My Foolish Heart

by Susan May Warren

  “Thanks, Cupid. How about you, NiceGirl?”

  “It’s not beauty on the outside that he wanted. Blanche was beautiful, after all. But she was not for him.”

  “Good comparison, NiceGirl, but let’s not forget that Rochester was no catch, either. In fact, Jane even says, ‘Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning him against his will, and offering my services unasked.’ She doesn’t see herself as beautiful, nor him, so that made him attainable. Go ahead, DorothyP.”

  “So are you saying it’s impossible for an ugly girl to marry a handsome man?”

  “No. But a girl doesn’t want to walk into the room and feel like everyone is looking at her date.”

  Oh, brother. Caleb scrolled down to the show information. No picture of the hostess, Miss Foolish Heart. And by the tenor of the conversation . . . well, he didn’t want to guess what she might look like. He clicked on the forum link and logged in, hoping to find something about her.

  Oh . . . my . . . They’d created a discussion titled “BoyNextDoor.” He hovered his mouse over the link, debating.

  Clicked it.

  Wow. Women had such fertile imaginations.

  “I just think that Rochester saw her as his equal; that’s why she became beautiful to him.” This from someone who sounded about nineteen.

  He couldn’t stop himself. He dialed the line, then gave his name to the producer.

  “BoyNextDoor, you’re on the line.” Her voice. Soft, with a hint of question. Talking to him. Oops, he hadn’t thought Miss Foolish Heart would take his call immediately. Wasn’t there some sort of queue?

  “Uh. Hi.” Was that him, on the air? He sounded like an idiot, deep voice, sort of confused. He cleared his throat.

  “Would you like to add to the conversation?”

  She didn’t sound unattractive. In fact, he sort of pictured her young. Maybe with brown hair, kind gray-blue eyes.

  “I . . . I just wanted to say I think you have it all wrong.”

  Silence. “Oh?” But not an angry oh. More curious, as if she might be playing with him.

  “Yeah. Uh . . . look, men like pretty girls. They don’t want their equal. Every guy out there would date a movie star if he could, but that’s beyond his means.”

  “Wow . . . BoyNextDoor, that’s fairly Neanderthal of you.”

  He shifted the phone to his other ear so he could scroll down, read the comments. Ouch, these women knew how to take a guy apart.

  “It’s the truth. The way we are. Sure, beauty’s not the only thing that matters, but it’s what gets your attention.”

  For a second, Isadora running down the sidewalk stepped into his mind. Yes, she’d gotten his attention.

  “Like my dad used to say, ‘Beauty’s only skin deep, but you don’t want to have to skin a girl to love her.’”

  Miss Foolish Heart gasped. “That’s terrible.”

  “That’s the truth, Miss Foolish Heart.” But he smiled, wishing he could see her face. “But that’s not the only truth. Beauty to a man is more than just curves and a smile, great hair. It’s her laughter at your jokes, the way she makes you feel, the way she treats other people. It’s the whole package. And that’s why this Rochester guy loved Jane, because even if she wasn’t the prettiest girl on the block, she was the one who made him feel like he was the most handsome man.”

  A beat of silence. Then, “Thank you. Yes. I believe Jane has this exact thought when she says, ‘You are not beautiful either, and perhaps Mr. Rochester approves you: at any rate you have often felt as if he did.’”

  He hadn’t a clue what she might be talking about, but he could nod. Or, “Uh-huh.”

  “So, BoyNextDoor, I think all our listeners would like an update on your true love.”

  His true . . . “Listen, she’s not my true love. Just . . . a girl I’d like to win over.”

  “But she might be, right?”

  He glanced up at the lit window of the night owl next door. “I don’t know. I started her to-do list, and she barely noticed. In fact, I’m wondering why I did any of it.”

  Silence. “Oh. Hm. Well, let’s see, BoyNextDoor. Your oh-so-sensitive quote goes both ways—beauty’s only skin deep, but you don’t want to have to skin a guy to love him. Have you given the girl something to look at? Make sure you look good; don’t dress like a hobo. Women like a man who can clean up.”

