When My Heart Joins the Thousand(2)

When he first started coming here, I resented his encroachment on my territory. I didn’t want to talk to him—I dislike talking to people—but I didn’t want to abandon my park, either. So I hid. After a while, something shifted. He became a part of the scenery, like the ducks, and his presence ceased to annoy me. The clockwork regularity of his visits became—almost comforting.

Sure enough, at six o’clock, the door opens, and he emerges, looking the same as ever: slender, pale, and not too tall, with light brown hair that looks like it hasn’t been trimmed for some time. His open blue windbreaker flaps in the breeze. I watch him make his way to the bench, leaning on his cane. He sits. I turn away, satisfied. Leaning back against a tree, I open my laptop, prop it against my knees, and start a game of Go with a random opponent.

The boy is unaware of my presence. I’m careful to keep it that way.

By the time I leave the park, it’s almost night. On the way home I stop at the Quik-Mart, grab two packages of ramen, a loaf of white bread, a jug of orange soda, and a cellophane-wrapped vanilla cupcake.

I buy the same thing every time, so I know exactly how much it costs: six dollars and ninety-seven cents. I count out exact change before approaching the counter and quickly slide the money, along with my purchases, toward the clerk.

“Anything else?” he asks. I shake my head.

My apartment is just down the street. It stands on the corner, a squat brick building with a single scrawny tree out front. A blue condom hangs from one of the topmost branches like a tiny flag; it’s been there as long as I can remember. Amber shards of broken glass glitter on the pavement.

As I approach the door to the lobby, I freeze. A thin, balding, fortyish man in round glasses and a sweater vest is waiting for me outside, briefcase at his feet, arms crossed over his chest.

“Dr. Bernhardt,” I blurt out.

“Glad I caught you. I’ve been buzzing your apartment. I was about to give up.”

I clutch my groceries to my chest. “Our meeting is on Wednesday. It’s Monday. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I needed to reschedule. I called you several times, but you never answer your phone. I realize you hate surprises, but that being the case, maybe you should try checking your voice mails now and again.” His tone holds a slant that I’ve come to identify as wry.

Dr. Bernhardt is a social worker. He’s also the reason I’m able to live on my own, despite being a minor.

“So,” he says, “are you going to let me in?”

I breathe a tense sigh and unlock the door. “Fine.”

We enter the building and climb the threadbare steps to the second floor. The hallway carpet is a faded shade between beige and blue, with a dark, sprawling stain that could be a spilled drink or dried blood. Like the tree condom, it’s been there ever since I moved in. Dr. Bernhardt wrinkles his nose as he steps over it, into my apartment.

He surveys the inside. A pair of unwashed jeans lies on the floor next to a pile of sudoku books. A half-empty glass of orange soda stands on the coffee table with crumbs strewn around it. A sports bra lies draped over the top of the TV.

“You know,” he says, “for someone who loves order and routine, I’d think you would be a little more concerned about hygiene.”

“I was planning to clean before you came over,” I mutter. Messes don’t bother me, as long as they’re my messes. The chaos of my apartment is familiar and easy to navigate.

As I enter the kitchen, an earwig scuttles into the sink and vanishes down the drain. I drop my purchases onto the kitchen counter, open the refrigerator, and slide the orange soda inside.

Dr. Bernhardt peers over my shoulders, surveying the contents of the fridge—a paper carton of leftover Chinese food, the moldy remains of a ham sandwich, a tub of Cool Whip, and some mustard. He raises his eyebrows. “Is there anything in here with nutrients?”

I shut the door. “I’m going grocery shopping tomorrow.”

“You really ought to buy a fruit or vegetable once in a while.”

“Are you obligated to report on my eating habits.”

“Remember, rising inflection for questions. Otherwise people can’t tell when you’re asking them something.”

I think the sentence structure makes it obvious, but I repeat myself, placing emphasis on the last two words: “Are you obligated to report on my eating habits?”

“No. I’m just giving you a piece of advice. You do realize that’s part of my job?”

“Are you asking me a question.”

“It’s rhetorical.” He walks into the living room. “May I sit?”

I nod.

He lowers himself to the couch and laces his fingers together, studying me over the rims of his small, round glasses. “Still working at the zoo?”

“Yes.”

“Have you given any thought to the possibility of college?”

He’s asked me this a few times, and I always give him the same answer: “I can’t afford it.” And I’m unlikely to get a scholarship, since I dropped out of high school—not because I was failing any classes, but simply because I hated being there. I have a GED, but most colleges view an actual diploma as superior. “Anyway, I like my job at the zoo.”

“You’re satisfied with your current situation, then?”