Second Hand Heart by Catherine Ryan Hyde

little off the wall so far, but go ahead and make your point.”
    “You think you told me you never wanted me to call you again.”
    “That’s what I said. Yes.”
    “No. It isn’t. You didn’t say that. You didn’t say you never wanted me to call. You said “Maybe” it would be best. You said the “maybe” twice. And you never said whether you wanted me to or not. You said “maybe” it would be best if I didn’t. So I’m calling you again. To see if you ever made up your mind for real about that. Or if we’re still in the maybe place.”
    A silence fell.
    It was my job to fill it. I failed miserably.
    It was a long, long silence. I’m not going to say it was minutes or any ridiculous exaggeration like that. I wasn’t really counting, but if I had been, I expect I would have made it all the way to ten. Doesn’t sound like much, but try counting out ten beats of silence sometime in a phone conversation. Particularly when there’s a lot riding on your prompt response.
    “OK,” she said. “I’ll see you, then.”
    Click.
    This time I didn’t wait for the dial tone.
    I also didn’t pretend I would get back to sleep.
    From:
Myra Buckner
To:
Richard Bailey
    Dear Richard,
    I think the care she’s taking of the heart is a normal thing to wonder about. I’m not sure it’s normal to lose sleep obsessing about it. Then again, to judge what’s normal for a person assumes that the person is in normal circumstances. I would tend to give you a lot of extra slack for what you’re going through right now.
    I certainly do that for myself these days. I’m not sure how I’d survive otherwise. And I would hope you would do the same for yourself.
    It does seem, however, that the situation inside your world might be getting worse rather than better. While I wouldn’t expect it to get better very quickly, I would hope that if you really feel yourself falling into a hole, you might want to talk to somebody.
    I don’t mean somebody like me, although you’re welcome to anytime. I think you know that. I also think you know what I mean.
    You might want to talk to a professional.
    But maybe first you could try being more patient with yourself. You seem to expect yourself to be functioning normally, and I think you’re the only one who does.
    Only, if you’re going to wait and watch before seeing a professional, promise me you’ll say something if things seem to be spinning out of control.
    I do worry about you.
    Much love,
    Myra
    PS:
Is this about Vida?
    From:
Richard Bailey
To:
Myra Buckner
    Dear Myra,
    No. Not really. At least, I don’t think so. It’s really about me. I think. But Vida isn’t exactly helping.
    Love,
    Richard

Green
    V ida showed up at my house without notice. I hadn’t heard from her for ages. I hadn’t expected to ever see her again.
    I’m not sure why not. She hadn’t shown any special evidence of letting go, and clearly letting go was not her strong suit. But it seemed, in some odd way, final. As if she’d simply moved on. Reached the end of her likely short attention-span and just kept moving.
    Now that I really stop to think about it, I was practically delusional to think so. But that’s what I’d managed to believe.
    And I was OK with that. So far as I could tell.
    Then there was the knock on the door. And the way it filled me with dread. Not because I thought it would be Vida, or any other variety of tragedy. Just because it represented a situation. Something I’d probably have to deal with.
    I opened it anyway. I’m making progress.
    She stood in my doorway in a shabby, oversized trench coat, her feet bare, her bright-red toenail polish half-chipped away, the worry stone in her right hand, her thumb working it — theoretically — smooth. Behind her I watched a cab draw away. I wondered if Vida even drove. If she’d ever had a chance to learn, like a healthy teen.
    “Does your mother know you’re here?”
    “I’m almost twenty years old. You act like I’m a child. Can’t