her energy into this stone is dead. Yes.”
“I don’t think Esther is dead,” I said. “She’s old …”
“She’s dead.”
“Really? How long?”
“That’s not the type of thing I could really say for sure. It doesn’t feel like ancient history, though. I’d say it’s recent.”
“That’s awful. I wonder if Vida knows.”
“She does. She’s very sad about it.”
“Oh. Wow. I had no idea. That must be awful for Vida. She was close to Esther, I think.”
“Yes. She was. Very close. But she’s OK. She’s strong, this Vida. Stronger than she looks. Stronger than anybody gives her credit for. But it’s hit her very hard. I’m not entirely sure, but it feels like this might even be her first deep loss. So she feels it very strongly. But she’s OK.”
“So … do you know where she is?”
“Wheres are also very hard. I do get that she’s been moving. Traveling. And it feels like there’s someone with her. A young man is how it feels.”
I could barely speak. I had no idea how to express my shock. I stumbled over my first words, and she waited patiently. Tiredly.
“She’s with a guy?”
“I’m not positive, but it feels that way.”
“How could she have a boyfriend? That doesn’t make sense.” Had she really gotten over loving me, just like that? Was Connie right about the first few months? “She was so clear that … that she thought she loved me.”
“I didn’t say he was her boyfriend. The sense I get is that he wants to be her boyfriend. But it doesn’t feel like he is. And she doesn’t think she loves you. She loves you. With all her heart. That’s the one thing so far I can tell you with complete confidence. That’s coming through loud and clear.”
I held still for a long time while nothing more was said on that score. If I was thinking, or feeling, it was nothing I could identify. Maybe I was feeling so many things simultaneously that no one reaction could rise to be recognized.
One of the ancient dogs, a mastiff type, stuck his head into my lap and I stroked his ears absent-mindedly.
“This is very confusing,” she said. “This is the most confusing reading I’ve ever done. Even putting aside you and the dead woman, there are two completely different energies here, but I don’t think it’s two different people. I don’t understand this at all.”
“Maybe the worry stone has been in too many hands. Here. Try this.”
I pulled the postcard from Independence out of my pocket and handed it to her. I waited while she communed with it in her way.
“Still two distinctly different stories. Like, for example, I’m getting that she met you many years ago. And you said she’s nineteen. Which means that you were romantically and sexually involved with her when she was …”
“No, of course it isn’t like that.”
“Better not be, or you’re out of here on your ass. And then I’m also getting that she’s just known you for a few months. It’s very strange. And I’m definitely getting that she has something that belongs to you. No. Not to you. It belongs to your wife. Wait. I thought she was your wife. No, she couldn’t be. Your wife passed away, didn’t she? But this Vida has something that used to belong to your wife. But you still feel like it belongs to you. But it doesn’t. It’s Vida’s now. And you have to let it go.”
She looked directly into my eyes. I froze.
“It’s something very personal,” she said. “So I can understand that it’s hard. But you have to. It belongs to Vida now. You have to let it go.”
I felt my own heart groan under an actual physical strain in my chest. As though someone had run it through with a weapon of some sort. So I guess Connie was right about at least one thing. We don’t receive all information through our brains.
“What does she have of your late wife’s?” Isabelle asked. “Maybe that will help me make sense of this jumble.”
“Her heart.”
She received the news more impassively than I expected. It seemed so monumental to me as I said it.
“Literally? She received it in a transplant?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that explains a lot. That explains why she’s known you for many years, and also for just a few months. It also explains why you’re having so much trouble letting it go.”
I had thought — assumed, really — that this session would be all about Vida and her whereabouts and nothing about me and my own shortcomings. But I didn’t say so.
“So … she’s moving,” I said instead. “Do you know where she’s going?”
“No.”
“Oh. Too bad.”
“She doesn’t know. If she decided, then I might know, or I might not. Hard to say. Things like how she feels are easier than things like where she is and where she’s going. She’s looking for something. But she doesn’t quite know what it is or where to find it. So I can’t tell you what she doesn’t know.”
“Do you get anything that could help me with where she is now?”
Isabelle breathed for a long time. I watched her, thinking how far I had driven to get here. It was nobody’s fault but my own, though.
“It’s hot. I can definitely feel the heat. Has to be the desert. She’s looking for you,” she said. Suddenly. Firmly. As if that were the solid answer I had come h
ere to unearth.
“How could she be? She knows where I am.”
“Yes. She knows where you are. But she feels there’s another place to look for you. And maybe for part of herself at the same time. I wish I could be clearer, but like I say, I can only be as clear as she is. And a lot of this hasn’t quite revealed itself to her yet. But one thing I can say for sure: what she’s looking for has a lot to do with you.”
And, through the emotional backlash of that rather general information, I had to pull myself together one more time and go after something solid. Something that would actually help.
“Can you tell me anything about where she’s going? I mean, you said it was hard to be specific about where she was. But then you told me it was hot, like the desert. Can you give me any detail like that about this place she’s trying to find?”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “Vast,” she said.
“Vast?”
“Right. Someplace huge and beautiful.”
“So, someplace really big.”
“The word vast keeps coming up. Vast and beautiful.”
I swallowed several times, wondering if we were done.
“Leave me with your phone number,” she said. “If I get more, I’ll call you.”
“Thank you. Have you got a pen?”
I pulled my wallet out of my back pants pocket and drew out my one remaining card. It had only my home number printed on it, and I wanted to write my cell phone number on the back of it as well. It would be a long ride home, and I was on the fence about seeing Myra before leaving, and I wanted to hear news as soon as possible. I mean, on the off-chance that there might be any.
She lumbered heavily to her feet, and all three dogs rose to follow her into the kitchen. She emerged holding a pencil with a bright purple eraser glued to the top end.
“Thanks,” I said, and wrote my cell number on the back of the card. “I really appreciate your taking the time to do this. I get the sense that it takes a toll on you.”
She eased herself back on to the couch again.
“You have no idea,” she said. “But this one was easy. Not like the next one. The next one will be hell. I already know their child is dead. I wish there was some way out of this next one. But I committed to it, and now there’s no way out.”
Second Hand Heart Page 17