When My Heart Joins the Thousand Page 4

“I assumed that you’d sit if you felt like it and that you’d ask for a drink if you wanted something.”

  “Yes, but it’s polite to offer.”

  I take this as his way of saying he wants something to drink. I wish people would be more direct. “I’ve got water, coffee, and orange soda.”

  “Just water, thanks.”

  I fill a glass and set it on the coffee table, and he sits, peering at me over the rims of his glasses. “So,” he says, “how have you been?”

  It’s a routine question, and I usually answer fine without elaborating. But after last session, I feel like I need to be more specific. “I met someone.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You mean . . .”

  “We’re just talking online,” I reply quickly. “We’ve been discussing quantum theory. Among other things.” I pour myself a glass of orange soda.

  “So, are you going to tell me anything about this person? How old is he? Or she?”

  “Nineteen. He’s a student at Westerly College.”

  “And?”

  I take a swig of soda. The fizz tickles going down my throat. “He’s . . . interesting. I like talking to him.” Even admitting that much feels strange. “But we’ve never met face-to-face.”

  “Text-based companionship is better than none at all. In any case, I know this was a big step for you. And it sounds like you and he have some common interests.”

  “I suppose. He doesn’t have a very advanced knowledge of physics. And he turns everything into a metaphor. Sometimes a thing just is what it is.”

  “Even so. It’s encouraging that you’ve started getting outside your comfort zone.” For the next twenty seconds, he’s silent. He seems to be thinking about something. At last, he takes a deep breath. “Alvie . . . do you still want to be emancipated as soon as possible?”

  Of course that’s what I want. I’ve wanted that from the beginning. Still, a moment passes before I answer, “Yes.”

  “I want you to think about it, about what it would mean for you. You’d be an adult, which also means that you’d be responsible for all your own finances. You wouldn’t receive any help from the system.”

  I’m not receiving any help from the system now. But I’ve always known that a safety net existed, that if I lost my job and my apartment, I wouldn’t end up on the streets. Even if I was miserable there, the group home meant a roof and regular meals. “Why are you saying this.”

  “I talked to Judge Gray recently. She’s prepared to review your case again.”

  The words send a jolt through my system. I hadn’t expected it to happen this soon. The plan was for me to keep seeing Dr. Bernhardt until I turned eighteen. What’s changed?

  “To be honest,” he continues, “I’d prefer that you stay under supervision for another year. I see no need to rush this. But the decision’s not up to me.”

  My mind is empty, white static.

  “Alvie? You don’t have to do this, you know. You can wait.”

  This is what I wanted. Isn’t it? “I’ll do it.” I take a breath. “When—when is the appointment?”

  “One month from now. In the meantime, I can help you prepare. We’ll go over any questions she might ask you. And, obviously, I’ll put in a good word for you. But Judge Gray is the one who’ll make the final call. You’ll have to convince her that you’re capable of living independently, that you’re mentally and emotionally ready for it.”

  My hand drifts to my left braid, and my fingers curl around it, pulling. I catch myself and drop my arm to my side.

  All I have to do is present the judge with evidence that I’m a functional adult. I pay my bills. I show up to work on time. That’s all that matters, isn’t it?

  Dr. Bernhardt seems to be waiting for me to say something else, so I say, “Okay.”

  “Right, then.” He takes a sip from his glass of water, which he’s barely touched—why did he ask for it if he wasn’t thirsty? He stands and turns toward the door. “I’ll see you in two weeks so we can start preparing—same time okay?”

  I nod. Before he steps out, he pauses and looks over his shoulder. “I’m glad you made a friend.”

  The door closes behind him.

  Friend. Is that what Stanley is to me?

  That night, when I sign on to Google Chat, Stanley isn’t there. I wait a few minutes, then a few minutes longer. Something is wrong. Stanley always signs on at eight o’clock.

