When My Heart Joins the Thousand

by A. J. Steiger

  Our eyes meet. Strange feelings well up in me, sudden and powerful, and after a moment, I have to look away. A faint alarm bell clangs somewhere in my brain, letting me know that I’m approaching a danger point; my emotions are starting to overload. I need to withdraw, to reassess and process everything I’ve experienced today. I set down my coffee cup and say, “I should go.”

  “Wait.” He sets down his cup, too, and wets his lips.

  A branch taps against the window like a skeletal finger. A flash of lightning momentarily lights the sky, and the branch’s shadow stretches across the wall, long and black. I grip the edge of the couch.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately,” he says.

  The alarm bells in my brain clang louder. Pull back. “About what.”

  “Us.”

  At the word, I twitch, fingers digging into the upholstery.

  The air has shifted. Though my eyes are open, I can see the doors of the Vault in front of me. They’re dull gray, flecked with rust, so close and real I could touch them. I blink rapidly. “Can we talk about it later.”

  “I really need to get this out.” He runs a hand over his hair and rubs the back of his neck. Then he picks up his coffee cup and sips it, as if taking time to collect his thoughts. His hands are shaking. As he sets the cup down, it rattles against the coffee table. “I’ve wanted to say this for a while, but I waited. Because what we have now is really important to me, and I don’t want to lose it.”

  There’s a tiny crack on the wall, near the floor; my mind latches on to it.

  “I wanted to take things slow. But I feel like I need to know where we stand. I need to know what this is. What we are. And I . . .”

  “Stanley,” I blurt out.

  He stops.

  I’m having trouble breathing. The wall crack is jagged and dark, and it seems to grow, opening into a void. “I need to go.” I start to stand.

  “Alvie, please.”

  The words freeze me.

  “Don’t run away. Please.”

  I’m sliding backward, falling deeper and deeper into myself. My body’s gone numb. I’m floating somewhere outside it, above it.

  “Just let me say it, and then you can go, if you still want to. I—”

  “Stanley.” My voice is faint and hoarse.

  “I love you.”

  The words hang in the air between us, and for the space of a breath, there is nothing. No reaction, no movement—as if we’ve plunged off the edge of a cliff and we’re hanging suspended in midair, the world frozen in that single breath before the plummet.

  “Alvie?”

  “You can’t,” I whisper.

  Something has shifted in his expression. His brows draw together. “But I do. I . . . I know you might not feel the same, but—”

  “Stop.” My hand drifts to my chest and clutches, fingers clenching and twisting on my shirt, over the ripping pain beneath. “Just—just stop talking.”

  Stanley reaches across the space between us, and I flinch away.

  Static fills my head, growing louder. No—not static. Water, rushing and swelling, pressing in around me, swallowing me in icy blackness. My vision blurs, and the room tilts. I lurch to my feet and back away until my back hits the wall.

  “Alvie? What’s going on? Talk to me.”

  I shake my head, braids swinging. “No.” The word escapes on a breath, faint and panicked. “No. No.” My knees buckle, and I crumple to the floor, hands pressed to my temples. Stanley is still frantically calling my name. I hear him dimly, his voice muffled and distorted, and when I look up I can only see a blurred shadow coming toward me. He stretches out a hand.

  I hit him. I don’t decide to do it; it just happens. I watch my fist flying out, watch it connect with his jaw.

  He cries out and stumbles backward, almost falling to his knees. At the last instant he grabs the arm of the couch, steadying himself, and he stares at me, eyes huge, face white as a skull. There’s a red mark on his face. His hand drifts slowly up to touch it. We stare at each other across the room.

  There’s a sensation of falling, as if the floor has vanished.

  I have to get out of here. Now.

  I run out into the night, panting, and get into my car. My hands are shaking as I start the engine, and I drive away without looking back, windshield wipers slicing through the rain. A dull roar drowns out my thoughts, and I can’t tell if it’s thunder or if the sound is coming from within me.

  In my mind, the image of Stanley falling to the floor replays over and over. I don’t think I broke any bones. But the impact was hard enough for me to feel all the way down my arm.

