The Law of Bound Hearts

by Anne Leclaire

  When they arrive at the store, Jeannie is in the display window. Libby climbs in with her and Sam follows, picking her way carefully to avoid stepping on the corpses of black flies that litter the floor. Jeannie is in the midst of replacing one bland, baggy outfit on the mannequin with another. Libby says she doesn’t know why she bothers. No one could tell the di ference.

  The mannequin is already stripped. A metal frame holds the torso—the nude torso—upright, and Jeannie lifts the body free from the frame. The body is composed of some kind of plastic, the surface smooth as water. It has toeless feet, long legs, a narrow waist that rises to perfect breasts, nude, nipple-less breasts that cause Sam to flush furiously. She wishes Jeannie would hurry and cover them up before someone walks by the window.

  Jeannie detaches the top of the figure from the bottom and starts shoving the legs into a pair of navy blue trousers. Libby picks up an amputated arm and fans herself with it.

  “Don’t let my mother catch you with that,” Jeannie says. “I’m not kidding. These things cost an arm and a leg.” The unintended pun makes them giggle.

  Libby puts down the arm and picks up a spare leg. She props it in her armpit and limps around the display window, as if she had a crutch.

  “Come on,” Jeannie says. “I’m not fooling. She’ll kill you.”

  Libby faces one of the other mannequins and begins mirroring its stance, an artificial pose with one hip jutted out and an arm akimbo, fist perched low at the waist, head thrown back, chin raised. Libby’s tanned legs look even darker in contrast to those of the pale plastic figure. She is wearing a pair of denim cut-o fs and a white pleated chemise with narrow bands over the shoulders, a piece of clothing she found in a vintage clothing store in Northampton. No bra, of course. Her honey-colored, sun-streaked hair is gathered loosely at the nape of her neck. She is wearing blue-and-yellow feather earrings she made herself. She stole the feathers from the material their father uses to fashion trout flies.

  Jeannie glances nervously back toward the shop interior.

  Libby moves from pose to pose, imitating ones she has seen in the pages of Seventeen. She stares out through the plate glass, head tilted to one side, face devoid of expression.A perfect blank. Sam can’t believe Libby can stand and pose like this, right in the window, right there on Main Street where anyone could see her. Sam is so self-conscious that she gets absolutely ill when she has to read in front of her class.

  On the sidewalk, two women walk by. They glance in the window and, seeing Jeannie, smile and wave, then, at the sight of Libby, do a perfect double take. Libby does not move.

  Sam recognizes the women. Mrs. Parker and Mrs. Burgess. Friends of her mother’s.

  “Shit city,” Jeannie says.

  The women have stopped dead in front of the window. They squint in at Libby. Their lips are moving, and Sam can just imagine what they are saying. Libby does not breathe. She does not blink. Her blank face is stripped of life. Sam does not know how she does this.

  On the street, a car slows as it passes, the driver stares.

  Finally the women, still talking, move on. Jeannie finishes dressing the legs and now starts buttoning the jacket around the mannequin’s torso, covering the breasts. Thank God. Now if Libby would just stop fooling around. Sam doesn’t know exactly what’s wrong with what her sister is doing, only that their mother definitely wouldn’t approve. It would probably come under the heading of “making a spectacle of yourself.”

  Now Libby changes the pose. She angles her body toward the window and lifts her hand to her shoulder, dips the strap on the chemise to bare her shoulder.

  At that moment Old Man Crowley walks by. Mr. Crowley is not really old, the same age as their father really, but that’s what Libby always calls him. She says he gives her the willies. He lives off the desperation of widows, she once told Sam, who has no idea what that means. Now he looks up, smiles at Libby, not mistaking her for a mannequin at all. Libby drops the blank stare and looks straight at him, then so fast Sam can’t believe it, she pulls the chemise strap lower and flashes her tit, just bares her breast for Old Man Crowley to get a good look at.

