What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (34 page)

And despite his best intentions, Zack found himself succumbing to the thrill of satisfying the rapacious appetite of the hungriest woman he knew.

from Samantha Hugo’s Journal
written at the Lighthouse Tavern
Saturday morning

Michael Owen has been nice enough once again to let me sit here in his restaurant during an off-hour. I ordered a pot of tea and told him I wouldn’t need any further service. And since it’s late Saturday morning, and he’s not open for breakfast or lunch, I’m not interfering with any other customers. Lovely cooking smells are starting to drift through the room as he and his staff begin preparing for this evening’s dining
.

From my vantage point at a corner table I can see a gorgeous wedge of coastline that already is inspiring me to take a nice long walk later today. Meanwhile, it’s lovely sitting here, away from both work and home, and handy having a table since my journals are these 8 ½ × 11 hardcover tomes that are a little unwieldy when I write outside
.

I was carrying my journal the other day when I went into the post office. I saw that woman there again—the one I don’t know well, but often run into there. When she noticed my journal, she asked if I wrote in it every day
.

“No,” I said, “but often.”

“Oh, brother,” she said, “I could fill it up for you.”

We laughed, but I sensed her pain
.

She launched into an abbreviated version of her story: she’d been hurt by a man. In her head, she’d known he was no good for her. But her heart’d just said, “So what?” So she’d lived with this division between the logical and the intuitive sides of herself. It was the same with all her women friends, she said. They’d all decided men were hopelessly stupid and callous about feelings
.

Remembering our conversation afterward, this seemed sad. Not that I don’t agree men can be stupid—it’s amazing how often I think that about Jack! But as women, we’re not doing a good job either, if we’re relegating our intuitions to hopelessly romantic flutterings that cannot inform our choices or infuse us with courage to
know
what we feel and to
say
what we need
.

A few women have no problem with this. I’ve seen Lorraine chair the Town Council meetings with a straight-line approach that’s dynamic and effective. So this is not always a gender issue
.

The linear knowledge of the head can be vital. In meetings, it’s usually the men who cut through a morass of details and get right to the issue with a single-mindedness I wish I had. So I must admit—sometimes grudgingly—men make the world a better place by providing clarity and focus
.

But equally important is the contextual, circular knowledge of the heart—often the purview of women. I’m beginning to wonder if the heart isn’t just as much a thinking organ as the
brain. It knows so much, yet its information isn’t translated in words. Have we lost its language? Is that why we can’t hear what the heart is trying to tell us? We hear something, but dismiss it as “foolish” or indulging in “wishful thinking” or “sentimental.” These minimize its true import
.

Maybe it’s because of the noticeable absence of a man in my life, but for so long, now, I’ve ignored the heart and been governed by the head. I’ve made a practice of it, dismissing my feelings as immature vestiges of sentimentality. But all along, the heart has been ticking, and—perhaps more important—knowing. At this moment in my life it’s made its presence known with an unmistakable depth of emotion far beyond something I can relegate or control
.

The anguish of giving up a child no one can know except for the parent who has suffered the loss. I wouldn’t have believed that thirty years ago. I thought I knew all about loss then
.

For years I thought I did a good job overcoming that dark chapter. The emotional river was turbulent for me in those days, spilling its banks and doing damage I had no capacity to understand. Maybe that’s the way it is for every 20-year-old. Maybe it’s the function of the elders to clean up those muddy floods, right those boats, send the fledgling adults more steadily downstream
.

But what of the little passenger I failed to shelter? I rationalize that I was immature. But was I really? I was a college student, so worldly-wise in matters of anthropology … yet so instinct-injured when it came to matters of the heart
.

I bore a child, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. No, I didn’t let him drown. But I placed him ashore. I trusted to the kindness of strangers that he would be cared for in some appropriate way
.

As the years went by, I soothed myself that this mistake had long since washed itself to the sea with the volume of my tears. But such was not the case. The coldness with which I accepted the reality that I was not prepared to rear a child gradually froze my heart, as though I’d fallen into the river myself and was slowly succumbing to emotional hypothermia. Only now has the thaw begun
.

Chilling thought. Cold comfort
.

Perhaps I’ve only managed the loss like a person manages a chronic disease with the right prescription. It seems my prescription has run out, and now the loss is hitting me with a force I could not have imagined
.

It’s beginning to color how I look at Jack. That’s another thing I thought was washed out to sea decades ago—the passion I had for that man. Now I’m not so sure. When I’m screaming at him about environmental regulations, I have to keep myself from yelling, “I’ve lost our son!” I even want to shout at him, “Hold me! Give me some solace!” But I’ve lost the ability to ask him for help
.

In our early days together, we could share anything—that was the genius of our relationship. As though we had a special room where we could be vulnerable without reprisals, we could open ourselves to a communication that was authentic and free. But once we lost the connection to one another, I locked that virtual room and I threw away the key. Not even my bitterness is a strong enough acid to burn through the lock I turned so many years ago
.

Now images are beginning to surface like photographs being developed from a lost roll of film. To see again that child-face bursting with curiosity, trusting his entire child-heart to his only known ally, venturing his tiny boat upon the big waters of life
—without me
.

Abandonment—the word and the idea—looms large in my vocabulary these days. The Latin “bandon” means jurisdiction. The definition of “abandon” in my old Webster’s is fearsome: “To give up with the intent of never again claiming one’s rights or interests in; to desert.” Possibly the second meaning is even more personally devastating: “To give oneself up without attempt at self-control, as to grief.”

What did I do to my son’s child psyche? Without the orienting beacon of a mother’s presence, did it struggle to feel whole as he grew? Or was there another bright light in his young life that guided him?

