When My Heart Joins the Thousand(33)

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.