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“The day my father’s heart stopped, I discovered an extra heart deep in my belly, below my right rib. It talked to me. I wasn’t crazy. Before that day, I had just one heart that never said a word.

My little brother, Aaron, was kind of crazy, I guess, but everything in our house was what my Grandpa Ben liked to call “under control.” At least I always knew what to expect. 

Aaron and I had two parents, but really we each had one. Mom was in charge of Aaron. As soon as he was born, she quit her job so she could take care of him. She was his. Grandpa Ben was Aaron’s too. 
Dad was mine. 

I missed Mom—the mother I remembered from Before Aaron. She used to pick me up every day after school. If my nose was running, she had tissues. She took them from her purse, and they smelled sweet like flowers. 

At home, Mom and I used to make things—puppets out of wooden spoons we dressed in scraps from Dad’s old ties. Dolls with a tiny hole in their heads made from eggs with their yolks blown out. We balanced them on toilet paper rolls and made their hair out of wool and their dresses out of colored tissue paper. 

Mom showed me how to paint and glue wings on clothespins. We sprinkled them all over with sequins. We called them Clothespin Angels. We made them talk to one another in high, squeaky voices the way I imagined bugs would sound if they spoke. We played with them for hours. While we played, Mom’s green eye came so close to mine it looked almost too bright, like when I stared at the moon in Cape Cod. 

I have green eyes. Mom has only one that’s green. Her other eye is brown like Aaron’s. I used to wonder: If Mom had been born with both eyes the same color, would they have been green or brown? I asked her if she could change one eye or the other, which color would she choose?

“Green,” she said. “Like new grass.”

“That’s the color of my eyes,” I said, proud she had picked me over Aaron for once. 

Moms says she sees mostly through her green eye. I call it her miracle eye because Mom sees miracles. Not big miracles like Moses parting the Red Sea,but everyday ones like the shadow patterns pigeons make in the park when they flutter. Or mist rising from the Hudson River when sunbeams bounce off the George Washington Bridge and hit the sky. You had to be in the right place at the right time and in just the right mood to see Mom’s miracles. It was easy to miss them. When Aaron came along and took Mom away from me, I thought maybe he was better than me at seeing them…” 

The Girl with More Than One Heart

There are times we all feel we need more than one heart to get through. When Briana’s father dies, she imagines she has a new heart growing inside her. It speaks to her in her Dad’s voice. Some of its commands are mysterious.

Find Her! it says. Be Your Own!

How can Briana “be her own” when her grieving mother needs her to take care of her demanding little brother all the time? When all her grandpa can do is tell stories instead of being the “rock" she needs? When her not-so-normal home life leaves no time to pursue her dream of writing for the school literary magazine? When the first blush of a new romance threatens to be nipped in the bud? Forced by the loss of her favorite parent to see all that was once familiar with new eyes, Briana draws on her own imagination, originality, and tender loving heart to discover a surprising path through the storm.

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Author’s Note

Dear Readers and Fellow Booklovers,

I was asked the other day why I wrote this book. It’s not an easy question for a writer to answer.

When my father died, I decided to write a memoir about his tender relationship with my son who is on the spectrum. I needed to record what the two of them were like together. That was the beginning of THE GIRL WITH MORE THAN ONE HEART, although at that point, there was no girl. And the only heart in the story was my own, which was grieving for my dad.

My wonderful editor, Tamar Brazis, read the book, and it made her cry. She encouraged me to turn it into a novel. I hadn’t a clue where to start. My previous novel had been a fantasy. I didn’t know how to write a story with characters so close to home.

On the anniversary of my dad’s death, I couldn’t sleep. I sat at my desk and wrote: “The day my father’s heart stopped, I discovered an extra heart deep in my belly, below my right rib. It talked to me. I wasn’t crazy. Before that day, I had just one heart that never said a word.”

Suddenly, there was Briana, the heroine of my story. She was thirteen years old, a budding writer who needed to channel her talents and imagination to get through a crisis—the death of her favorite parent. She had a little brother on the spectrum, prone to tantrums And yes—she had a Grandpa Ben who resembled my dad.

Thank you for reading my book. At times, we all feel we need the amplified courage of more than one heart to get through. We all need help making sense of what our hearts say to us. I hope this book helps children and teens who feel different and alone and lost after a crisis of loss discover their true friends, their voices, and the power to tell their own stories.

—Laura Geringer Bass

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A Three Hat Day