The Law of Bound Hearts

by Anne Leclaire

Libby shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I think you should send Josh that book for organ donors,” Sam said after a minute. “Get him some information.”

  “Forget about Josh, Sam. I’m not going to beg.”

  “Well, someone should. He’s your brother.”

  “And he has a right to not want to do this.”

  “I can’t believe you can accept that so easily. You’d be there for him. You know you would.”

  Libby reached a hand up and stroked Sam’s fingers. “Not everyone has the same idea of family obligations,” she said. She wasn’t sure she did herself. What, if anything, did a person owe other family members?

  “Christ, every time some famous athlete or actor needs a kidney, people line up to donate one, but Josh won’t even consider giving one to his own sister.” Sam spread her fingers over Libby’s scalp, massaged her temples. “Maybe you should try and find someone willing to sell you one.”

  “Great idea. Unfortunately, it’s illegal.”

  “Well, they should make it legal. They should let you be able to pay someone for an organ.”

  Libby stayed silent. This thought had occurred to her.

  “I mean, they let women rent their bodies for surrogate births, don’t they? They let you sell your blood, for heaven’s sake. Why not a kidney?”

  The kettle was spewing steam and Sam went to get the tea. Libby started to laugh.

  “What?” Sam said.

  “I was just thinking of back when we were young. Remember how we were in search of the perfect orgasm?”

  Sam turned, smiled. “Yeah. When two people making love come at exactly the same instant, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “God, we pursued that like it was the holy grail of sex.” Sam tilted her head in question. “What made you think of that now?”

  “I was thinking that it was a waste of time.”

  “Because it doesn’t matter that much?”

  “Because we could have spent the time forgetting the perfect orgasm and searching for the perfect organ.”

  It wasn’t that funny. Probably no one else would have laughed, but it set them off, made them helpless with laughter, until suddenly Libby was weeping and Sam could only hold her.

  While Sam packed, Libby looked on. Sam knew her sister was resisting the impulse to take over the job herself. No one could pack a suitcase like Libby.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay on for a few more days?” Sam said. “I could manage it. I don’t have to go back. Honestly.”

  Before Libby could answer, the phone rang. They both jumped. Libby grabbed it before the second ring; Sam stopped folding a pair of jeans. She held her breath.

  “Hello?” Libby said, unable to keep an edge of eagerness from her voice.

  Sam watched her sister’s face, and although she knew it was improbable if not impossible, she prayed that it was Carlotta calling with the news that a match had been found. Then Sam wondered if that was the way it was going to be every time a call came into the house. The insurmountable, heartbreaking pull of hope.

  “She’s right here,” Libby was saying. She handed the receiver to Sam.

  It was Lee.

  “I’ll give you some privacy,” Libby said and turned toward the door.

  “That’s okay,” Sam said, reaching out a hand to stop her, but Libby had already left.

  Sam shoved the suitcase aside and sank down on the bed. “Hi,” she whispered, overcome with longing.

  “Hey,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s so sad, Lee,” she said. “It about breaks my heart.”

  “I know.”

  “And I’m so scared. What if she doesn’t find a donor?” She waited for him to tell her to keep the faith.

  “The very reason for my call,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Listen, don’t say anything to Libby until we have more info, but we’re getting tested.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “My mother and me. To see if we’re a match.”

  “A match?” It took her another moment to take in what he was saying. And then the immensity of it stunned her. “Alice,” she said. “And you.”

  “And Stacy.”

  “Stacy?”

  “Yes. We’ll all getting tested.”

  For one minute she let the beauty of what they were offering surround her. And then she let it go for the impossible dream that it was.

  “Just hear me out, Sam,” Lee was saying. “This isn’t a snap decision. We’d all talked about it earlier.”

  “You did?”

  “Well, at first it was just kind of a what-if scenario, like what if a sibling needed an organ, would you do it. And then it got more specific. Like what if Sam can’t be a donor for Libby. Trust me, Sam, we’ve really thought about this.”

