When My Heart Joins the Thousand

by A. J. Steiger

  I close the cabinets.

  In the living room, I stretch out on the couch and pull a thin wool blanket over myself. After an hour of shifting around, I finally drift off.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Stanley lies on an operating table, unconscious. His ribs are splayed open, his lungs exposed, pink and damp and spongy. They inflate and deflate with each breath. Nestled between them, where his heart should be, there’s a model plane with a painted smile. Veins and arteries run in and out of its little cockpit.

  The wing is broken. If I don’t fix it, he’ll die. But I realize, with rising panic, that I have no idea what I’m doing. My latex-gloved hands tremble. I’m holding a bloodstained scalpel in one, a tube of superglue in the other. Stanley’s breathing hisses softly through the mask over his mouth and nose. A heart monitor beeps in time with his pulse.

  “Well? What the hell are you waiting for?” My head jerks up to see a nurse staring impatiently at me. It’s Ms. Nell, her mouth and nose hidden by a surgical mask. “Patch him up!”

  But I can’t move.

  The heart monitor lets out a loud, steady beep as he flatlines.

  I wake with a start, pajama shirt clinging to sweaty skin. I kick off the covers, stumble over to the light switch, and turn it on. With light, reality reasserts itself. I exhale a shaky breath and flop back onto the couch. A vision of the broken plane flashes behind my closed eyelids.

  I broke something precious to him. On my very first visit to his house.

  I have to fix it. I have to at least try.

  I creep down the hallway, toward his room. Outside his door, I pause. With luck, I can retrieve the plane and slip out without waking him.

  I ease the door open a crack and peer in. Stanley has the covers pulled up over his head, so I can only see a bit of blond hair sticking out, and the plane is still sitting on his nightstand, in two pieces. Holding my breath, I tiptoe toward it.

  I stop.

  He’s breathing oddly—small, hitching, shuddering gasps, not quite muffled by the covers. My eyes strain against the darkness. I can see him moving a little. A nightmare?

  He utters a soft moan. His breaths rise and fall, rise and fall, getting faster.

  “Stanley,” I say loudly.

  He lets out a startled cry. His head emerges from under the blankets. In the faint moonlight from the window, I can just make out his wide eyes, bed-mussed hair, and flushed cheeks. “Alvie! Wh-what the hell—?”

  “You were breathing very fast,” I say.

  “I— What are you doing in here?”

  “I want to fix your plane.”

  “Now?” His voice is oddly squeaky. He pulls the covers up to his neck, squirming. He won’t look directly at me.

  “What’s wrong.”

  “Nothing!”

  I stare. The intensity in his voice confirms that it’s not, in fact, nothing.

  “Please.” He gulps. “I need a minute. Can you—can you go in the kitchen, or something?”

  I think about the breathing, the movement, his flushed face. Something clicks into place inside my head. “You were masturbating.”

  He makes a sound like he’s choking. “N-no! I just—”

  “Go ahead.” I step out of the room, close the door, and go into the kitchen. Getting back to sleep seems unlikely at this point, so I brew a pot of coffee, pour myself a cup, and sit at the table, waiting.

  I hear the shower running, then creaking floorboards. Stanley steps into the kitchen, leaning on his cane, his skin still damp. He’s wearing blue pajama pants, thick socks, and a rumpled, long-sleeved shirt with a Tyrannosaurus rex skeleton on the front. Slowly he lowers himself into a chair, not looking at me.

  I sip my coffee. “Did you finish.”

  The flush in his cheeks brightens. He hunches over, curling in on himself, as if trying to disappear. “No. I took a cold shower.”

  I should have known he’d be embarrassed, but it still strikes me as peculiar. Animals don’t attach any sense of humiliation to sexual pleasure; that would be counterproductive. Why are we the one species that does? “It’s a common activity, you know. Over ninety percent of adult males do it, and the majority of females as well. Even fetuses do it.”

  “Really? Fetuses?”

  “Ultrasounds have captured images of in-utero masturbation, yes.”