  He couldn’t help the quick glance in the mirror. Not that he’d noticed, but yeah, he’d gotten a little shaggy. Maybe a few weeks since he’d shaved.

  He pulled at a string on his National Guard shirt where he’d ripped the arms off. Maybe she had a point. “Take a bath; got it.”

  She laughed. Something about it wheedled right through him, deep inside, warm and sweet.

  “Thanks, coach,” he said, his voice tough.

  He heard the smallest intake of breath, then a tremulous laugh before she said, “Go get ’er, champ.”

  He hung up.

  Smiled.

  Maybe a guy could learn something from Miss Foolish Heart.

  9

  “I haven’t had the courage to speak to my neighbor since Saturday. He was even mowing his lawn the other day and said hi to me, and it was all I could do not to run back inside my house, bar the door. The man must think . . . Well, who knows what he thinks.”

  Issy sat in her father’s recliner, staring past Rachelle. Dressed in a pair of casual khakis, an oxford shirt, and sandals, the counselor always looked as if she might be going to a potluck down the street. She wore her black hair down, streaks of gray suggesting wisdom to go with her enigmatic smile, and Issy felt as if she were talking to her favorite aunt.

  “Let’s talk about when you went over there on Saturday. Did you feel a panic attack coming on?”

  Issy closed her eyes, remembered the heat in her chest. “No, actually. I was just so angry.”

  “See, you didn’t worry about panicking. You didn’t even think about your actions; you just marched over to his house.”

  “Or I was blinded by rage. And I said such terrible things to him.”

  Rachelle held up her hand. “You apologized. Let it stand at that. He has obviously forgiven you. He mowed his lawn, didn’t he?”

  Issy looked out the window. He’d also parked his truck on the street—imagine that. So maybe he’d been listening to her tirade.

  “Do you think I’ll ever be the person I was before the accident?”

  “Do you want to be?”

  Did she want to be the confident, almost too-ambitious woman she’d been before that terrible weekend? The woman who’d vowed never to return to Deep Haven? “I always imagined myself showing up for my ten-year reunion with some sort of triumph. Maybe as a television host of my own show. Someone Deep Haven could be proud of.”

  “You don’t think Deep Haven is proud of you?”

  “Would you be? I was the class valedictorian. Now I’m the town victim.”

  “I think you might spend more time thinking about what the town thinks of you than they really do.”

  The words made her wince. “I thought you therapists were just supposed to ask how that made me feel.”

  “How does that make you feel?”

  “Ha. Funny.”

  “Well? Do you think you put too much importance on what others think?” Rachelle said.

  “I know I do. But I can’t help it.” Issy drew up her legs, tightening herself into a ball on her father’s chair. “I can’t help thinking that everyone is so disappointed in me.”

  “Define everyone.”

  “Everyone. The people of Deep Haven.”

  Rachelle raised an eyebrow.

  “My church?”

  “Pastor Dan asked me to say hello. He’d like to come by and visit.”

  She hadn’t seen him for nearly two weeks. He and Ellie had hovered over her after the accident like they were family.

  “Lucy?” she offered. “Me?”

&
nbsp; Rachelle nodded as if waiting for more.

  “God?”

  “Do you think God is disappointed?”

  Yes. “I don’t know. Maybe there is just something wrong with me. I look out and see everyone else living a normal life, a happy life. You know, there are times I actually believe that I could have that. I get up in the morning, hear the birds, stand at my window, and stare out at the lake and think, Today. Today I’m going to change my life. Today I’m going to go visit my father.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I do something horrid like I did to my poor neighbor, and I realize that I’m different. A disappointment to myself and others. I can’t trust myself. That’s a terrible feeling.”

  Issy’s gaze shifted across the pictures of her parents on the bookshelf: She and her father holding up a stringer of walleye. Her mother pressing a kiss to her cheek at graduation. “I dunno. Maybe you’re right. I do spend a lot of time thinking about what others think about me. What they see.”

  “Tell me, when are you most comfortable with yourself?”

