When My Heart Joins the Thousand(51)

“Alvie . . .” He bites his lower lip, and I know he wants to ask me something.

I wait.

“What happened to your mother?”

I look down at the Rubik’s Cube in my hands, and my fingers tighten on the smooth plastic. I knew this was coming, of course. Stanley’s aware that I never met my father, but I haven’t said anything to him about my mother. It’s only natural for him to be curious. And I surmised that bringing him here, to this place, would trigger certain questions about my past. I mentally prepared myself. Still, my hands start to shake. “She—” My voice stops as if it’s hit a wall inside me. I force myself to finish: “She died.”

“How?”

I look at him. My mouth opens, and for an instant, words tremble in my throat. Then they retreat, and all that comes out is a small, choked sound. I lower my head.

“It’s okay,” Stanley says, very softly. “You don’t have to answer that.”

I don’t say anything else. I don’t dare. I close my eyes and breathe. In and out. The tightness in my chest loosens.

Rain falls thicker and faster from the sky, the drops stinging my skin, but it feels good. It calms my nerves. I slip the Rubik’s Cube into my pocket. “What happens if you get your cast wet,” I ask.

“It’s fiberglass, so it’s no big deal. I could even go swimming with it, if I wanted. Not that I ever go swimming.”

I start to ask why not, then I realize—of course. The scars.

I watch the rain running in rivulets from the swing set and dripping from the wooden horse.

“Years ago,” I say, “whenever there was a storm, I would sneak out of the house. I would lie on my back in these woods, and I would let the rain pound down on me and listen to the thunder. And I’d forget about everything.”

He looks at me. In the dim light, the blue of his eyes is bright, almost electric.

He rises from the swing and stretches out on the grass. For a moment, I can only stare in surprise . . . then, slowly I stretch out next to him. He reaches for my hand. I slip my fingers between his, and we watch the sky darken as the storm sweeps in. I shiver in the cold, teeth chattering, rain soaking through my coat and plastering my shirt against my body. His hand is warm against mine.

Lightning darts across the sky, filling the woods with pale blue light. Goose bumps ripple across my flesh, and a thrill darts through my body, licking my insides like a flame.

We lie on our backs, clutching each other’s hands, as the storm rages all around us and the trees lash back and forth and the wind howls, high and sharp. I know this is dangerous—we could be struck by lightning, we could get hypothermia from being drenched with cold water. But maybe that’s why it’s exciting. Maybe it’s like Stanley going to the ice rink. We have to do risky things sometimes, to remind ourselves that we’re still alive.

At last the wind dies down, and the driving rain tapers off into a light patter. I sit up, my clothes plastered to my body with water and mud. “Are you all right.”

For a few seconds, he doesn’t answer. He’s still lying on his back, smiling up at the sky. “That was . . .” He lets out a breathless laugh. “Wow.” He sits up, rakes a hand through his wet hair, and smiles—a dizzying, beautiful smile. He’s panting, flushed and soaked. “I’m fine. What about you?”

I examine my own inner state. I feel . . . calmer, somehow, and lighter, as if a weight I’d been carrying around is gone. “I’m good,” I say.

I help him to his feet. His teeth are chattering.

“We should go back to the car,” I say.

We trudge out of the forest and across the muddy field, drenched and shivering. When we get into the car, I turn the heat on full blast. Rain taps against the windshield.

We don’t talk during the drive home. But it’s a comfortable silence.

When we pull up in front of Stanley’s house, it’s very late. He clears his throat. “You want to come in? I could make some coffee. And we could change.” He glances down at his wet, muddy clothes.

I nod.

Inside, he starts a pot of coffee and changes into fresh clothes. He lends me a T-shirt and sweatpants, and I have to roll up the sleeves and pant legs. We sit together on the couch, sipping our coffee, its heat chasing away the chill of the rain. The smell of hazelnut and chicory fills my nose, and something else; a pleasant, bookish smell that permeates Stanley’s home, like a natural extension of his own scent. The room is bright and warm, a sharp contrast to the darkness outside.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what.”

“Today. I know it took a lot of courage.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“Alvie? Give yourself some credit.”

Our eyes meet. Strange feelings well up in me, sudden and powerful, and after a moment, I have to look away. A faint alarm bell clangs somewhere in my brain, letting me know that I’m approaching a danger point; my emotions are starting to overload. I need to withdraw, to reassess and process everything I’ve experienced today. I set down my coffee cup and say, “I should go.”

“Wait.” He sets down his cup, too, and wets his lips.

A branch taps against the window like a skeletal finger. A flash of lightning momentarily lights the sky, and the branch’s shadow stretches across the wall, long and black. I grip the edge of the couch.