  “Huh.” He rubs the back of his neck.

  It occurs to me, suddenly, that he might have been fantasizing about me. I study my sock-clad feet.

  “You came in because you wanted to fix my plane?” he asks.

  “That’s right.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

  “It’s really not that big a deal, you know.”

  “Yes,” I say. “It is. Your planes are important to you. And I won’t feel good until it’s in one piece again.”

  He looks at me for a few seconds. “I’ll go get it.”

  A few minutes later, we’re sitting at the kitchen table, the broken plane between us, along with a tube of glue, another of green paint, and a tiny paintbrush. Stanley sips coffee from a snowman mug as I apply a line of glue to the wing. He seems to have relaxed a little, now.

  The plane, I notice, is not as well made as the others. Its wheels are a bit crooked, its paint job clumsy, its brush strokes visible in places. “When did you put this one together.”

  “With my dad, when I was eight years old. It was the first one we ever built.”

  Of course. It had to be this one that I broke.

  My unhappiness must show on my face, because he adds hastily, “It’s okay. Honestly, it is.” He stares into space. “I mean, yeah, this plane is special, but . . . it’s complicated. My dad got this for me as a sort of apology.”

  “For what.”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  I attach the wing to the plane and blow on the glue to dry it. Stanley hasn’t said much about his parents. “You said he isn’t around anymore. What happened.”

  With one finger, he spins the little propeller on the end of the plane. “He and Mom separated when I was nine. It was pretty ugly.” He fiddles with the tube of glue. His gaze remains fixed on the tabletop. “I wish she hadn’t kicked him out. I mean . . . it’s not like he meant to hurt me.”

  The words send a thin chill through me. “What do you mean.”

  Stanley’s lips tighten. For almost a minute, he’s silent. “Dad was always a very physical person. That’s how he expressed affection. He liked to roughhouse. Just playing, you know? Sometimes, when he’d had a couple of drinks, he’d forget how strong he was and . . . well, he broke my arm.”

  I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  “It was a bad break,” Stanley said. “I needed surgery. Mom never forgave him. After he moved out, I only really saw him on holidays, and then even that stopped. Maybe he was afraid of hurting me again . . . or maybe he was just using that as an excuse because he didn’t have the guts to stick around. God knows I wasn’t an easy kid to raise. But still, he didn’t have to—” He stops. Takes a breath. “I still talk to him on the phone every once in a while, and he sends me money when I need it. He’s paid for most of my classes and medical expenses. And I’m grateful for that . . . I am. Without it, I don’t know where I’d be right now. But the last time I asked him if he wanted to meet for lunch sometime, he got really quiet. And then he said that it would be better if we didn’t. Better for me.” Stanley’s hand curls slowly into a fist. “He didn’t even show up for Mom’s funeral. He called and apologized afterward—said it was just too painful for him. I had to stand there alone while they lowered her into the ground.”

  He picks up the model plane, gently blows on the glue, and puts a few dabs of paint on the wing. When he’s done, he sets the plane on the table. “There. What did I tell you? Good as new.”

  A band of dark green paint covers the break. It’s not quite the same shade; it’s obvious that it’s bee
n repaired.

  It takes me a few seconds to find my voice. “I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know if I’m apologizing for the plane, or for everything else.

  He smiles. There’s a tightness around the edges, like it hurts. “It’s okay. It could be a lot worse. I’m lucky, really—”

  I touch the back of his hand, and he falls silent. For a few minutes, we don’t speak. His eyes shine with unshed tears, and he blinks rapidly, never letting them slip out.

  He wipes one sleeve across his eyes and smiles again. It looks a little more natural this time. “You want breakfast? I’ve got eggs.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When I leave Stanley’s house later that morning, the world is wet with rain, the pavement shining, the sky nearly dark. The faint, pearl-gray light of dawn tinges the horizon.