  They didn’t understand what they were offering. The hugeness of it. “You can’t,” she said.

  “Why can’t we, Sam? Weren’t you going to?”

  “That’s different. I’m her sister. I mean, your mother and Stacy don’t even know Libby.”

  Lee laughed. “Mom said that’s exactly what you’d say. She said to tell you we’re family. And that’s what families do. They’re there for each other.”

  Sometimes they are, Sam thought, thinking of Josh.

  “And Stacy?” she asked. “What about her?”

  “She says she’s family, too. She says to tell you she’s a water sign. She only needs one kidney. Sam? Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” she said. “Tell her . . . tell her I’m grateful. She’ll understand. Tell her I’m full of gratitude.”

  And she was. She wept at the beauty of their offer, the magnificent generosity and wild love of it. For a minute, she let herself be cradled in the power of their love, even if the odds were surely against any one of them being a match for Libby.

  Sam and Libby

  Are you afraid?” Richard said.

  “A little.” A lot, really, but what good did it do to share that?

  They were alone in the room now. He was sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her hand. Mercy and Matt had just gone off to get coffee, finding strength in each other as they always had. Gabe had been in earlier with an orchid, which now sat on the windowsill. Carlotta had dropped by, along with the anesthesiologist, who had told Libby exactly what she could expect in the next hours and had given her a form to sign. Eleanor Brooks had stopped by, too. She’d left an affirmation card for Libby. “Hold on to your dreams,” it said. “They are your transport to the stars.” Libby had Richard tape it to the wall over her bed, right next to the good-luck card Jesse’s prayer circle had sent.

  “Richard?”

  “Yes.”

  “I just want you to know, if anything goes—” She stopped. She had taken care of things. Earlier in the week she had signed her will, as well as the paper making Richard her medical-care proxy and stating that, if something should go terribly wrong, under no circumstances was she to be put on life support. There were things worse than death. She had filled out an organ donor card. Once that would have chilled her, if she had considered it at all, but now it had brought her a measure of quiet satisfaction.

  She had cleaned out her underwear drawer. (She couldn’t imagine anything more depressing than having to sort through someone else’s worn underpants.) And she had unearthed the diary she’d kept during the bad time six years ago and burned it, while contemplating the human compulsion to write down those things that could not be spoken.

  The twins were no longer children, and that gave her great consolation. These last few days, reflecting on the past, she had realized with some surprise that she’d lived a good life. A good life, not just a good-enough life. A full life. Rich with both joy and sorrow.

  She didn’t actually believe she was going to die. Carlotta had been thoroughly reassuring on that point. Still, she had written a letter to each of the twins. She was not being melodramatic or morbid, just
covering the bases. No matter what reassurances Carlotta gave, surgery involved risks.

  “Nothing will go wrong,” Richard said, as if reading her mind. He was fiddling with her Walkman. He’d prepared a tape of music for her to listen to during the operation. Some Schumann, some Mozart.

  “But I’ll be under anesthesia,” she’d protested when he gave it to her.

  “Play it anyway,” he’d said. He’d been researching on the Web. There was evidence that surgery was easier and recovery swifter when patients listened to music, even while unconscious.

  The floor nurse poked her head in and told Richard he’d have to leave.

  He bent and kissed Libby. “See you in the recovery room,” he said.

  “I never got to write you a letter,” Libby said, reaching for his arm. “Or Sam. I never got to write to Sam.”

  “There’s no need,” Richard said. “We know.”

  “Where is Sam, anyway?” Libby said.

  “I saw her in the corridor,” Richard said. “She just got here. She’s gone across the hall. She’ll be here in a minute.”

  Sam opened the door quietly.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” Lee said.

  She wondered if his smile would ever lose the power to heat her belly, turn her knees liquid. “I’ve only got a minute,” she said as she kissed him. “They’re going to be kicking us out pretty soon.”

  She crossed to the bed. “How are you doing?” she said to Alice.

  Alice smiled. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been wondering exactly how much a kidney weighs. This could be the easiest diet I’ve ever been on.”

