When My Heart Joins the Thousand(54)

I try to respond and find that, for some reason, there’s a lump blocking my throat. This is what you wanted, I remind myself.

He extends a hand. “Good luck, Alvie.”

I brace myself, grip his hand, and shake once. His skin is soft and dry; the physical contact doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it might. “Thank you,” I say.

I release him, and he turns and walks away.

I stare at the hallway ahead of me. The courtroom is at the end. I feel very small and very alone, and I’m filled with a sudden conviction that this is going to be a disaster. My legs don’t want to move, but I force them to walk forward . . . slowly, because my knees keep wobbling.

The courtroom isn’t large; it feels private and enclosed, like an interrogation chamber. Dingy blue carpet covers the floor, and the walls are wood paneled. Judge Gray—a fiftyish woman with a small, pinched mouth—is already there, sitting in a chair behind a massive desk. She’s the same woman who presided over my case when I first asked for emancipation. Only one other person is there, a younger woman sitting behind another desk, who I assume is a transcriptionist or notetaker.

I sit in the smaller chair facing Judge Gray, folding my hands in my lap. She studies me for a moment in silence, then examines a sheet of paper in her hand. I fidget. Already, I want my Rubik’s Cube, but I left it outside in the paper bag with my clothes; it wouldn’t fit in the pocket of my pantsuit. I try to remember the questions and answers I rehearsed with Dr. Bernhardt over the past few weeks, but my mind is a blank.

“Alvie Fitz,” she says. “You’re seventeen years old now. Is that correct?”

Hot fluorescents beat down on the top of my head. “Yes.”

“And you’ve been living in your own apartment and working at the Hickory Park Zoo as a full-time employee for eighteen months.”

“That’s correct.”

“Mr. Bernhardt has stated—”

“Doctor.”

She frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Dr. Bernhardt,” I correct, and immediately realize I should have kept my mouth shut. But because I’ve already said it, I feel inclined to clarify. “He has a PhD in sociology.”

“I see. Well.” She clears her throat. “Dr. Bernhardt says your condition has improved.” She folds her hands and clicks her long thumbnails together. The sound makes me squirm. “As I recall, when we last met, you were living in the Safe Rest Home for girls. You ran away on three separate occasions, and on one of those occasions, there was a police report filed. Prior to your stay at Safe Rest Home, you spent several years in a psychiatric ward. Is that right?”

My nails dig into my palms. I struggle to control my breathing. “That is correct.”

“Are you currently seeing a counselor?”

“No.”

“And why is that?”

I speak slowly, choosing my words with care. “My emotional issues are under control. I’m much more stable now than I was a year and a half ago. I don’t see a need for therapy.”

Her pale blue eyes narrow slightly. “Do you believe your earlier diagnosis was inaccurate, then?”

Sweat pools at the small of my back. My fingers itch to start pulling my braids, but I resist. I know that any twitch, any display of emotion, of anger or fear, could be interpreted as a sign of instability. What am I supposed to say? What’s the right answer? My eyes dart back and forth. The urge to start rocking and tugging my braids grows stronger and stronger, until it feels like trying not to blink.

“Ms. Fitz? Do you understand the question?”

“Which diagnosis do you mean,” I ask, stalling for time. “There have been several.”

“I’m referring to the diagnosis of Asperger’s syndrome. If you have a mental disability, I’m sure you understand why that would influence my decision.”

I think about pointing out that Asperger’s isn’t a mental disability, it’s a social disability, or perhaps just a natural variation on the standard neurological configuration. But I have the sense that arguing with her would not impact her views, and might make her angry. “You mean, if I’m mentally disabled, you won’t hold me accountable for the things I did.”

“No. I mean, it might necessitate placing you under permanent guardianship. The state would appoint someone to help you manage your affairs.”

Permanent guardianship. I start to shake. Is this really happening? Is she going to hand over control of my life to a total stranger? I struggle to hold my tone steady. “Not everyone with autism is under guardianship. Many people with an Asperger’s diagnosis have gone on to have successful careers, even get married and have children.”

“If that’s the case, they were obviously not diagnosed accurately in the first place.” She sniffs. “Doctors love to throw around diagnostic labels. Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but I believe there’s such a thing as simple bad decision making, and that sometimes, a case of immaturity and teenaged rebelliousness can be cured by a dose of cold, hard reality.”

I want to tell her that it’s not that simple. Being able to hold down a job doesn’t mean I’m not different. My brain hasn’t changed just because my situation has. But what I say next will determine the course of my entire future. I have to be extremely careful. “What are you asking, exactly.”