  He’s not safe around me. I need to get far, far away.

  I drive and drive. When I finally stop, I’m staring out at a dark expanse of water. A lake. The lake. The one where I went with Mama so many times.

  Moving like a sleepwalker, I get out of the car. Cold rain hammers my head and back, drenching my shirt. The sky is dark. The water froths and churns like the storm clouds above; when lightning flashes, the waves reflect it, so there’s no boundary between sea and sky, and the whole world—except for the thin line of shore beneath my feet—is a dark, roiling mass. My feet carry me forward. The water pulls me to itself as if there’s a fishing line hooked into my navel, running into the cold depths of the lake, trying to drag me down. Lightning cuts the sky in half, blinding me for a few seconds.

  It’s calling me. The lake is calling. I love you, Alvie.

  No, no. Clutching my head, I run back to my car.

  Once I arrive back at my apartment, I collapse onto my mattress. I’m still wearing Stanley’s clothes. They smell like him, that mild, warm smell, like cinnamon and old books. I rip them off, ball them up, and shove them into the deepest corner of the closet, and I stretch out naked on the sheets, gasping, but it’s not enough. I still feel like I’m suffocating. My apartment’s heater rattles; it’s old and only half works, and the air is frigid, but despite that I’m bathed in sweat. If I could peel off my skin like a wet suit, I would.

  My hands shake as I pick up my cell phone and turn it on. There’s one missed call from Stanley. He’s left a voice mail. My thumb hovers, trembling, over the button. I raise the phone to my ear and play the message.

  “Alvie, I . . . when you get this, call me. We can talk about this. Whatever’s going on, however I hurt you—”

  I stab the button with my thumb, deleting the message.

  I can’t go back. If I stay with Stanley, I could seriously injure him. Any stupid little thing could set me off, trigger a meltdown; I could put him in the hospital without even trying. But even then, he would smile through the pain and forgive, because he doesn’t understand that I’m a monster. He’ll keep feeding the monster and giving it shelter and loving it even as it eats him, piece by piece.

  Just like Mama.

  I shut my eyes and breathe in slowly. A strange, cold calm descends, and in that space, I know what I have to do. I have to let him go. For his sake. If I leave him now, it will hurt him, but he will recover. If I stay . . .

  A memory flares, sharp and clear—a cold hand slipping from mine.

  I always knew, deep down, that it couldn’t possibly work between Stanley and me. I was living in a fantasy, but I was too selfish and deluded to admit it. I wanted to experience—if just for a little while—what normal felt like. It was a dream, and now it’s over, and he’s suffering for my stupidity. I can’t take back what I’ve done, but I can keep things from getting any worse. Sever the cord, quick and clean.

  I send a text message. It would be better if we didn’t see each other again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Over the next few days, Stanley leaves more voice mails. I delete them without listening.

  At first, the pain is constant, like a weight sitting on my chest. It’s hard to breathe through it. But I keep going through the motions—showing up at work, reading books, taking walks—though I avoid the park now. Little by little,
my old routines reestablish themselves, and the ache begins to fade.

  As long as I can be with the animals, I’ll survive. They are my purpose. I should have known that all along. I don’t belong in the human world. But I’ve learned from my mistakes; I won’t repeat them.

  My phone rings, and I give a start. I start to reach for it, to shut it off—then freeze. The number isn’t Stanley’s; it’s Dr. Bernhardt’s. With a shaking hand, I raise the phone to my ear. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Alvie. Just checking in. I wanted to make sure you’re ready for your appointment with Judge Gray tomorrow morning.”

  At the words, I feel a sharp jolt. I’ve been so preoccupied, so focused on just surviving each day, I almost forgot about the meeting with the judge. My mouth is dry. I hear myself say the words, “I’m ready.”

  “Good. I’ll meet you at the courthouse at seven thirty.” A pause.

  “Remember everything we talked about.”

  “Okay.”

  I hang up.

  I lied to him—I don’t feel ready at all. But it’s too late to back out now. This is what I wanted.