  Sam laughed. She stroked Alice’s hand. “Do you need anything?”

  “Not a damn thing,” Alice said. “I want you all to know that just because Libby’s getting my kidney no one has to feel pressured into naming the baby after me.”

  “What baby?” Sam asked.

  “Yours and Lee’s.”

  Lee laughed. “What did I tell you,” he said to Sam. He turned to Alice. “Have you ordered a bassinet yet?”

  “Why on earth would I do that?” she said. “There’s a perfectly fine one at home in the attic. It held you and your brother and it will hold my grandchild, too.”

  Sam dug in her purse, found what she was looking for. “Here,” she said.

  Alice took the stone. She ran a finger over the white line in the middle. “Why, this is your lucky rock,” she said.

  “It’s yours,” Sam said. “It was meant for you all along.”

  “Thank you,” Alice said. Then she added with Yankee firmness that no one could dispute: “I’ll take it, but I won’t need it. I’m going to be just fine.”

  The nurse came in and shooed them out.

  “Will you wait for me downstairs?” Sam said to Lee.

  “I’ll be getting coffee,” he said. “Take your time.”

  Sam slipped into Libby’s room and found her sister was alone. “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey.”

  “I thought Richard would be here,” Sam said.

  “He just left.”

  Sam crossed to the window and looked up. “A full moon,” she said. She loved it when the moon was visible in the daytime sky.

  “You know what that’s made of, don’t you, Sam-I-Am?”

  “Let’s see. Spun silk or cotton candy, or the salt lick for cows.” Sam opened her tote. “I have something for you.” She handed her sister a gift bag.

  Libby looked inside. “A book,” she said.

  “It’s made by hand,” Sam said.

  “It’s beautiful.” Libby opened it, saw the blank pages.

  “Do you know what it’s for?”

  “A diary?”

  “It’s for your poetry, Lib. For your book of poems.”

  Libby ran her hand over the pages. “Thank you,” she said, meaning for much more than the book.

  “There’s one more thing,” Sam said. She handed Libby an envelope.

  “What’s this?” Libby said. “A letter? I was going to write one for you, too. I feel bad I didn’t.”

  “Open it,” Sam said.

  At first Libby didn’t understand. “Tickets?” she said.

  Sam grinned, so pleased with herself. “Air tickets to London,” she said. “And the winter schedule for concerts at St. Martin-in-the Fields.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Everything is waiting for you, Lib,” Sam said. “All your dreams are still ahead.”

  What was ahead? Libby hadn’t allowed herself to think too far into the future, to consider the possibility her body would reject the transplant. One day at a time.

  She was staring at the tickets when she heard the voice. It was so clear she turned to see if Sam had, too, but her sister was leaning over to kiss her.

  “See you when it’s over,” Sam said. “We’ll all be waiting.” She blew a kiss from the door and was gone.

  But Libby had heard it. Hannah’s voice. Hold on, it had said, just as it had in the hotel corridor weeks before. Hold on.

  A nurse entered the room. “Time to get you ready.” Libby let her take the envelope and book and place them on the bedside table. “You’re going to feel a little pinch,” the nurse said, and she injected the sedative into Libby’s arm. “This is to relax you. In a few minutes, you’ll feel drowsy.”

  The nurse explained the procedure as she accomplished each step: inserting the IV tube to keep Libby from getting dehydrated and to increase her flow of urine; shaving and disinfecting the area of the surgical site. Her hands were sure, her motions efficient. She hummed while she worked.

  Libby lay, perfectly calm, waiting for what was to come. Hold on, Hannah had said. To what?

  To dreams? On the wall over the bed she saw the card Eleanor Brooks had brought. Hold on to your dreams. They are your transport to the stars. She wondered how Hannah had held on to her dreams in the face of her death, had talked about opening a nursery when she knew she would not have children. This seemed to Libby a courageous thing.

  Hold on.

  To hope?

  To every good deed and promise?

  To love?

  To life?

