When My Heart Joins the Thousand(24)

“Alvie, it’s all right. It’s all right. Calm down.”

Only then do I realize my voice has escalated to a shout. I exhale a shuddering breath and slump on the couch, limp, like a broken puppet. “Sorry.” This is bad. I’m slipping, losing control. “I should go.”

“Wait. I can help you schedule an appointment with someone, if that’s what you want.”

“I’d prefer not to.”

“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.” Another pause. “Is this the same person you mentioned to me before? The one you were talking to online?”

“It doesn’t matter.” My throat tightens. “Sorry to disturb you.” I hang up.

I shouldn’t have called. Why did I do that? If Dr. Bernhardt thinks I’m unstable, he might tell the judge that I’m not ready for emancipation. I could lose my chance.

For a while, I try unsuccessfully to nap. After an hour or so, I roll out of bed and throw on my hoodie.

It’s almost six o’clock. Stanley said he would be waiting for me in the park.

I could, of course, just not show up. I could stop going online, ignore his emails, return to my safe, isolated little life. That would probably be smarter.

But I can’t do that to him. After the kindness he’s shown me, I at least owe him some kind of explanation.

I pull up my hood and walk down the sidewalk with my hands shoved into my pockets and my breath pluming in the air. The days are getting shorter and chillier, and the horizon glows red with sunset. I breathe in deep, feeling the prickle of cold air in my lungs, and release it through my nose.

When I arrive at the park, he’s already there, sitting on the bench, wearing a gray fleece jacket. My heart lurches. Even from this distance, I can see him shivering. I duck behind a tree, press my back to the rough bark. Take a deep breath. I am going to tell him now, tonight, that this has to end. What he wants is something more than I’m capable of giving.

I need a minute to get myself under control before I face him, so I turn away and force my legs to move. My steps are stiff and jerky, mechanical, as my feet take me away from him and across the street. I slump against a wall and close my eyes, more sweat beading on my forehead. My hand slips into my pocket and grips the Rubik’s Cube. I turn it over and over, focusing on the cool smoothness.

A shadow falls over me, and I tense. When I look up, I see man in a police uniform. He’s enormous, with broad, round shoulders and a bushy walrus mustache. “Everything all right, ma’am?” he asks, thumbs hooked into the loops on his belt. I thought policemen only did that on TV shows.

I step away from him and start to rock back and forth on the balls of my feet, my hand still in my pocket. Men in uniforms make me nervous. If a regular person is bothering me or asking questions I don’t know how to answer, I can just walk away. But walking away from a policeman can result in being arrested. “I’m fine,” I mutter, and take another step backward.

His thick eyebrows bunch together, and he frowns. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here?” His tone has changed, hardened. He’s suspicious.

“I’m standing.”

“Yes, I can see that. I’ll ask you again. What are you doing?”

I lower my head, breathing rapidly. I know I’m making it worse—acting nervous, avoiding eye contact, like I’m up to no good. But I can’t help it. “Nothing.” I keep fiddling with the Rubik’s Cube, without taking it from my pocket.

“It sure looks like you’re doing something.”

I try to think of an answer, but my head is full of static. My legs itch with the urge to bolt, but if I do, he’ll chase me. “I don’t know why you’re asking me these questions.” My voice shakes. “I don’t know why people won’t just leave me alone.”

He takes another step toward me, and I take another step back. “What’s that you’ve got in your pocket?” He holds out one meaty hand. “Let’s see it.”

I don’t want him taking my Rubik’s Cube. I don’t like anyone touching my things. My skin crawls at the thought of him turning the cube over in his hands, getting his fingerprints all over it, violating it. He might decide not to give it back. I hunch my shoulders. “Go away.”

He speaks slowly and evenly: “Place your hands against the wall.”

I feel sick.

“Place your hands against the wall,” he says again.

When I don’t obey, he grabs my wrists and shoves my hands against the wall. My whole body goes rigid. The touch sends a sharp jolt through me, like a hot poker raking down my spine. His fingers are burning my skin. “Let me go.”

“Keep your hands there, where I can see them—”

I can’t stop myself; I start to struggle. I kick. When he pushes me against the wall, I scream.

“Get your hands off her!”

For a second or two, I don’t recognize Stanley’s voice. I’ve never heard him speak so loudly or forcefully.

The policeman looks up, blinking. “Excuse me?”

“I said let her go!” Stanley shoves himself between me and the policeman, shielding me with his body. His face is flushed and shiny with perspiration as he holds up his cell phone. “I’ve already dialed 911. All I have to do is hit send.”