Take care,
Her Heart
Rather than soak up the beautiful words from this stranger who might be the most familiar person in my lonely world, I can only focus on the mountain, and the question of where this mountain is. I need to find it, in hopes of finally meeting this woman. Although, I shouldn’t be dumb enough to think she’s just sitting around some mountain waiting for me to show up.
“Maybe she was at that mountain Grampy took us to last year,” Olive says. Mountain. What mountain? I don’t know if this woman even lives in this state, or on this side of the country. I don’t know how she knows who I am, and I certainly don’t know who she is. I always thought the donation and recipient process was anonymous. I’ve contacted the hospital several times, pleading for information, but each time I have been led to another roadblock. I did find out that this particular donation wasn’t completely anonymous, but the recipient requested to keep her identity private. I’ve looked up the laws and it doesn’t add up. Any time I’ve tried to get somewhere by arguing this, I get nowhere. “We should go to that mountain.” There is no mountain in this town or the surrounding area. Olive snags the letter from my hand and turns it over. “Look, Daddy.” During the short second it takes for me to take the letter back and flip it over, I pray that there is contact information.
But there isn’t.
Instead, I find a drawing.
“That was mommy’s favorite,” Olive whispers. “She likes them, too.” The letter falls from my limp hand, and I watch it float like a feather to the ground.
CHAPTER FOUR
NOVEMBER
-Two Months Later -
“Your sandwich isin the fridge and your cereal is on the counter,” Olive says, pulling on her backpack.
I kneel down and wave her over. “You don’t need to make me food anymore, Ollie.”
“You can makemefood,” AJ says from the couch. “You know Uncle AJ is always hungry.” He rubs his hand over his growing gut.
“Uncle, you eat all of our food! You’re going to turn into a piggy,” Olive says through laughter.
“Well, if your darn aunt wouldn’t keep me on this clean-eating, inhumane diet, I wouldn’t be so hungry every time I come here.” Olive just looks at him with question. She may sound older than five, but she’s five and has no clue what a diet, let alone a “clean-eating” one is.
“Well,” Olive says, turning back toward me. “If you don’t want me to make you food, maybe Miss Charlotte can make you lunch again, I guess.” A tiny smile pinches at her lips. “I think that would be okay. Don’t you, Daddy?”
“Olive, I’ve already told you—” She places her fingers in her ears and hums loudly, avoiding the words I’m trying to speak.
“That-a-girl, Ollie-Lolly,” AJ says, pointing at Olive with a wink.
“Come on, we’re going to be late,” I tell her, giving AJ the look he was desperately trying to get out of me.
As we step outside, Charlotte and Lana are coming out of their house, as well. Olive’s hand slips out of mine, and she books it down the driveway, stopping momentarily to look both ways before crossing the street. Within seconds, Olive and Lana’s hands are interlocked and they’re running down the street ahead of us.
“I take it she’s feeling better today,” Charlotte says. “Did the soup help?”
“I guess it did,” I laugh. “Thanks for bringing it over.”
“It was the least I could do after Lana was nice enough to share her germs with Olive.” Charlotte folds her arms over her chest and shivers against the brisk wind. “I guess autumn is here, huh?”
I look over at her. Her cheeks are rosy against the rest of her pale skin and her eyes are a bit puffy. For a second, I wonder if she has been crying, but then she sneezes. “Oh no. You’re sick?”
“I’m fine,” she shoos me off, sniffling a bit. “Moms don’t get sick.”
“You should be wearing a coat,” I tell her. She’s wearing a flimsy, long-sleeved t-shirt and I’m guessing the chill in the air is seeping right through the fibers of the shirt. I might be a frigid person, but I’m still a gentleman. I unzip my hooded sweatshirt and hand it over to her. “Put this on.”
“I’m good, but thank you,” she says, pushing my hand away.
“Put it on,” I say firmly. “I don’t make the best chicken soup, so—”
She looks at me with an arch in her brow and her lips press together. “Thank you,” she groans begrudgingly, giving in. Slipping on my sweatshirt, she scrunches up the sleeves and pulls her hands through. The fabric drops down to her knees, making the size difference between us quite apparent.
Her sniffles continue for the duration of the walk, and I notice an increased flush across her cheeks when we reach the bench at the bus stop.