  An hour goes by. I pace around the apartment. My chest feels tight, as if there are invisible bands around it, constricting a little more with each passing minute. Briefly I consider signing off and never signing back on. After all, I originally started talking to him just to get Dr. Bernhardt off my back, and that’s no longer an issue.

  But I’ve grown accustomed to my nightly conversations with Stanley. He’s now a part of my life. I don’t like that I’ve come to anticipate his presence. It feels dangerous.

  Finally a message pops up on the screen. Hey. Sorry I’m late.

  I should probably act like this isn’t a big deal, like it doesn’t affect me. But I’ve never been good at faking indifference. Where were you?

  It’s kind of a long story.

  I have time.

  The words SFinkel is typing flash across the screen, disappear, appear again. He does this sometimes, as if he’s composing responses and then deleting them.

  I broke my fibula in biology class today. Fell against a desk. I realize that sounds completely ridiculous, but I’m a klutz, so this kind of thing has happened to me before. It’s just a hairline fracture, but they kept me at the hospital for hours, and I had to practically start a fight with them to avoid getting X-rays. Anyway, I’m feeling okay now. They gave me Percocet for the pain. Great stuff. Sends you right to la-la land. They put it in a little bag with a smiley face and everything.

  I reread the words. You’re not okay, I send.

  What?

  When you say “okay,” it always means “bad.” When you’re actually okay, you say “great.”

  There’s a brief pause. If I may be completely honest, I feel like shit. It’s not even the pain. I just really hate hospitals. Can I call you? I’m a little loopy right now. It’s easier to talk than type.

  His typing seems fine. I start to rock back and forth.

  Until now, my conversations with Stanley have felt abstract, disconnected from everything else in my life. Even if I know what he looks like, I’ve only interfaced with him from behind the safety of a screen, and he’s never pushed for more. Now he wants something. If I talk to him on the phone, it will change things.

  My own breathing echoes through the silence, a little too loud and fast.

  Alvie?

  You can call me, I send. But I’d prefer to respond through text if that’s acceptable to you.

  After a brief delay, he asks, Why?

  The request must sound strange to him. I suppose I could just tell him I’m mute, but I have no faith in my ability to lie convincingly. I feel more comfortable communicating through text. It’s easier for me.

  Well, okay. If that’s what you want.

  The phone rings once. Twice. I pick it up.

  “Alvie?” His voice sounds more or less the way I expected, young and a little uncertain.

  I’m here, I type. It takes a little longer with one hand.

  “Um. Hi.”

  Hello.

  A few heartbeats of silence pass. “So how was work today?”

  Passable.

  “Well, that’s good. I mean, I guess passable is good. It’s not bad.” He lets out a small sigh. “God, I’m so out of it right now. So, uh . . . how are things outside of work?”

  I’ve been reading about multiple worlds theory.

  “Oh?”

  I start to type out an explanation of universal wave function, but before I can finish, he says, “I’d really like to meet you sometime. In person, I mean. If you found my phone, you must live in the area, right? I thought maybe . . . we could have lunch, or some
thing.”

  My heart drops out of my chest. Or at least, that’s what it feels like.

  “I won’t pressure you,” he continues. “I know you’re a really private person. But I’d like to know what you’re like in real life. Not that this isn’t real, but. You know.”

  My vision momentarily grays out, and my hearing goes fuzzy. When it comes back, he’s saying my name, his tone urgent. “Alvie? Alvie, are you there? Please say something.”

  The phone is slick with sweat, pressed against my ear. I’m breathing too hard. Too fast. I feel a little nauseous.

  He keeps saying my name.

  “I . . .” My voice emerges flat and hoarse. “I have to go.” I stab a button with my thumb, ending the call. Black spots swim across my vision, and I shut my eyes, hugging my knees to my chest.

  In a flash, I see the doors of the Vault before me. A faint rumble emanates from within.

  My chest feels strange, as if a yawn’s gotten stuck inside it. My jaws clench. A dull pain throbs behind my left eye and shoots down my neck. I recognize the beginnings of a panic attack. I go to the tub and wrap myself in blankets, but it doesn’t help—not this time.