  “Young lady,” Jeannie’s mother’s shouts, so loud they all jump, all except Libby. “Get out of that window this instant.”

  “Shit,” Jeannie says.

  Sam scrambles out of the window and slithers by Mrs. Gault. For a minute, Libby stays just as she is and then—slowly—she shrugs the strap back over her shoulder. Then, as if she were royalty, as if just the minute before she hadn’t bared her breast to Old Man Crowley and anyone else who happened to be looking, she climbs out of the display window.

  Naturally it takes the buzz no more than an hour to reach their parents. People can’t wait to tell their mother how Mr. Crowley said Libby stood there brazen as you please and flashed her tit.

  Libby denies it.

  “Why would he make it up?” their mother says. “The man saw what he saw.”

  “He wishes,” Libby said, her tone dripping with derision.

  Denial was always Libby’s first line of defense. Even in the face of incontrovertible proof, her modus operandi was Just Deny. Unless someone saw what she’d done with his or her own eyes. Then, of course, she couldn’t refute it.

  Next to Sam, Lee was chuckling. “It sounds like she gave your parents a run for their money.”

  “You could say that,” Sam said in a dry voice. Of all the stories she might have told Lee, why had she picked that one? To show him her sister’s beauty, her defiance? But what else was she revealing?

  “Did she want to be a model?” Lee asked.

  “No. She was going to be a poet and live in Paris, a stone’s throw from the Seine.”

  “Did she? Become a poet?”

  “No. She got married her senior year of college.”

  “Eloped, I bet,” Lee said.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “The story you just told me. How she didn’t want the Sweet Sixteen party. A big wedding doesn’t seem her style.”

  Sam bit her lip. So now he knows Libby’s style? “She had one of the biggest weddings ever seen in Amherst.” She wondered what he’d say if she told him that she had been the one who eloped. Would he think that was her style?

  “Where does she live now?”

  “Illinois,” she said. He would press her for more, she knew. He would not be content now to hear only stories from the distant past. Now he would want her to tell him why she and Libby hadn’t spoken for six years.

  She rolled on her side, pushed herself against him, tried to draw his warmth to her newly chilled skin.

  Libby had entered their lives.

  Libby

  Rain was predicted, but the gentian sky belied the forecast. “Shall I put on a CD?” Richard asked. He was reaching toward the dash when she stopped him.

  “No,” she said. “No music.”

  “Are you sure? It might help. I could choose something calming.”

  “I’m calm,” she said, unable to control the edge that crept into her voice. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m just trying to help, Lib.” He darted a glance over at her.

  A bout of nausea swept over her and she dropped her face to her palms, took several deep breaths, swallowed against the queasiness that grew in her stomach.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She straightened her head. “I’m just a little nauseous.”

  “Do you want me to pull over?”

  “No. I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you sure? I can pull over.”

  “I said I’d be okay.” They had advised her to eat breakfast. It was important, they said, that she have something in her stomach, a small meal, not much, but the eggs had been a mistake. Next time she’d have toast. Next time. She wasn’t sure she was going to make it through this time.

  “It’s no problem to pull over,” he said. He looked at her, his brow furrowed with
concern. Ahead, a car swerved into their lane, cutting them off.

  “Look out,” she shouted.

  “Christ,” he said. He jammed on the brakes, tires squealed.

  “Great,” she said. “That’s all we need.”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  They rode in thick silence the rest of the way.

  The Oak Hill Dialysis Center was housed in a long, windowless brick building, so lacking in character it might as well have been attached to a strip mall. In front of the entrance there were twenty parking spaces marked with the universal yellow sign depicting a wheelchair. Every slot was taken.

  “Want me to drop you off in front?” he asked.

  “No. Just find a place to park.”

  “It’s no problem to drop you off.”

  “Just park, okay?” She’d become a shrew, she knew, and she hated it but couldn’t seem to stop.

