When My Heart Joins the Thousand Page 2

  The little boy stands, squinting at me, ice-cream cone in hand.

  What is she thinking, leaving her child alone with a total stranger? For all she knows, I could be a pedophile. Or a hungover idiot who would just watch, mouth hanging open, while the child crawled into the hyena enclosure. I’m not, but that’s beside the point.

  “Hi,” the boy says.

  I have no idea what to say or do, so I just keep eating, watching him from the corner of my eye to make sure he doesn’t run off.

  He licks his ice cream. “Are you, like, an animal trainer? Do you get to teach them tricks and stuff?”

  “No. I just feed them and clean their cages.”

  He points at Kiki, who’s still chewing the bars. “Why is he doing that?”

  I swallow a mouthful of sandwich. “It’s called stereotypy. It’s a nervous habit, like nail biting.”

  “So he’s like a crazy hyena?”

  “No. Repetitive behaviors like that are common in captive animals. It’s a normal response to an abnormal environment.” As an afterthought, I add, “Also, that’s not a he. Her name is Kiki.”

  “No way. He has a thing. A penis.” He enunciates the word carefully, like he’s not sure I’ve heard it before.

  I take another bite of my sandwich and mutter through a mouthful of bologna, “That’s not a penis.”

  He scrunches up his freckled face. “Then what is it?”

  “A phallic clitoris.”

  “A what?”

  “Female hyenas are unusual in the animal kingdom. They’re larger than the males, and dominant, and they have a clitoris the size of—”

  I stop talking as the boy’s mother, red faced and tight lipped, grabs his hand and drags him away.

  “Mom,” the boy says loudly, “what’s a clitoris?”

  “It’s a kind of bird,” she mutters.

  “That’s not what the lady said.”

  “Well, we’re going to have to talk to the lady’s supervisor, aren’t we?”

  A drop of mustard falls from my bologna sandwich and lands on the cobblestones between my feet. I take another bite, but the bread is paper-dry in my mouth. It sticks in my throat.

  That afternoon, before the end of my shift, Ms. Nell—the owner of Hickory Park Zoo—calls me to her office. She glares at me from across her desk, drumming her lacquered nails on the arm of her chair. Ms. Nell is stout and short haired, and her outfits always hurt my eyes. Today her jacket is a blinding pink—the same color as Duke, the parrot who sits in a cage in the corner of her office. There’s a bare spot on his chest where he’s pulled out all his feathers, also a nervous habit.

  “You know why you’re here, don’t you?” she asks.

  I shift in my chair. “Because of something I said. But I was just answering—”

  “Alvie.”

  I stop talking.

  “I know you ain’t as dumb as you act sometimes.” She only says ain’t when she’s very agitated. It makes me nervous. “You ought to have enough sense to know that you don’t start explaining the birds and bees to a kid you’ve just met. Particularly not while his mother’s in earshot.”

  “I was explaining hyena anatomy. It’s part of my job to answer any questions the guests have about the animals. You told me so.”

  She closes her eyes briefly and squeezes the bridge of her nose. “Cut the crap.”

  From his cage in the corner, Duke the parrot squawks, “Cut the crap.”

  I stare at my feet. “I’ll apologize to the boy’s mother if you want me to.”

  “No. You’d probably make things worse.”

  I say nothing, because she’s right.

  “You know,” she says, “this isn’t the first complaint I’ve gotten about you.”

  I tense. “Please give me another chance. I’ll—”

  She holds up a hand. “Relax, I ain’t gonna fire you. But I want you to keep your fool mouth shut around the guests. Stick to feeding and cleaning.”

  I hesitate. “What if someone asks me a question.”

  “Pretend you’re deaf.”

  “How do I do that.”

  “I don’t know. Start signing.” She moves her hands around like she’s making an invisible cat’s cradle, or maybe casting a magic spell. “Like this.”

  “I don’t know sign language.”

  “Fake it,” she snaps.

  I nod, afraid that if I argue, she might change her mind.