  I imagine taking all my pain and confusion, folding it up, and tucking it into a drawer in the back of my mind, close to the Vault. When I meet Judge Gray tomorrow, I have to put on a mask of normality. I can’t be distracted.

  I lock the drawer, putting Stanley firmly in the past.

  The courthouse is on the other side of town, a fifteen-minute drive away. It looks the same as I remember: a huge, square building made of dark stone blocks polished to a reflective sheen, with wide steps leading up to a pair of heavy gray double doors.

  Dr. Bernhardt is waiting at the top of the stairs, his cheeks flushed in the cold, a knitted scarf wrapped around his neck. He’s holding a store bag, which he pushes into my hands. “Here. Wear this.”

  I remove a cardboard box, which contains a dark gray pantsuit with thin white stripes. “Why.”

  “Because you want to look professional and mature.”

  I glance down at my skirt, black-and-white-striped stockings, and T-shirt. The words HEAVY METAL gleam, shiny and metallic, above a faded graphic of a woman in armor riding a pterodactyl-like creature. “What’s wrong with the clothes I’m wearing.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. I tense. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not making fun of you. Just trust me on this one, all right?”

  We go in. A security guard asks us to empty our pockets into a plastic bin, then waves us through a metal detector—I hold my breath, wondering if someone will try to give me a pat-down, but thankfully, no one tries to touch me. I change in the bathroom, putting my old clothes in the paper bag. The pantsuit is polyester; the material feels stiff and unpleasant against my skin, but I’ll only have to wear it for a few hours.

  When I exit the bathroom, Dr. Bernhardt is waiting. “Better.” He gives me a smile. “Just remember—be honest, but not too honest. And stay calm.”

  “I’ll try.” My stomach hurts. What happens if this goes wrong? No—I can’t allow myself to think that way, or I’ll start to panic.

  “You can handle this,” he says.

  I hesitate. “If the judge grants our request, does that mean you won’t be visiting me in the future.”

  “Yes. You won’t have to put up with my nagging anymore.” He smiles.

  I try to respond and find that, for some reason, there’s a lump blocking my throat. This is what you wanted, I remind myself.

  He extends a hand. “Good luck, Alvie.”

  I brace myself, grip his hand, and shake once. His skin is soft and dry; the physical contact doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it might. “Thank you,” I say.

  I release him, and he turns and walks away.

  I stare at the hallway ahead of me. The courtroom is at the end. I feel very small and very alone, and I’m filled with a sudden conviction that this is going to be a disaster. My legs don’t want to move, but I force them to walk forward . . . slowly, because my knees keep wobbling.

  The courtroom isn’t large; it feels private and enclosed, like an interrogation chamber. Dingy blue carpet covers the floor, and the walls are wood paneled. Judge Gray—a fiftyish woman with a small, pinched mouth—is already there, sitting in a chair behind a massive desk. She’s the same woman who presided over my case when I first asked for emancipation. Only one other person is there, a younger woman sitting behind another desk, who I assume is a transcriptionist or notetaker.

  I sit in the smaller chair facing Judge Gray, folding my hands in my lap. She studies me for a moment in silence, then examines a sheet of paper in her hand. I fidget. Already, I want my Rubik’s Cube, but I left it outside in the paper bag with my clothes; it wouldn’t fit in the pocket of my pantsuit. I try to remember the questions and answers I rehearsed with Dr. Bernhardt over the past few weeks, but my mind is a blank.

  “Alvie Fitz,” she says. “You’re seventeen years old now. Is that correct?”

  Hot fluorescents beat down on the top of my head. “Yes.”

  “And you’ve been living in your own apartment and working at the Hickory Park Zoo as a full-time employee for eighteen months.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Mr. Bernhardt has stated—”

  “Doctor.”

  She frowns. “Excuse me?”

  “Dr. Bernhardt,” I correct, and immediately realize I should have kept my mouth shut. But because I’ve already said it, I feel inclined to clarify. “He has a PhD in sociology.”