  No one has ever died from a panic attack.

  In ten minutes or so, it will be over.

  I just need to get through it. I repeat the well-worn phrases to myself as I gasp for breath.

  When the attack dies down I’m left shaking and bathed in a thin, icy layer of sweat. I extract myself from the covers, kneel in front of the toilet, and retch.

  Hand shaking, I wipe my mouth with toilet paper. It’s been months since I’ve been that bad.

  For a brief moment, I think about calling Dr. Bernhardt. Maybe he can put me in touch with someone who’ll prescribe me some sedatives—something to numb me, to take the edge off. But I can’t deny the sinking dread that fills me whenever I think about setting foot inside a doctor’s office.

  When I was fifteen, fresh out of foster care, I had a mandatory psychological assessment with an old woman who emitted a pickled, salty smell, like olives, but the session was very short and perfunctory. I spent most of it staring at the wall and answering her questions as vaguely as possible, wanting to get it over with. I’d already had far too much interaction with doctors and other medical professionals when I was a child. None of them ever truly helped me.

  The first time I ever saw a counselor, I was in third grade. Her office was filled with dolls and puppets. There was a Feeling Wheel with colors labeled HAPPY and SAD and MAD and CALM. During our first session, she tried to teach me how to smile.

  “A smile is an easy way to be friendly,” she told me, pointing at her own rosy, dimpled cheeks. “Like this. Now you try.”

  I bared my teeth.

  “That’s . . .” She cleared her throat. “That’s very good. Here, why don’t you practice in front of the mirror?”

  I tried again.

  “Now, one more time. Try to relax.”

  “Apes will show their teeth as a sign of submission,” I told her.

  She blinked her bright eyes at me and tilted her head. “Well, that’s interesting. But remember, people aren’t apes.”

  “Yes, they are. Humans are primates, just like chimps and bonobos.”

  “Let’s try that smile one more time, shall we?”

  That week, at school, there was another incident, which was what the grown-ups called it when something bad happened. A boy started following me in the hallway between classes, rolling marbles in his pencil box, because he knew the sound drove me crazy. I felt like the marbles were rolling around in my head, clattering off the walls of my skull. I told him to stop, but he didn’t. I tried to ignore him. He kept following me, rattling the marbles louder and louder and chanting, “Robo-tard, Robo-tard” in a singsong voice. Finally I spun around and backhanded him across the face. I got detention for two days.

  “Now, let’s talk about that situation,” the counselor said during our next meeting. “How could it have gone differently?”

  I sat in my chair with my arms crossed and my gaze fixed on the floor. “Just make them stop hurting me.”

  There’s a pause. “That’s not really what I do, sweetie. You can always talk to the principal or teachers—”

  “I do. They won’t stop it, either.”

  “For now, let’s talk about what happened with that boy. I know he started it, but you can’t control what other people do. You can only control what you do. So, tell me—what could you have done, besides hitting him?”

  “Kick him,” I muttered.

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  Why did everyone act like it was my fault when the other kids bullied me? Why was I always the one who had to change?

  For the rest of the session, I refused to talk, and she sent me home early. When it came time for my next appointment with the rosy-cheeked counselor, I hid in my room. I had decided that if grown-ups weren’t going to help me, I’d rather they just left me alone.

  I surface from the haze of memories, turn on the sink, and wash the sour taste of vomit out of my mouth.

  When I check my email, there are several new messages from Stanley.

  I run my finger over the touchpad, dragging the cursor to the first message to open it—then stop. I’m not ready; I need to clear my mind, to reestablish my center of control.

  I close my laptop.

  My stomach is rumbling—I haven’t eaten since breakfast—so I heat up a bowl of instant ramen and flip through channels until I find a nature documentary.