  Issy rubbed the arms of the chair. “When I’m doing my show. When I’m imagining the people on the other end of the line and helping them.”

  Rachelle smiled. “And I bet you’re not afraid to talk to them at all.”

  “They can’t see me.”

  “But you could have a panic attack on the air, couldn’t you.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out.”

  “But?”

  “Yes. I suppose. But I never think about it.”

  “So you never do. Can I offer a suggestion why?”

  “You’re the therapist; knock yourself out.”

  “It’s because you’re spending time helping others. Your focus is off yourself. You don’t even see yourself, so you can’t imagine yourself panicking.”

  “Are you saying that if I spent less time imagining myself panicking and worrying about what the town might think, it might actually help me get better?”

  “Your panic attacks stem from what you think might happen. You let your fears determine how you live. You do the math.”

  “It’s not that easy.”

  “Maybe it’s only one door, unlocked. But tell me this—why have you never revealed to the town that you’re Miss Foolish Heart?”

  Well, that was easy. “Because if they knew, they’d laugh at me.” She gritted her teeth even as she said it.

  “Why would they laugh?”

  She narrowed her eyes at Rachelle.

  The counselor smiled. “Then let’s try this. Why have you never had a date?”

  “I’m undatable?”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Issy lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. I mean, I had a couple offers in college, but no one that fit the list. . . .”

  “Issy, why did you create your list?”

  “So I didn’t end up like Lucy.” She said it softly. Met Rachelle’s eyes. “I just want to make sure when I put my heart out there that far, it is for the right one.”

  “Because you don’t want to get hurt.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Is that wrong?”

  Rachelle pressed her hands together, leaned forward. “You said earlier that more than anything, you wanted to be normal. What is normal, Issy?”

  She knew what it wasn’t, perhaps. “It’s getting up every day, going to work, falling in love, having a family, children.”

  Unlike other therapists, Rachelle never made notes while they chatted. Instead, she had an insightful, brown-eyed gaze that could pin Issy to the chair. “Would getting hurt occasionally be on that list?”

  “Preferably not.”

  Rachelle smiled. “So you’ve fixed the world to be safe. Controllable. But it’s not, is it?”

  Issy pressed her fingers below her eyes, fighting the sudden burn in them.

  “Miss Foolish Heart. You can’t preprogram your life.”

  Issy gave up, wiped her hands on her pants. “Then how do I make sure that it turns out all right?”

  Rachelle said nothing, and Issy heard the answer in the pulse of her heartbeat. Outside, the garbage man drove by, and a dog barked.

  “Tell me about BoyNextDoor.”

  Issy looked at her.

  Rachelle shrugged. “I was on the forum. And I heard your voice. You like talking to him.”

  “I think I could help him. I want to help him.”

  “Because it will boost your ratings?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.” Issy glanced at the clock. “If I could help him get a date with Miss Right, I might feel like my life wasn’t quite so small. I might even be able to be the person I left behind.”

  Rachelle shifted in her seat, caught Issy’s eyes. “Maybe you shouldn’t strive to be the woman you left behind, but the one who is out ahead.”

  Sometimes after therapy she just wanted to curl up in her mother’s afghan and hide. But she found her voice. “What does that woman look like?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’d bet if you stop trying so hard to hold her back, to keep her safe, she might just surprise you.”

  Outside, a door slammed. Caleb had stepped onto the porch. “What does that mean, anyway?”

  Rachelle followed her gaze, and Issy watched her as she took in Caleb walking down the stairs, a stack of tapes under his arm. He crossed the street to the library.

  “Maybe it simply means that next time, you say hello.”

  * * *

  Agoraphobia is a condition in which sufferers experience anxiety in situations or locations where they sense they have no control, such as open spaces, crowds, or traveling. It is often exacerbated by a fear of experiencing a panic attack or appearing afraid in public. Often, a sufferer might be afraid of a particular location where he or she has experienced an attack in the past. The fear of panic attacks may lead sufferers to confine themselves inside a safer world. Agoraphobia can also be caused by post-traumatic stress disorder.

