Read Online Pinch of Love (9781101558638) by Alicia Bessette - Free Book Online

this morning.”
    I inspected the heart, holding it up in the crack of light that streamed between the bleachers. I welled up at his thoughtfulness; he knew I wanted to study medical illustration. In fact, we both knew from a very young age what we wanted to be when we grew up. That’s probably why we grew so close in high school.
    â€œYou might be the only girl in the world who cries tears of joy when handling a model heart,” he said.
    I threw my arms around him and whispered, “I love you.” It was the first time I said it. I remember the feel of his arms around my hips, his lips on my earlobe, as he said, “I know. I love you back.”
    The heart’s pretty scuffed now, having traveled with me to college and graduate school and beyond.
    Pointing, Ingrid marches to my desk. “Is that a big huge eyeball? Okay. That’s an eyeball. Like, on your desk. ”
    â€œLet’s go,” I say. “I don’t want you to have nightmares about all this stuff.”
    She wags her head. “What kind of freakazoid are you?”
    â€œI draw body parts. It’s my job.”
    â€œFirst all that weirdness in your attic. Now all this weirdness. Show me?”
    â€œShow you what?”
    â€œShow me what you draw.”
    â€œAre you sure you want to see it? It’s all sort of . . . graphic.”
    â€œI like graphic. I think.” She straddles my stool and wheels it over to my desk. I take a seat at my laptop and show her my most recent scan: the cross section of the healthy artery. I explain that blood can flow freely through your arteries if you exercise and eat nutritious foods, but otherwise, all sorts of junk clogs them up, and that makes your heart sick.
    She studies the illustration on the screen and recites the layers I labeled, sounding out the words: tunica intima, tunica media, tunica adventitia. “This is your job?” she asks.
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œThat’s pretty fly.”
    I close the file, and an e-mail remains open underneath it, one I started a while ago but never finished. Ingrid glimpses it before I minimize it. “Was that a letter?” she asks.
    â€œYeah. An e-mail.”
    â€œFrom who?”
    â€œFrom me.”
    â€œTo who?”
    â€œTo my husband.”
    â€œWhy?” she asks.
    â€œBecause when people love each other, they write each other letters,” I say.
    â€œBut I thought your husband was dead. That’s what my dad told me when I asked him if you were married.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I say. “He is dead.” I’m not surprised Garrett knows the story. Nick was somewhat of a local legend, even before he died.
    I reach for my big plastic eyeball and caress the nerves that run atop the choroid. I have to change the subject somehow, but I feel a knot forming in my throat, and I’m afraid to open my mouth.
    Ingrid hops from the stool and climbs into my lap. Her arms ring my neck. I’m surprised by her familiarity, her seemingly instant trust of me. Was I so open as a child?
    Her green eyes search my left eye, then my right. “You don’t lie to me, do you?”
    That stings a bit because I have lied to her—little white lies, about my attic allergy and liking to cook. I rub my thumb on the clear cornea. “Life’s hard enough,” I say.
    â€œTrudy doesn’t lie to me either. I can tell.”
    â€œWho’s Trudy?”
    â€œMy step-grandmother.” She sticks a finger into the plastic eye’s pupil. “There’s a hole in your eye? For real?”
    â€œFor real.” I replace the eye and close my laptop. “Come on. Ahab’s got some running to do.”
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    INGRID, AHAB, AND I HALF TROT, half slide down High Street. The blue faux fur on the hood of Ingrid’s coat rings her round, freckled face. She laughs at Ahab’s form-fitting fleece jacket and neoprene booties. I shush her as we slip and slide down