Was there a memory of loss, or was that remembrance buried, and did it decay and fade away? Does he have a better life than he would’ve had with me? Has he been loved … loved more than I would’ve loved him? Did he become strong and independent? Or did he merely manage as I did, and will the secret engulf him one day in a flood of self-doubt and conflicted feelings?

Does he know he’s adopted? If I find him and reveal myself as his mother—do I do him a kindness, resolving the riddle of his life? Or do I destroy his world, smash his trust in all that he has known?

Or should I wait to
be
found in order to protect his child-heart still? If so, do I figure out a way to leave clues like small piles of rocks for him to follow?

Can I function while this boils within me? My one nemesis in town—and, for that matter, in life—is Jack. Do I go to him and ask for leniency? Forgiveness? Understanding? Compassion? Didn’t he bury these qualities long ago? Isn’t that why I left him?

But can I get through this alone? Can I get through it at all?

My heart is restless, and I know I’m looking for something. It’s not geographic—I know I’ve found a home here in this special town. But the restlessness is tangible, and I feel the need to find my son as a physical yearning. It’s also psychological, in that I sense a discomfort that always signifies growth
.

It’s as though I’ve been told there’s a treasure buried somewhere, and I know I’m searching for the map. Dostoyevsky says, “Only the heart knows how to find what is precious.”

Some days I consider my life, and, by-and-large, it’s a happy one. I’m busy, productive. I passionately care about my work. I believe I’m doing what I was put here in this world to do. Or at least I did believe that until now. I’ve built something in Milford-Haven. Some people dislike me, but at the end of the day, they know what I stand for, and they respect that. Well, everyone but Jack. Who knows the complex reasons for his disapproval? Even at the most obvious level, he’s stuck with an authority figure who’s not only a woman, but his ex-wife. So I discount his publicly poor opinion of me as a matter of private vanity
.

Though I tell myself I don’t care what other people think, I know it’ll make my life a nightmare if the small-town gossip mill gets hold of this. “Samantha: the person who—despite her high moral tone—fell from grace even as she stumbled into adulthood. Samantha: the Town Council member who years ago gave up her own legitimate child for adoption. Samantha: the unfit mother.” They’d enjoy chewing me up and spitting me out over the breakfast newspaper for at least a few weeks
.

But, more than caring what others think, I care about making sense of my life. I care that my choices have a discernible logic to their pattern, that I be able to trace a path of reason—
even if no one else can. The thing is, what I’ve glimpsed lately is that logic alone can’t resolve life’s purpose; the heart has to be involved
.

The Myers Briggs Personality Type Indicator distinguishes between Sensors and Feelers. A Sensor is the classic “show me” type: he trusts only what he can see, touch, hear, taste or smell. A
thing
isn’t entirely real to him unless it’s standing in front of him. In fact, that’s his definition of “tangible.”

A Feeler is just the opposite—and it describes me perfectly. I trust what I feel, even if all the external evidence is against it. You can show me a bridge, but if it “feels” wrong, I won’t cross it; show me a report signed, sealed and delivered, but if I sense something phony about it, I’ll discount it. If this is considered to be “heart” information, then there are times I do favor it. Maybe this is more important than I thought
.

The physical way of viewing the heart is the only one validated by our society. From this perspective—according to what I’ve read—the heart is an organ that beats some hundred thousand times in a day, thirty-five million times in a year, and more than two-and-a-half billion times in a lifespan. It’s the pump that moves a million barrels of blood during its hundred-year run—enough to fill more than three super tankers
.

But Deepak Chopra—ignored by some, revered by others—says something far more significant. He says the heart is the “invisible organizing power of the universe.” That got me thinking metaphorically: when we talk about the “heart of the matter” we’re talking about the core issue; to “take heart” is to be courageous; to be “soft-hearted” is to have compassion and mercy; one’s “heartthrob” is a major infatuation; “heartache” is misery; “heartbreak” is wretched disappointment; “hearten” is to
reassure; and a “heartfelt” sentiment is a badge of authenticity. In Latin the word for heart is “cor,” which in English gives us the meaning of “core”: the central part of anything. Synonyms are nucleus, pith, essence, gist, substance. In Spanish heart is “corazon”; in French it’s “coeur,” and this can be found as the root for the word courage—which seems very apt in my current circumstance
.

The word “core” has intriguing practical applications. For a rope maker, the core is the central strand around which all others are twisted; for an electrician, it’s the conducting wire inside the insulation; at a foundry, it’s the central mold used to shape the interior
.

I agree with Chopra when he says that the power at the core of any developing idea is what causes it to manifest. I’m sure I’m experiencing this phenomenon right now as a kind of inner guidance system I can’t explain … and can’t avoid
.

And yet I keep these instincts to myself, for they are not acceptable in our logicdominated society. I find myself searching for ways to back my intuitive findings with some kind of empirical documentation lest I, myself, be dismissed as a wellmeaning, anecdotetoting treehugger rather than a serious scientist
.

I think, however, that the only way to survive this chapter of my personal life is to trust the heart more than the head, because the heart is contextual where the head is linear. Somehow the heart is silently knowing, while the head is frantically wondering
.

It’s going to take more than brains to get through this. It’s going to take heart, soul, faith, guts, maybe even luck—whatever that is
.

After all these years, this one thing I know:

What matters is not what gossip reports, nor what reason suspects, but what the heart knows
.

Cast of Characters

Joseph Calvin:
mid60s, 6’1, gray eyes, steelgray hair, cleanshaven, lean, handsome; CEO of Santa Barbara’s Calvin Oil; eligible widower; dates several women including Christine Christian.

Zackery Calvin:
mid30s, 6’2, blue eyes, dark blond hair, handsome, lean, athletic; Vice President of Calvin Oil, works with his father; popular bachelor; dates Cynthia Radcliffe; becomes smitten with Miranda Jones.