  Though I’ve been working here for over a year now, I’m well aware that my position is precarious. I have less than two hundred dollars in savings. I make just enough to cover rent, groceries, and car payments, and if I fail to fulfill my financial responsibilities, I’ll become a ward of the state once again. It has occurred to me that, if I’m not able to successfully live as an adult, a judge might even declare me incompetent, resulting in a permanent loss of my freedom. Given my history, it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility. I might end up trapped in a place like the group home, not just until my eighteenth birthday but for the rest of my life.

  I can’t lose this job.

  That evening, after changing out of my work clothes, I go to the park with the duck pond and sit in my usual spot under the tree. After a while, I check my watch. It’s 6:05, and the boy with the cane isn’t here.

  I don’t like the fact that he’s late. I’m not sure why that should bother me, why I should care at all, but after the unsettling, unexpected meeting with Bernhardt and the lecture from Ms. Nell, I feel like my world has been knocked askew. This is one more incongruity, one more sign of discord.

  I pace for a bit, sit on the grass, and pick at a hole in the knee of my left stocking. I keep picking, widening it, until the boy finally emerges from the door of the building. I dart behind a tree and peek out as he limps across the street, toward the park.

  He seems different today, somehow. He moves slowly and stiffly, like he’s in pain, as he sits down on the bench. He’s facing away from me, so I can’t see his expression.

  I wait, watching, holding my breath.

  At first, he doesn’t move, just stares straight ahead. Then his head drops into his cupped hands and his shoulders shake in silent, shuddering spasms.

  He’s crying.

  I hold very still, not breathing. After a few minutes, his shoulders stop shaking, and he sits very still, slumped. Slowly he stands. Then he takes his cell phone out of his pocket and throws it into the pond. The splash startles several ducks, who fly away with a chorus of quacks.

  He limps out of the park. For a while, I don’t move.

  I retrace his steps to the salmon-pink building. Beyond the glass double doors is a lobby with a TV and a fake potted plant. I touch the rough brick wall, slide my fingers over the glossier stone of the sign outside the door, and trace its chiseled letters. ELKLAND MEADOWS.

  I don’t have my laptop with me, so I flip open my phone. It’s a TracFone—I pay by the minute, so I’m very careful about when and how I use it, but it is internet enabled. A quick online search reveals that Elkland Meadows is an assisted-living facility for people with brain injuries or degenerative neurological diseases, and I wonder for a moment if he’s a patient there. But this isn’t an outpatient clinic. That leaves only one conclusion: he’s visiting someone.

  When I walk to the edge of the pond, I see the phone’s silver curve in the mud, winking in the sunlight. I don’t want to reach into the water—I don’t like water—so I hunt through the grass until I find a stick with a hooked end, and I use it to fish the cell phone out of the pond. On the back, printed on thin white tape, are the words PROPERTY OF STANLEY FINKEL. Below that is an email address.

  It seems a little silly, putting his contact information on the phone. If he’s so concerned about it getting lost, why did he throw it away? I press the on button. The phone flickers once, then dies. I’m about to toss it back into the pond, but something stops me. After a few seconds, I slip it into my pocket.

  CHAPTER THREE


  It’s late.

  I’m sitting on the mattress in my bedroom, legs crossed in front of me, eating Cool Whip from a plastic tub with a spoon. A glob falls onto my shirt; I scoop it up with one finger and suck it clean. The lights are off, the room illuminated only by the faint glow of my laptop, which rests on my pillow. I am playing Go.

  Abruptly Dr. Bernhardt’s voice invades my thoughts: If things don’t change, I’ll have to recommend to the judge that, as a condition of your continued independence, you start seeing a counselor.

  I make a stupid move, and my opponent captures several of my stones. Irritated with myself, I quit the game and close the laptop. I don’t feel like sleeping, so I retrieve my yellowing, dog-eared copy of Watership Down from the shelf, open it, and begin reading. I try to fall into the familiar rhythm of the sentences. The primroses were over. Toward the edge of the wood, where the ground became open and sloped down to an old fence and a brambly ditch beyond, only a few fading patches of pale yellow still showed . . .

