When My Heart Joins the Thousand(49)

The muscles of his face tighten. After a moment, he takes off his glasses and polishes them on his sleeve. Without the lenses to magnify them, his eyes look small and watery and defenseless. “Are my visits really that unpleasant for you?”

The question catches me off guard. I shift my weight in the chair. “It isn’t that.”

“What, then? Why are you so desperate to be emancipated? You’re already very independent. The only difference is that I won’t be visiting anymore. And you’ll lose certain legal protections.”

I give my left braid two sharp tugs. Part of it is the fear of being sent back to the group home. But there’s more to it. I don’t know how to explain it in a way he’ll understand. “When I was younger, some of the doctors said that I would never be able to live on my own. That I couldn’t have a normal life. I want to prove them wrong.”

“Having a normal life doesn’t mean never needing help. Besides . . . you’re still very young. You’re a seventeen-year-old girl, already working full-time and paying rent. That’s not unheard-of, but it’s not typical, either. Most children your age are still receiving support, in some form or another. It has nothing to do with your condition.”

It has everything to do with my condition. If not for my condition, I wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. “I made up my mind to be emancipated. So I will be. That’s all.”

He smiles, gaze downcast. “I thought you would say that. Well . . . if it means that much to you, I’ll do everything I can to help you achieve that goal.”

My shoulders relax. I nod once.

He glances at the carnation, still sitting on my coffee table. It’s already dried-out, petals stiffening and crinkling into a brittle sculpture. “I believe this is the first time I’ve ever seen a flower in your apartment.”

I ought to throw it away. But somehow, I can’t bring myself to do it. I touch the piece of tape holding the stem together. Without thinking, I tell the truth: “It’s from Stanley.”

He raises his eyebrows, crinkling his forehead. “Well.” A tiny smile tugs at his lips. “That’s wonderful.”

I hadn’t expected him to be pleased.

“You know,” he says, “you still haven’t told me very much about this boy.”

I tug my braid. “Are you going to put this in the report.”

“No. I’m just curious.”

Where do I even start? There are so many random details I’ve absorbed through my conversations with Stanley, it’s hard to choose. “He likes cats. But he’s allergic to them, so he can’t have one. He owns a pet gerbil named Matilda. His favorite smell is fresh-cut cucumbers.”

“It sounds as though you’re getting closer to each other.”

“We are. But . . .” There’s a quiver in my throat, as if words are bubbling up inside me, trying to escape. I clamp my lips shut, out of habit . . . but somehow, holding everything in doesn’t seem worth the effort. I need to talk to someone to make sense of the confusing mess of my feelings. This is Dr. Bernhardt’s last visit. It might as well be now. “I don’t—” I stop, gripping my knees. My throat stiffens; I swallow until it loosens enough to let my voice through. “I don’t know how to do this. Be someone’s friend. I feel like I’m making so many mistakes. And there are . . . certain things . . . he doesn’t know. About . . . my past.”

He sits, studying me in silence for a moment. “How much have you told him?” he asks quietly.

“Almost nothing.”

He breathes in slowly through his nose, then out. “I don’t want to overstep my bounds. And I don’t know how serious you are with him. But even if you are just friends, if you want this boy to be a part of your life, sooner or later you’ll have to tell him.”

“And if I don’t. What then.”

“The truth has a way of coming out, sooner or later. The best you can do is choose the time and place. I’m not speaking as your social worker. Consider it a piece of advice from one adult to another. Keeping secrets from the people closest to you will only cause you pain.”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I’m shaking.

“It doesn’t have to be everything at once,” he says. “Start with the easier things, and then . . .” He leaves the rest of the sentence unspoken.

He’s right. Stanley has told me so much about himself, and I’ve revealed so little. I can’t keep hiding behind walls.

I know what I need to do.

“Where are we going?” Stanley asks.

The two-lane highway stretches out before us, fading into the horizon. Winter-brown cornfields glide past on either side. “It’s a surprise,” I say.

“Is it a new restaurant?”

“No.”

“Secret gateway to a parallel universe?”

“You’re getting warmer.”

He laughs.

We’ve been driving for almost two hours. We’re far out in the country now. The fields are vast, dotted with small houses and silos. Pale clouds blanket the sky in a uniform layer, so solid and thick it looks like a person could walk on it. We pass a dilapidated fence with a line of crows perched atop it. Their heads turn, following us as we drive past.