  There’s a strange sensation in my chest. Hollowness—no, that’s not quite right. Lightness. Everything feels heightened. As morning spreads over the world, it glows like an overexposed photograph, as if the air itself is charged with electric particles. So much has happened over the past few days, I don’t know how to process it.

  Overall, I decide, the experience was positive.

  I’m not expecting to see Dr. Bernhardt for another week. But that afternoon, when I return from work, his car is parked in front of my building.

  He’s standing outside, wearing a tweed jacket and holding a black umbrella. I get out of the car and face him. His clothes are damp, his glasses misted with rain. A steady drizzle still falls from the sky, forming tiny ripples in the puddles on the pavement.

  This is the second time he’s shown up ahead of schedule. He knows how disconcerting that is to me. “It’s not Wednesday,” I say.

  “I realize that. I apologize for visiting unannounced. But after that call the other day, I wanted to talk to you in person. To be honest, I was disturbed. You seemed . . . rattled. I don’t think I’d ever heard so much emotion in your voice.”

  I study my shoes. “I shouldn’t have called you. I know that. I was suffering from lack of sleep. My judgment was impaired—”

  “No, no. I don’t mean it like that. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m fine now. I no longer want bupropion.”

  He frowns, studying my face through the small, round lenses of his spectacles. “Well, I’m glad, but I have to say . . . I’m concerned that I might have been responsible for that episode.”

  Rain plasters my shirt to my back. I’m starting to shiver. “What do you mean.”

  “I encouraged you to start meeting people. I thought that having more social contact might improve your stability, but it seems to have had the opposite effect.”

  The muscles in my back stiffen. “I am stable.”

  It’s raining harder now. The droplets hammer down on us.

  “Should we go inside?” he asks.

  “I have things to do,” I mutter.

  He sighs. “All right. Let me just say this. Human connections are important. But becoming too attached too quickly can be just as detrimental as solitude. If your obsession with this boy has begun to disrupt your everyday life, you may be slipping into a codependent relationship.”

  I clutch my keys, the metal ridges digging into my fingers. “You want me to stop seeing Stanley.”

  “No. This is your choice. Just . . . be careful.”

  “Your advice is noted.” I turn away from him, and walk toward the building.

  “Alvie.”

  I freeze.

  “Don’t forget about the appointment with Judge Gray.”

  Cold rain trickles inside my shirt collar. What is Dr. Bernhardt trying to say?

  He has no control over the judge’s final decision. But his opinion as my caseworker will influence her. Will he speak poorly of my judgment if I keep seeing Stanley? It occurs to me that having to wait another year for legal independence is not the worst thing that could happen at that court appearance. Judge Gray might decide I need more state supervision. She might strip away some of the rights and freedoms I currently possess.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” I say.

  He nods, smiles an unreadable smile, and gets into the car. “I’ll see you next Wednesday.” The door closes, and he drives off, tires splashing through the puddles.

  I grit my teeth. Dr. Bernhardt was the reason I started talking to Stanley online in the first place. He’s the one who told me to open up to people. And now he seems to think I’m not ready for a relationship. Codependent. He’s become another doctor, extracting my emotions and sticking medical labels on them. Or maybe he’s like Toby’s friend—maybe he believes that broken people like me shouldn’t have relationships. At the thought, something inside my chest stiffens.

  His words keep replaying in my head. Becoming too attached too quickly can be just as detrimental as solitude. For so long, I believed that getting close to another person would be dangerous for me. Dr. Bernhardt always told me that fear was unfounded—always insisted that I was capable of more than I thought—but now he seems to have changed his mind.

  Maybe he’s finally realized just how damaged I am.

  The stairs creak beneath my feet as I make my way up to my floor. My fingers are still tightly curled around my keys.

  In the hallway, an electric light sputters fitfully overhead. The smell of rancid Gouda invades my nostrils. A sneeze builds up, prickling, in my sinuses. My chest feels tight and hot; the air is thick and stale. It’s like breathing flat, lukewarm soda. On impulse, I turn around and walk back out into the cool, rainy afternoon.

  I need to see Stanley.