  I’ve read the book countless times. Returning to its world of intelligent rabbits and their struggle for survival is a comfortable ritual. But tonight, my thoughts keep wandering. I close the book with a sigh.

  Dr. Bernhardt doesn’t understand, and I can’t explain it to him. He thinks my aversion to human contact is just fear of rejection. It goes so much deeper.

  Inside my head, there’s a place I call the Vault. I keep certain memories there, sealed off from the rest of my mind. Psychologists call this repression. I call it doing what’s necessary to survive. If I didn’t have the Vault, I’d still be in the institution, or on so many heavy-duty medications I’d barely know my own name.

  When I close my eyes and concentrate, I can see it in front of me—a towering pair of metal doors at the end of a long, dark hallway. The doors are strong and solid, with a massive bolt lock holding them shut, protecting me from what lies on the other side. I spent several years constructing this place, brick by brick, forming a sort of mental quarantine unit.

  If Dr. Bernhardt forces me to go to counseling, the doctor will pick and pry at those doors and try to dismantle the fortress I’ve built to protect myself. Psychologists think the solution to everything is to talk about it.

  My hands are shaking. I need to reduce my stimulation.

  If I had a bed, I would hide beneath it, but there’s only my mattress on the bedroom floor. So I go into the bathroom, curl up in the empty bathtub, and cocoon myself with blankets. I wrap them tightly around me, covering even my face, so that there’s only a small slit for air. The pressure helps. Alone, in darkness, I breathe.

  Quiet, enclosed spaces have always felt safe. When I was in second grade, my teacher, Mrs. Crantz, put a cardboard box around my desk and cut a small window out of the front so I could only see straight ahead. Because my gaze wandered, she thought I was distracted by my surroundings, that the box would help me pay attention. She didn’t understand that I was lost in my own thoughts. Cut off from the outside world, it was easier to withdraw inside myself. I spent my time drawing mazes and three-dimensional hexagons in my notebook, which was more fun than listening to Mrs. Crantz read Little House on the Prairie in her droning, nasally voice. Then one day, she tried to take away the box, and I screamed. When she put a hand on my shoulder, I kicked her in the knee. She hauled me to the principal’s office and called my mother.

  Mama arrived wearing sweatpants, her hair still damp from a recent shower. In my head, I can see her now, sitting in the principal’s office, gray eyes wide, fingers clenched tightly on the strap of her purse. “Alvie,” she said quietly, “why did you kick your teacher?”

  “She grabbed me,” I replied in a small voice. “It hurt.”

  “I barely touched her,” Mrs. Crantz protested. “It couldn’t possibly have hurt.”

  But it had. Lots of things hurt me—bright lights, loud noises, itchy dresses—but no one ever believed me when I told them. “It burned me,” I insisted.

  “Burned?” Mrs. Crantz frowned.

  The principal cleared his throat. “Ms. Fitz . . . perhaps you should take your daughter to see a behavioral specialist.”

  Mama’s brow creased. “A doctor? But why?”

  “She’s been having difficulty at school for some time now. I can give you a number to call, if you wish.” He slid a card across the desk. “Please understand . . . we’re just trying to help. For now, maybe you should take her home.”

  I sat in the chair, head down, hands fisted in my lap.

  As we drove home, Mama was quiet, staring straight ahead. Little pieces of her hair caught the sun, turning brighter red. “Does it hurt when I touch you?” she asked.

  “No. Not when you do it.”

  Her stiff shoulders unstiffened. “I’m glad.” She was quiet again for a while.

  It was hot in the car. Sweat glued my shirt to my back. “Why does the principal want me to see a doctor. I’m not sick.”

  “Maybe not, but . . .” She bit her lower lip. “Maybe we should go. Just to be safe.” Her eyes were watery from the bright sunlight. “I love you very much, Alvie. You know that, don’t you?”

  The musty smell of blankets seeps into my awareness, pulling me back to the present. Suddenly the fabric around me doesn’t seem protective so much as constrictive. I gasp, overcome with the feeling that I’m suffocating. I jerk upward, clawing free.

  Moonlight from the tiny window gleams on the tiles, illuminates the pattern of cracks in the walls and the spots of rust blooming on the tub.