  Caleb sat in the library, where the sun slid in over the wooden table, the Palladian windows surveying the neighborhood—specifically Issy’s house across the street. Her hanging plants, dripping with some giant pink flowers, and the roses around the door suggested welcome, yet Dan’s words from practice a couple days ago kept tugging at him.

  She hasn’t really left her house since then.

  Caleb knew that kind of fear. When he’d woken in the hospital, still in Iraq, bewildered, so juiced on pain medication that he couldn’t think straight, the fear had crawled up his throat and nearly choked him. It hung on all the way to Germany, then Walter Reed. He’d never forget the day he took a good, raw look at what remained of his leg and the scars on his body and let his loss settle into his bones.

  “Hello, Coach.”

  He looked up. That young librarian, the one with the blonde braids, smiled at him, a stack of books propped on her hip. “I like the goatee.”

  He’d caught his reflection in the window this afternoon as he walked into the library, after his visit to the barber shop and the thrift store for a pair of khakis, a couple dress shirts, some unprinted T-shirts. He looked like an upstanding citizen of Deep Haven. And he didn’t hate it.

  How foolish was he that he hoped Isadora noticed?

  “I don’t want to look like a redneck, but I need some hair on my head.” He winked at the girl, having long ago discovered that humor helped everyone breathe. “Thank you, uh . . .”

  “Mindy. Are you finished with your book? Because I can reshelve it.”

  He closed the encyclopedia. “Thank you. Can you tell me where the care center is in town?”

  “Go up the highway, out of town, take a left at the municipal pool, then up Eighth Street.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, and good luck on the game.” She wore a blush. “Curt McCormick is my boyfriend.”

  “He’s doing a great job. You can tell him the coach said that.” He smiled at her, pushed away from the table.

  The Deep Haven Care Center sa
t atop a hill, overlooking the beauty of Lake Superior. Geraniums spilled out of planters anchoring the doorway and a Visitors, Please Register card pasted on the glass door made him stop at the reception desk.

  “I’m here to see Coach Presley.”

  The nurse at the counter pointed down the hall. “Last door on the right.”

  Caleb signed his name on the registration pad, received a visitor’s badge, then eased his way down the hall.

  The patients lingering in the common areas could reduce him to tears. Some of them lost inside themselves, others with enough faculties to lift their eyes, question his presence. Nursing homes always smelled aged, as if life had left the inhabitants long behind.

  Someone had pasted a football helmet decal on Coach Presley’s door, and he heard voices as he pushed the door open with his knock.

  He nearly dropped with relief seeing Dan look up from the man’s bedside. Caleb met Dan’s eyes, found inside them a hint of compassion.

  “Hey, Caleb,” Dan said. “Glad you could stop by.”

  Behind Dan, through the picture window, the sun blazed over the lake, bright and glorious in the milky blue sky. A television hung above the bed, the sound muted—Caleb glanced at it and recognized old reruns from the NFL channel. Beside the bed perched a picture of Issy and a woman Caleb could only imagine had been Coach’s beautiful wife, with her long dark hair, big smile, sitting on the steps of their home. Finally he looked at the coach. He swallowed before forming a smile.

  Why had he thought this was a good idea? Meet the coach, introduce himself? He’d blame it on Dan, who had suggested the visit again after practice this morning.

  Coach Presley looked a thousand years older than he should, his body bony and limp in his bed, attached to a ventilator, the skin on his lifeless arms flappy, his hair thinned and white. Caleb stifled the urge to turn and run.

  That could have been him. He could have been the one to go through the windshield of the Humvee, to lie broken and gasping for breath on the side of the road. It could have been him puffing and exhaling and blinking just to communicate.

  He’d only lost a leg. And a partial one at that. And so what if he’d been burned? He’d kept most of his fingers, his mobility. And God had spared his face.

  “Howdy, Coach. I’m Caleb Knight. I’m trying out for . . . well, your job.” He wasn’t sure—was he supposed to shake his hand? It lay limp beside Presley’s body. He grabbed a chair. “Do you mind if I sit down?”