  Polar bears amble through the snow. As I watch them, I feel my muscles untensing, my heart rate slowing. Animals’ lives are simple. Eat, play, mate, survive. They don’t have to worry about rent, or work, or strange, complicated, confusing feelings. I slurp up some noodles.

  On the screen, two polar bears are mating. The female’s eyes are narrowed to slits, her teeth bared, her tongue poking out—in discomfort or pleasure, or maybe both—as the male mounts her from behind.

  I realize I have stopped chewing and the noodles are sitting in my mouth, a soggy lump.

  The male polar bear finishes, withdraws, and wanders away. The female lounges on the snow and yawns, pink tongue curling. My mind flashes back to the couple I saw at the zoo two weeks ago—the easy, natural physical contact between them, the way they looked at each other, as if nothing else existed. I wonder if they have sex.

  That’s not something I’ll ever be able to do. How could I? I don’t even like being touched.

  But all animals—including humans—are hardwired to reproduce. It’s basic instinct, along with eating and defecating.

  I’m still human. Aren’t I?

  The thought triggers a memory of the overheard conversation between Toby and Unibrow—Toby’s leering comments, his companion’s shocked reaction—Gross. You’re sick.

  Of course, I would never mate with Toby. He’s an idiot and a bully who treats animals like things. In fact, it is hard to imagine a less appealing person. But it irritates me that Unibrow seemed to find his attraction to me so repulsive. Does he assume that just because I’m different, I’m incapable of having a sexual relationship with anyone? That I’m unable even to feel desire?

  Is he right?

  The thought is like a flea burrowing into the back of my brain, itching, refusing to be ignored.

  CHAPTER SIX

  When I finally open my email, the next day, there’s another new message from Stanley: If you don’t want to meet, we don’t have to. We can just keep talking online. I don’t want to lose this. Just let me know you’re okay.

  For several minutes, I sit, staring at the message. He’s offering me an escape route, a way to retreat back into our safe, text-based relationship. I should take this opportunity—should tell him that there’s no possibility of us meeting. We can go back to our long, late-night conversations about existence.

  But now that the sense of panic has faded, I allow myself—cautiously—to contemplate the possibilit
y. What if I did meet him?

  I run the various scenarios through my head, like computer simulations of battle strategies, but it all comes down to two major possibilities. Number one: I panic or say something stupid. Humiliation ensues. I slink home and resume my monotonous but safe life of solitude. Number two: somehow, incomprehensively, it goes well, and he wants to meet me again.

  The second possibility scares me far more than the first. But what unnerves me most of all is that—in spite of my fear—a part of me still wants to meet him. Now that the idea has been planted, it won’t leave me alone.

  I pick up my Rubik’s Cube and fiddle with it, twisting the rows of color, turning it over and over in my hands as my thoughts turn along with it. I empty my mind of emotion, transforming myself into a cool, efficient computer, and pour in all the data.

  Something clicks.

  I email Stanley: Meet me tomorrow in the park at six o’clock. I close the laptop without waiting for a response.

  That night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my mind cycling through everything that could possibly go wrong.

  But I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to do this.

  I take an over-the-counter sleeping pill, and a dull fog settles over me, but still, I don’t drift off. Instead, images begin to creep through my head, things I haven’t thought about for years.

  People say that the past can’t hurt you. They’re wrong.

  Humans experience time as a linear progression of cause and effect, as if we are all ants walking along an endless string, always moving forward, never back or sideways. We think that the past disappears as soon as we leave it. But that’s not necessarily true. Some theoretical physicists believe that space-time is more like an infinite sea with all points existing simultaneously.

  In short, the past is alive. It’s happening.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I am nine years old. Jessamine Coutier, a girl in my class, is having a birthday sleepover party, and I’ve been invited.

  I don’t know why. Jessamine isn’t my friend. In fact, I’ve heard her saying bad things about me at school. The invitation smells like a trap, and I don’t want to go, but Mama begs me. “This will be good for you,” she says. “You’ll have a chance to make some friends. Please, just give it a try.”