  I slump, leaning my head against the wall. My throat thickens briefly, and I choke down the feeling. Mama is gone now. Dwelling on the past won’t help anything. I push the memory of that day back into the depths of my mind, where it belongs.

  Focus. Isolate the problem: Dr. Bernhardt wants me to have a social life. But he can’t hold me accountable if other people avoid me, so if I can just present him with some evidence that I’ve been making an effort, maybe he’ll leave me alone.

  The phone I retrieved from the pond is still sitting on my coffee table. I retrieve it and study the information on the back.

  Stanley Finkel. The name of the boy in the park, the boy with the cane. What would I say to him, anyway?

  It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. I open my laptop, log in to my email and plug Stanley’s address into the “to” box. I type the first question that pops into my head: What do you think of the Copenhagen interpretation?

  Stanley will probably assume the message is spam. And even if he doesn’t, he has no idea who I am, so why would he care?

  I stroke the touchpad, dragging the cursor toward the corner of the screen to close my email program. But before I can, a new message appears in my inbox: Hi, ThousandEnemies. :) That’s an interesting handle. Uh, do I know you?

  I sit, frozen. Sweat trickles down my sides, tiny cold beads. He asked me a question; I should at least answer it. I send: No.

  How did you get my address?

  It was on your phone. I found it in the park. It doesn’t work anymore.

  A pause. Oh. Well, that’s fine. I’m overdue for a new one, anyway. So, what’s the Copenhagen interpretation?

  I didn’t expect him to respond at all. I take a few minutes to compose myself, and then I respond, fingers flitting rapidly over the keys: It’s a common interpretation of quantum physics. It holds that quantum particles don’t conform to one objective reality, but instead exist as multiple probabilities. Only the act of observing or measuring those particles causes them to collapse into a single reality. The thought experiment known as “Schrödinger’s cat” is the most common example. In it, there’s a cat in a box. The cat’s life or death depends on the behavior of a subatomic particle. If the particle spins in one direction, a flask of poison gas is opened. If it spins in the other, the flask remains sealed. According to the Copenhagen’s interpretation, while the box is closed, both exist as possibilities, so the cat is both alive and dead. Only when the box is opened does a singl
e reality emerge.

  I hit send. My palms are damp, so I rub them on my shorts.

  His reply comes a minute later: Well, that’s definitely one of the more unique conversation starters I’ve heard. People usually say something about the weather. Or sports. Though, come to think of it, I never know how to respond to that, either.

  Of course. He doesn’t want to hear about quantum theory. People usually don’t.

  Do you want me to leave you alone? I send.

  No, he replies quickly. You can talk to me about Copenhagen all night if you like. Hey, you want to sign on to Gchat? It’ll be easier.

  Fine. I sign on.

  So what’s your name? he types.

  I suppose there’s no harm in giving him that information. Alvie Fitz.

  Alvie, huh? Like that guy from the Annie Hall movie?

  It can be a girl’s name, too.

  Oh. You’re a girl?

  I’m female, yes.

  I like it, he sends. Your name, I mean. It’s better than mine, anyway. I mean, Stanley Finkel. It sounds like a skeevy game show host or something. Also it rhymes with “tinkle.” Which, needless to say, made grade school a blast.

  It sounds like a normal name to me.

  Well, thank you. :) And then: I have to ask. How did you come across my phone?

  I saw you throw it into the pond. There’s no response. I wait. Why did you throw it away?

  Several minutes pass without a reply, and I begin to wonder if he’s gone. Then a new message appears: I didn’t think I’d need it anymore. I was being stupid. It doesn’t matter now.

  I’m not sure how to respond, so I don’t. After a minute, another line of text pops up: Alvie? Thank you.

  For what?

  Nothing. I just wanted to say thank you.

  I can’t remember the last time someone has thanked me. It’s a strange feeling.

  I have to go, I say.

  I close my laptop. For a while, I sit, staring into space. My heart is beating faster than normal.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I don’t sleep much that night. Variations from my routine always upset my sleeping schedule, and the past few days have been full of aberrations.