  He spotted a vacant space four rows over, pulled in, and switched off the engine. He turned to her and took her hands in his. His fingertips, skin thickened from years of playing the cello, stroked the backs of her hands. “It’s going to be all right, Lib,” he said. “We’ll get through this.”

  She leaned against him for a moment, let him hold her, as if it really was possible to draw strength from him, then straightened up. “We’d better go in.”

  He reached over to the rear seat and retrieved the tote bag that contained her things. They had told her to bring a book or magazines or knitting, something to pass the hours while she was attached to the machine. She’d need a blanket, as well, and a change of clothing. According to the “Patient’s Handbook,” the clothes were in the event hers became “soiled due to complications.” Access bleeding. Vomiting. Another wave of dizziness overtook her. She waited while Richard came around and opened her door. This couldn’t be happening, she thought. There had been a mistake. She slipped her hand in his as they crossed the lot.

  Although it was only six thirty in the morning, the waiting room was already crowded. A roomful of sick people. There were two men in wheelchairs, one missing a leg. She was not one of them. She was not. Not. One. Of. Them. She allowed Richard to take over, surrendered to his care. He got her settled, then headed off to sign her in. She watched him cross the room. Although he never tanned and seldom exercised, in this room he looked fit and aglow with health.

  The woman to her right shifted slightly to make more room for Libby. “Your first time?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Libby hugged the tote tight to her chest.

  “I thought so. You can always tell.”

  Libby set the bag at her feet and reached for a magazine. She flipped though the pages without looking.

  The woman patted her knee. “You’ll do fine. The staff here is wonderful. Wonderful.”

  Blah, blah, blah. “I’m sure.” Libby pretended to be engrossed in an article on how to construct wreaths out of wild grapevines. Finally Richard returned. He handed her a clipboard bearing a half-dozen forms. “They need you to fill these out.”

  “You must be her husband,” the woman said to him.

  “Yes,” he said. Without even looking, Libby knew he was smiling at the woman.

  “I’m Eleanor Brooks.” She thrust out a hand for him to shake.

  “Richard Barnett. This is my wife Libby.”

  Trapped, Libby shook the woman’s hand and gave her a social smile.

  “I know you’re both probably nervous,” Eleanor said. “I know I was, my first time.”

  “How long have you been coming?” Richard asked.

  “Three years.”

  Three years. Oh, God. Three years.

  “Lord, I was so nervous my first time,” the woman on Libby’s left chimed in. “For once I was grateful I couldn’t pee or I’d have wet myself.”

  Everyone laughed except Libby. She was not one of them and she didn’t belong here. This was a nightmare, a horrible, depressing nightmare.

  “Diabetes?” Eleanor asked. “That’s what most of us have.”

  “FSGS,” Richard said. “Focal scelerosing glomerulonephritis.”

  As if it were any business of theirs what she had. Libby shot him a Be Quiet look.

  “FSGS,” Eleanor Brooks said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s fairly uncommon,” Richard said.

  Eleanor chatted on. She was from Great Lakes and had been a civilian worker at the naval station until she got sick. Richard, ignoring Libby’s signal, told her they lived in Lake Forest and had two children who were both away at college. He said FSGS was not inherited, so they didn’t have to worry about that. Libby glared at him. Why didn’t he just reveal their entire history while he was at it?

  At last he bent toward Libby and asked if she’d be all right for a minute while he went to the men’s room.

  “Sure,” she said.

  As soon as he’d gone, the woman to her left leaned closer, her tone that of a conspirator, as if she was to impart a grave secret. “Don’t you worry about the pain, dear,” she said. “It only hurts for a minute.”

  “What?” Libby was not sure she had understood.

  “When they put the needles in. Don’t look. That’s my advice. Those things look like they’re for hippopotamuses. I think the same people that make them, make the nozzles for fire hoses. Anyway, it only hurts for a minute.”

  Fire hoses. “It hurts?”