  “I see. Well.” She clears her throat. “Dr. Bernhardt says your condition has improved.” She folds her hands and clicks her long thumbnails together. The sound makes me squirm. “As I recall, when we last met, you were living in the Safe Rest Home for girls. You ran away on three separate occasions, and on one of those occasions, there was a police report filed. Prior to your stay at Safe Rest Home, you spent several years in a psychiatric ward. Is that right?”

  My nails dig into my palms. I struggle to control my breathing. “That is correct.”

  “Are you currently seeing a counselor?”

  “No.”

  “And why is that?”

  I speak slowly, choosing my words with care. “My emotional issues are under control. I’m much more stable now than I was a year and a half ago. I don’t see a need for therapy.”

  Her pale blue eyes narrow slightly. “Do you believe your earlier diagnosis was inaccurate, then?”

  Sweat pools at the small of my back. My fingers itch to start pulling my braids, but I resist. I know that any twitch, any display of emotion, of anger or fear, could be interpreted as a sign of instability. What am I supposed to say? What’s the right answer? My eyes dart back and forth. The urge to start rocking and tugging my braids grows stronger and stronger, until it feels like trying not to blink.

  “Ms. Fitz? Do you understand the question?”

  “Which diagnosis do you mean,” I ask, stalling for time. “There have been several.”

  “I’m referring to the diagnosis of Asperger’s syndrome. If you have a mental disability, I’m sure you understand why that would influence my decision.”

  I think about pointing out that Asperger’s isn’t a mental disability, it’s a social disability, or perhaps just a natural variation on the standard neurological configuration. But I have the sense that arguing with her would not impact her views, and might make her angry. “You mean, if I’m mentally disabled, you won’t hold me accountable for the things I did.”

  “No. I mean, it might necessitate placing you under permanent guardianship. The state would appoint someone to help you manage your affairs.”

  Permanent guardianship. I start to shake. Is this really happening? Is she going to hand over control of my life to a total stranger? I struggle to hold my tone steady. “Not everyone with autism is under guardianship. Many people with an Asperger’s diagnosis have gone on to have successful careers, even get married and have children.”

  “If that’s th
e case, they were obviously not diagnosed accurately in the first place.” She sniffs. “Doctors love to throw around diagnostic labels. Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but I believe there’s such a thing as simple bad decision making, and that sometimes, a case of immaturity and teenaged rebelliousness can be cured by a dose of cold, hard reality.”

  I want to tell her that it’s not that simple. Being able to hold down a job doesn’t mean I’m not different. My brain hasn’t changed just because my situation has. But what I say next will determine the course of my entire future. I have to be extremely careful. “What are you asking, exactly.”

  “I’m asking you if you consider yourself autistic,” she says.

  A flash of panic goes off in my head like a bomb, and my vision goes fuzzy and white. No matter what I say, I feel, it will be wrong. But I have to say something. In a split second, I make a decision. “No. I believe my diagnosis was a mistake.”

  “So, you’re perfectly normal, then?”

  I try to swallow the burning at the back of my throat. I wish I could read voices; I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or asking a serious question. But it’s too late to backtrack now. “Yes.”

  She presses the tips of her index fingers together. Her expression is blank. “Well,” she says at last, “it seems you’ve grown up quite a bit in the past year and a half. And I believe in giving second chances to those who are willing to work for them. Seeing as how you’ve successfully lived on your own for this long and become a contributing member of society, I see no reason why I shouldn’t grant your request for emancipation.” She stamps the paper in front of her. “You’re free to go.”

  I’m in a daze as I walk out of the courtroom, clutching my certificate of adulthood in one hand. I’m still waiting for it to sink in. My whole body feels uncomfortably hot and prickly, and the back of my throat burns dully. Acid reflux, perhaps, from the stress.

  I suspect the pantsuit had something to do with my unexpected success . . . though it seems absurd that something as trivial as clothing should have an impact on the judgment of a person whose entire purpose is to impartially and objectively mete out the law. The idea of buying new clothes for the hearing did not even cross my mind. In retrospect, I should have done more to prepare. Without Dr. Bernhardt’s help, I might still be a ward of the state.