  Westerly College is a collection of neutral beige buildings, grassy lawns, and trees. It resembles a corporate training camp. Stanley has told me before that he doesn’t much like this school, but it’s one of the few that’s both affordable and close enough for an easy commute.

  I know his class lets out at five o’clock today, so I park in the huge, nearly full lot in front of the science building, where he’s presumably having his neurobiology class, and wait. I get out of my car, walk up to the building, and peer into the lobby. It’s the first time I’ve actually seen his school up close. Inside, an anthropomorphic shark smiles from a pendant on the wall—a sports mascot of some type, I assume.

  After a short while, students start to filter out of the building. The glass double doors swing open, and I glimpse Stanley’s face. I start to relax—then every muscle in my body goes tense.

  There’s a girl his age walking next to him, arm hooked through his. She’s wearing a glossy pink coat, and her blond hair drifts in gauzy puffs around her face, like cotton candy. They’re smiling and talking together, though I can’t make out the words. Stanley says something, and she laughs, her mouth opening wide to reveal rows of tiny white teeth.

  They freeze in their tracks. Stanley blinks. “Alvie?”

  The girl is small and pretty and has round blue eyes, like a doll’s. She looks me up and down, taking in my oversized T-shirt, ragged-edged skirt, and rumpled stockings, then gives me a tight smile. There’s a miniscule smear of pink lipstick on one of her incisors. “Oh, hello.” Her arm is still linked with his.

  He clears his throat and gently tugs the arm free. “This is Dorothy. Dorothy, this is my friend Alvie.”

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

  “It’s not spelled the same,” I mutter. There’s a heavy, sugary smell around her—perfume or shampoo, something artificial. It makes my nose itch.

  “Do you like that movie?” she asks. I’m not sure which of us she’s speaking to, but I haven’t seen it, so I don’t say anything.

  Stanley takes it upon himself to fill the silence: “It’s one of my favorites.”

  She beams. “Mine, too.”

  I want Dorothy to go away.

  I inch closer to Stanley and grip his arm, so suddenly that he gives a start. Dorothy’s gaze flicks toward my hand, clamped like talons around his biceps. I don’t m
ove. It’s satisfying to watch her too-white smile fade.

  She clears her throat. “So, um. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Sure. See you.”

  Her gaze darts toward me, then back to Stanley. She lingers another few seconds, then turns and walks away, back toward the building.

  “Alvie.” Stanley’s voice is strained.

  I release his arm. “Sorry.” Until that moment, I didn’t realize quite how tightly I was gripping him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. A minute ago, I was eager to talk to him, but now I can’t even remember what I wanted to say. “Are you— I mean, is she—” I swallow. There’s a squeezing sensation in my chest, like strong fingers clamped around my heart.

  “She’s in my neurobiology class,” he says, sounding puzzled.

  “She was”—I point at his arm—“with you.”

  “Oh. That? That’s just—you know.” He gestures toward his cane. “She was being considerate. Ever since I broke my leg, she’s insisted on walking me out. It’s kind of annoying, actually, but I don’t have the heart to tell her to stop.”

  The invisible hand stops squeezing my chest, but a strange sensation lingers in the pit of my stomach, an uncomfortable awareness of my own reactions.

  “So what brings you here?” he asks. “I mean, I’m glad to see you. I just didn’t expect it.”

  I study my shoes. Confusion swirls inside me. I need space to think, to process these feelings. “I just wanted to see you. But I—I can’t stay.”

  “Oh.” His brows bunch together. “Well, okay. I’ll talk to you later, I guess.”

  I get into the car. As I drive away, my hands tighten on the steering wheel. She’s just a fellow student; Stanley said so, and I believe him. But the hard knot lodged in my gut won’t go away.

  I managed to convince myself that Stanley and I were in the same situation—two outcasts on the fringes of society—but that isn’t the case. He has plenty of options, even if he doesn’t realize it. When he was with Dorothy, they both looked so relaxed, so at ease in that way that normal people take for granted.