When My Heart Joins the Thousand(53)

My hands shake as I pick up my cell phone and turn it on. There’s one missed call from Stanley. He’s left a voice mail. My thumb hovers, trembling, over the button. I raise the phone to my ear and play the message.

“Alvie, I . . . when you get this, call me. We can talk about this. Whatever’s going on, however I hurt you—”

I stab the button with my thumb, deleting the message.

I can’t go back. If I stay with Stanley, I could seriously injure him. Any stupid little thing could set me off, trigger a meltdown; I could put him in the hospital without even trying. But even then, he would smile through the pain and forgive, because he doesn’t understand that I’m a monster. He’ll keep feeding the monster and giving it shelter and loving it even as it eats him, piece by piece.

Just like Mama.

I shut my eyes and breathe in slowly. A strange, cold calm descends, and in that space, I know what I have to do. I have to let him go. For his sake. If I leave him now, it will hurt him, but he will recover. If I stay . . .

A memory flares, sharp and clear—a cold hand slipping from mine.

I always knew, deep down, that it couldn’t possibly work between Stanley and me. I was living in a fantasy, but I was too selfish and deluded to admit it. I wanted to experience—if just for a little while—what normal felt like. It was a dream, and now it’s over, and he’s suffering for my stupidity. I can’t take back what I’ve done, but I can keep things from getting any worse. Sever the cord, quick and clean.

I send a text message. It would be better if we didn’t see each other again.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


Over the next few days, Stanley leaves more voice mails. I delete them without listening.

At first, the pain is constant, like a weight sitting on my chest. It’s hard to breathe through it. But I keep going through the motions—showing up at work, reading books, taking walks—though I avoid the park now. Little by little, my old routines reestablish themselves, and the ache begins to fade.

As long as I can be with the animals, I’ll survive. They are my purpose. I should have known that all along. I don’t belong in the human world. But I’ve learned from my mistakes; I won’t repeat them.

My phone rings, and I give a start. I start to reach for it, to shut it off—then freeze. The number isn’t Stanley’s; it’s Dr. Bernhardt’s. With a shaking hand, I raise the phone to my ear. “Hello.”

“Hello, Alvie. Just checking in. I wanted to make sure you’re ready for your appointment with Judge Gray tomorrow morning.”

At the words, I feel a sharp jolt. I’ve been so preoccupied, so focused on just surviving each day, I almost forgot about the meeting with the judge. My mouth is dry. I hear myself say the words, “I’m ready.”

“Good. I’ll meet you at the courthouse at seven thirty.” A pause.

“Remember everything we talked about.”

“Okay.”

I hang up.

I lied to him—I don’t feel ready at all. But it’s too late to back out now. This is what I wanted.

I imagine taking all my pain and confusion, folding it up, and tucking it into a drawer in the back of my mind, close to the Vault. When I meet Judge Gray tomorrow, I have to put on a mask of normality. I can’t be distracted.

I lock the drawer, putting Stanley firmly in the past.

The courthouse is on the other side of town, a fifteen-minute drive away. It looks the same as I remember: a huge, square building made of dark stone blocks polished to a reflective sheen, with wide steps leading up to a pair of heavy gray double doors.

Dr. Bernhardt is waiting at the top of the stairs, his cheeks flushed in the cold, a knitted scarf wrapped around his neck. He’s holding a store bag, which he pushes into my hands. “Here. Wear this.”

I remove a cardboard box, which contains a dark gray pantsuit with thin white stripes. “Why.”

“Because you want to look professional and mature.”

I glance down at my skirt, black-and-white-striped stockings, and T-shirt. The words HEAVY METAL gleam, shiny and metallic, above a faded graphic of a woman in armor riding a pterodactyl-like creature. “What’s wrong with the clothes I’m wearing.”

He laughs and shakes his head. I tense. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m not making fun of you. Just trust me on this one, all right?”

We go in. A security guard asks us to empty our pockets into a plastic bin, then waves us through a metal detector—I hold my breath, wondering if someone will try to give me a pat-down, but thankfully, no one tries to touch me. I change in the bathroom, putting my old clothes in the paper bag. The pantsuit is polyester; the material feels stiff and unpleasant against my skin, but I’ll only have to wear it for a few hours.

When I exit the bathroom, Dr. Bernhardt is waiting. “Better.” He gives me a smile. “Just remember—be honest, but not too honest. And stay calm.”

“I’ll try.” My stomach hurts. What happens if this goes wrong? No—I can’t allow myself to think that way, or I’ll start to panic.

“You can handle this,” he says.

I hesitate. “If the judge grants our request, does that mean you won’t be visiting me in the future.”

“Yes. You won’t have to put up with my nagging anymore.” He smiles.