  A single life seemed so fragile, at once insignificant and magnificent. She wondered how one had the fortitude to bear any of it, let alone all of it. “Life is messy,” a minister had once said back when she and Richard still attended church. “It’s messy and complicated and difficult at times, but it is not without a pattern. If you stand apart and look back at it from a distance, there is always a pattern. Have faith in that,” he’d told the congregation. “Hold true to that faith, even when the warp and weft are invisible to your sight. Especially then.”

  The sedative began to take effect. She closed her eyes. Against the darkness of her lids, she saw . . .

  A spider’s web.

  It spread out in an intricate pattern, just like the one she had seen on the prairie in September. She could remember it so clearly, that garden spider’s web with the zigzag in the center. It was nearly two feet across. Its myriad threads had been woven with great and tender care into an unmistakable design and, as fragile as they appeared to her eyes, they held the tensile strength to withstand the fiercest of winds, the worst of prairie storms.

  A miracle.

  Really.

  When you thought about it.

  Acknowledgments

  My gratitude to The Ragdale Foundation for providing me with a nest at the edge of a tall grass prairie in which to give birth to this book, and to The Virginia Center for the Performing Arts for granting me the gift of time and space in which to write major portions.

  I am indebted to the transplant patients and donors who were willing to share their experiences with me. I am especially grateful to Jim and Marcia Smith, John and Judy Delehanty, and Brian Baltz for their enormous generosity in this regard.

  A number of people were invaluable in educating me about the intricacies of kidney disease, pastry making, boat bui
lding, sailing, and prairies. The knowledge and kindnesses are theirs. Any mistakes should be laid solely at my door. My thanks to Dr. Tyler Miller, my steadfast guide through the complicated territory of kidney disease; Kim Smith, director of the Lynchburg Dialysis Center in Amherst, Virginia; Brad and Mike Pease at the Pease Boat Yard, Chatham, Massachusetts; pastry chefs Tracy Maes and Diane Bliss; Jeremy Batson at the Open Lands Association in Lake Forest, Illinois; and Daniel Adams.

  Additionally, I am particularly grateful to Susan Tillett, Zack Linmark, Constance Alexander, Rev. Christopher Leighton, Ronna Wineberg, and Marilyn Kallett, all of whom shared long conversations with me about forgiveness and families, and to Alice George and Peter Saunders for poetry consultations. Thanks to the staff at Lovells of Lake Forest, who were gracious and accommodating.

  Thanks to Kay Ruane for the beautiful art that graces the cover and to Margaret Braun, whose magnificent book, Cakewalk, was the inspiration for Sam’s cakes.

  As always, I thank Deborah Schneider, agent extraordinaire and wise friend, and the dream team at Ballantine: Maureen O’Neal, Gina Centrello, and Kim Hovey.

  I thank, too, the usual cast of characters who enrich my writing and my life: Ginny Reiser, Margaret Moore, Jebba and Larry Handley, Ann Stevens, and Jackie Mitchard, and my assistant, Jean Needel, who keeps things running smoothly.

  Lastly, and always, I thank my family. Their love and support sustains me.

  A READER’S GUIDE

  The Law of Bound Hearts

  ANNE LECLAIRE

  A CONVERSATION WITH ANNE LECLAIRE

  Dr. Marilyn Kallet is a poet and the author of ten books, including Circe, After Hours, and One for Each Night: Chanukah Tales and Recipes. She coedited Sleeping with One Eye Open: Women Writers and the Art of Survival. Dr. Kallet teaches creative writing at the University of Tennessee, where she holds the Hodges Chair for Distinguished Teaching in the English Department.

  Marilyn Kallet: Anne, you and I have been friends for years, thanks to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, where we have both worked on writing. I think of you as a sister spirit and refer to you as a “sister writer.” The Law of Bound Hearts has prompted me to think more about sisterhood, both as metaphor and as reality. In this novel, you have drawn a compelling portrait of the bonds between siblings Libby and Samantha. Readers will want to know whether or not you actually have a sister.