  “I bet they didn’t tell you about that. They never do.” The woman’s lips were tight.

  Pain? Why hadn’t Carlotta warned her?

  “That’s why I’m telling you,” the woman continued as if reading her mind. “It’s better to be prepared.”

  Libby pulled back from the woman and busied herself filling out the information forms, although it took a moment to steady her hand enough to print out her name and address, Richard’s name, their phone number. She dug through her billfold until she found their insurance card and copied the information down. She completed the Health Profile (another two pages) and signed a paper authorizing treatment and the form acknowledging that she fully understood the “risks of unforeseen complications.”

  “Elizabeth Barnett?” A girl in a white smock stood in front of her, smiling. A badge on her lapel identified her as Kelly. She looked like she should have been in school. Her lipstick was the color of cherry Popsicles and she wore three earrings in her left ear, one a fake diamond. “I need you to come with me.”

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Where was Richard? “Can I wait for my husband?”

  “The receptionist will tell him where you are,” Kelly said.

  “Good luck,” Eleanor Brooks said.

  “You’ll do fine, dear” said the woman who had told her about the needles. Fire hoses.

  Somehow she found herself in a small room; she couldn’t remember walking there.

  Kelly instructed her to stand on the scale so she could be weighed and then took her blood pressure and her temperature, inspected the catheter in her chest, the shunt in her arm.

  “Looking good,” she pronounced cheerfully. “No sign of infection.” She went over things Carlotta had already told Libby about how important it was to not wear anything—constricting clothing or watchbands—that would put pressure on the shunt, and to avoid sleeping on it. She showed her how to check for clots and infection. Next, Kelly examined Libby’s legs and back, her eyes, the veins in her neck. “Checking for pooled fluids,” she said in the bright voice. Libby kept her eyes fixed on the Popsicle lips as they informed her that she would need to restrict phosphorus in her diet and take pills for bone health, and that her blood count would be checked weekly to monitor for anemia, and once a month for chemistry levels.

  “This afternoon we’ve set up an appointment for you with the dietician. She’ll go over all this again,” Kelly said. “And I’ve given your husband a folder that contains all of our rules and regulations and procedures.”

  “Regulations?”

  “What to do in case of inclement weather. How to file a gri
evance. That kind of thing.”

  Libby’s body sat in the chair, disconnected from her mind, which had escaped the room. Later, she wouldn’t remember one word those pink lips had said.

  The treatment area was as large as a high school gym and had been divided into three bays. Each bay had ten stations and a television set, each set tuned to the same channel, the Food Network, where a chef was slicing beets the color of blood. Kelly led her to a vacant chair in the middle bay. The green leather chaise was next to an oblong machine with a monitor attached and tubes snaking in and out. A rod on the side ran up the frame of the box to a small tricolor bulb divided into green, red, and yellow sections. A traffic light, she thought.

  Richard, sheathed in a protective plastic smock, found her there. He gave her a half smile. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “You just relax,” Kelly said. “Get comfortable.”

  A black woman watched from the next chaise. “I cried my first time,” she told Libby. “My daughter was with me and we both cried like babies.”

  Libby nodded. She was not going to cry.

  “But I got through it,” the black woman said. “With the help of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, I got through it.”

  Oh, Lord, Libby thought. It was not a prayer. She rolled her eyes at Richard. He squeezed her hand. For a moment she felt warmth toward him, connection, and was grateful he was there.

  Kelly slid a blood pressure cuff over Libby’s right arm, made adjustments. She turned to Richard. “You might want to wait outside while I get her started. We’ll come get you when we’ve got the treatment going.”

  Richard bent and kissed her. “I’ll be right back,” he promised.

  “Here we go,” Kelly said, unbuttoning Libby’s blouse.

  Libby’s hand rose, touched the catheter on her chest, felt the twin channels that hung from it. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for pain, tensing every muscle, curling her toes.