Flying Leap. Judy Budnitz

      “My mother had a heart attack this morning,” I say. “I’m at the hospital.”

      “Oh, I knew this would happen,” Mandy says. “I burned my hand on the radiator this morning, and right away I thought, Uh-oh, an omen, something bad’s going to happen. How old’s your mother?”

      “Fifty-seven,” I say.

      “Ooh, that’s young for a heart attack. And she wasn’t fat or anything. I feel like it’s my fault; I should have warned you or something.”

      This is how I met Mandy: One day last spring she got some takeout Chinese for lunch, including a fortune cookie that told her that she would soon meet a mysterious stranger in a blue coat. That afternoon I happened to take my car to get fixed at the garage where she worked. Lucky thing: I was wearing the old blue jacket my mother hated. Mandy asked me out to dinner right then and there. That doesn’t sound like a sound basis for a relationship, but for some people it is. Mandy believes in signs and predictions the way some people believe in religion. She’s usually right about things. She sure did a lousy job on my car, though.

      Mandy’s asking me something, but I can’t hear because the woman next to me is sobbing Spanish into the phone. Mandy says again, “Where did it happen?”

      “At the bank. She was working,” I tell her. “There was an ambulance, and her sisters are here, and I got here as soon as I could. Mandy, could I—”

      The woman next to me is screaming. “I need to ask you something,” I shout into the phone.

      “What—what?” Mandy’s voice calls.

      Finally I tell her to come to the hospital and she says all right and hangs up. I don’t need to tell her where to go; she always seems to be able to find me. She says she just follows my smell.

      I wander down toward where I think the entrance of the hospital is. I stop some stretcher attendants and ask directions, but I can’t understand their English.

      Mandy never gets lost. And she never has to wait in line. Strangers on the street talk to her. Jobs fall in her lap. She’s nice-looking: freckles on her nose, good straight teeth. She keeps telling me that my signs indicate that my life will be on a big upswing soon and that I am just in a transition period right now. I hope she’s right.

      Lately she’s been dropping hints about getting married. And Mandy drops hints like she’s dropping a load of bricks on your foot. My mother hates Mandy. She doesn’t put it that way; she says Mandy is “untidy,” “irresponsible,” and “has no future,” but I get the message.

      I finally reach the lobby, and just as I do, Mandy comes bursting through the doors, beaming at me. She doesn’t smile; she beams. Not like sunlight. Like lasers. She has these eyes like headlights. “I knew I’d find you,” she says. “How’s your mother? Have you seen her?” Her breath in my face is like pine trees and toothpaste.

      “Yeah, she’s all right for now. Come on, let’s go outside for a minute. I want to ask you something.”

      Outside, the afternoon is darkening to early evening. The hospital breathes and shudders behind us. We wander in the parking lot, among the cars, talking softly, like we’re afraid we’ll wake them. It’s cold. The wind sends trash and dry leaves scuttling along the ground. I keep looking back to see if anyone’s following us.

      “They say my mother’s heart is bad. She needs a new one. They want me to donate my heart. What do you think of that?”

      Mandy stops, her eyes and mouth open. Wind whips her frizzy hair around her face. She looks shocked. I breathe a sigh of relief: at last, someone who can see reason.

      But then she says, “Oh, Arnie. How wonderful! Can they really do that? That’s so wonderful—congratulations!”

      “You mean you think I should do it?”

      “Isn’t technology incredible?” Mandy says. “These days doctors can do anything. Now you can share yourself, really give yourself to someone else in ways you never thought were possible before. Your mother must be thrilled.”

      “But it’s crazy—”

      She takes my hands in hers and looks up into my eyes. “Frankly, Arnie, I didn’t think you had it in you. I’m really impressed. Really, I am.”

      “Mandy, I thought you could be realistic about this. What about me? Do you want me dead? What am I supposed to do without a heart?”

      “Oh, I’m sure they could fix you up. The important thing right now is to help your mother.” She unzips my jacket and presses her hands against my chest. My heart twitches, flutters like a baby bird in her hands.

      “What about your heart? If I give my mother my heart, would you give me yours?”

      She draws away from me suddenly. All the lights in the parking lot click on simultaneously and her face is flooded with white. She presses her knuckles to her mouth. “Now that’s not fair,” she says.

      “There! Now you see! When it’s your own heart in question, you change your mind, don’t you?” I cry, waving my arms around.

      “You’re not being fair,” she says again, her lower lip quivering. “You’re the one who doesn’t want a commitment. You’re the one who can’t even say the word marriage. A few months ago I would have given you my heart, and gladly, but you didn’t want it. But now … well, if I gave it now, that wouldn’t be fair to either of us, don’t you see?”

      “No, I don’t. Maybe it’s time we thought about getting married. You could come share the apartment; we could share things—”

      “Oh, you’re just saying that. You’re just thinking about yourself, what you need; you don’t care about me. I think I’d better go—”

      “But Mandy! Wait! What am I supposed to do?”

      “Arnie, you know what the right thing to do is. You should get back to your mother now. Give her my regards.”

      “You hate my mother.”

      “No, I just feel sorry for her. She has a bad aura. She’s had a hard life, and it’s not all her fault,” Mandy says. She pats my arm. “You know what you should do. She’s your mother.”

      I try to kiss her, but she turns away and I get a mouthful of hair. “Why don’t you call me after you make a decision?” she says. “Then maybe we’ll talk.” I’m reaching after her, wanting to grab hold of her hair, the belt on her overcoat, anything, but she’s too quick, a few steps away already.

      I watch her go. Brisk, determined steps, like a schoolteacher. “But Mandy!” I bawl. “Mandy—this may be the last time you ever see me with my heart! Next time I could have a different heart! A different heart! What about that?”

      She doesn’t even stop, just calls over her shoulder, “Who knows, it might be better than the old one.”

      I find my way back to the waiting room. Someone has mopped up the coffee.

      “Feel better?” Nina asks.

      “Made a decision yet?” Fran says.

      “Yes … no … I don’t know,” I say.

      They are both quiet.

      Then Aunt Nina says, “She carried you for nine months. More than nine months! You were late. Do you remember it?”

      “Of course he doesn’t,” Aunt Fran says.

      “She didn’t mind it, of course. She loved it. But it couldn’t have been easy,” Aunt Nina says. “She was a frail woman.”

      “What are you talking about?” I say, though I can guess.

      “There was a time when her heart beat for