Second Hand Heart by Catherine Ryan Hyde Page B

time to consider the question.
    “She was calm,” I said.
    “Calm?”
    “Yes. Calm. Peaceful. Serene.”
    “That’s important?”
    “It was to me. Because I don’t have that. I would get all spun out on the smallest details. The most insignificant complications of my day. But then when I got home and we had dinner, I could borrow some of her calm. She actually had enough to spare. I could breathe it in. Drink it. And then I’d be grounded again.”
    “OK,” she said. “That’ll do.”
    I felt vaguely insulted, as if my most important memories shouldn’t have to pass muster for her purposes.
    Vida turned off the light. I thought maybe she just didn’t want to see the pictures of my late stranger-wife any more. The only light left in the room was the lamp in the corner, more of a glow than a light.
    Vida let her coat drop to the floor. She was naked underneath.
    I wasn’t entirely surprised. Part of me was. The part of me that was surprised seemed to be under scrutiny by the part of me that wasn’t. I registered no genuine feeling about it. One way or the other. I think it mostly just bumped me back into a state of numb.
    I just want to clarify that it was unwelcome. But I’m not sure I registered that as a genuine feeling, either.
    She looked painfully thin. Her breasts were small and hard, like unripe fruit. So different from Lorrie, whose breasts had been full and soft, a little drooped, like over-ripe fruit, sweeter and more promising.
    After that comparative observation all I could see was the scar.
    I walked to where she was standing, picked up the coat, handed it back.
    “Cover yourself,” I said. My voice sounded authoritarian. I noticed that. As if I had unexpectedly slipped back into my professorial mode.
    “I’m not going home.”
    “Put on your coat, Vida.”
    She did. Blinking back what I think might have been tears. But blinking a lot, in any case. She flew off into my bedroom, which seemed odd. I thought I’d made myself so clear on that point.
    Then I heard the bathroom door slam shut, and the deadbolt click into place.
    That clarified a lot.
    •  •  •
    When she ventured out again, it was nearly two hours later.
    I was sitting under the glow of the corner lamp, reading a novel. I tried to show no special reaction to her presence.
    She stood over me, all full to exploding with her own deficiencies, whatever they may have been. I could feel energy pouring off her in waves. Intensity. But she didn’t speak.
    With a flip of my head I indicated the couch, where I’d laid out a pair of Lorrie’s old pajamas.
    Ah. I just wrote down a secret in black and white. I told Myra I’d boxed up all of Lorrie’s clothes. And yet somehow I’d been allowing the dresser drawers full of underwear and pajamas to fall into a different, non-clothes category. I’d pretended they didn’t count.
    Vida threw off her coat and threw it on the back of the couch. In my peripheral vision I could see her look back to catch if I was watching. I didn’t watch. She put my wife’s pajamas on and tucked in under the blanket I’d left for her.
    By this time it was close to midnight.
    “Why are you being so cold to me?” she said.
    I put my book down, took off my glasses. Pressed my eyes shut and squeezed the bridge of my nose, the way I always do when I’m trying too hard at thinking. It’s as if I’m trying to focus all my confusion into the bridge of my nose, but I don’t know why.
    “I can’t afford to lose anything else right now. Can you understand that?”
    “No,” she said.
    And I found myself thinking, No? No? I didn’t expect that anyone would say no. But I said nothing.
    “I set myself up for loss all the time,” she said. “Over and over.”
    I wanted to say, “Yes. I know. I know lots of people who do. And I do not aspire to join their ranks.”
    Instead I said, “Well. Women have a higher pain threshold. About nine times higher. I think. I think I read that somewhere. It’s for