When My Heart Joins the Thousand(74)
I want to protest that I’m not kind, but I close my mouth, knowing he’ll just argue the point, like he always does. Instead, I listen to his voice as he reads.
I’m astounded at how easily he navigates his way through these baffling mazes of questions. It’s like some form of psychological jujitsu that he’s mastered without even trying. I try to focus on what he’s saying, but I find myself daydreaming and just letting his voice wash over me like warm water. I wonder what the inside of his brain would look like, if I could swim through it like a tadpole—if it’s filled with complex neurological structures designed for processing questions like What kind of beverage are you?
He says that I am absinthe. I still don’t know what this means, exactly. But I like the word and I like the way it sounds when he says it.
“Thank you,” I say. “For this. It helps a lot.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.”
Even now, when I should be taking care of him, Stanley’s the one guiding me and easing my fears. There seems to be so little I can do for him.
He hardly ever talks about his own pain. But I know it’s there. Every day, in the hospital, I heard it in his voice and saw it in the flat, glassy sheen on his eyes, in the tightness around his smile. Sometimes he cries out in his sleep. He hurts more than most people could ever comprehend, yet still he smiles. And it’s not just physical pain he deals with. From what little he’s said about his childhood, I know the past still clings to him. Another way we’re alike.
I find myself thinking about that first night I spent at his house—the things he said to me. Things he never brought up again.
“So let’s see,” Stanley says. “This question, ‘Where do you see yourself in ten years?’ Ugh, I never like answering this one. How is anyone supposed to know that? But they’re basically just looking to see if you have goals—”
“You told me once before that your father physically abused you.”
He freezes. His expression goes blank, and the color drains from his face. “Jesus,” he mutters.
I know, immediately, that I’ve made a mistake. But it’s too late to take the words back.
He takes a deep breath and slowly sets the papers down. “He didn’t abuse me. It wasn’t like that. He just got carried away sometimes, and—why are we talking about this now?”
I pick at the edge of one thumbnail. “The night after Draco—I mean TJ—after he hit you that first time and broke your arm, I stayed overnight at your house. You said certain things about yourself—that you believed your parents would have been better off without you, that your existence was a mistake. I want to know who put that idea in your head.”
He closes his eyes briefly and rubs his forehead. “I was in a bad place that night. I was exhausted and doped up on pain medication. I barely knew what I was saying.”
“You seemed pretty lucid.”
“Christ, can we just—” He breaks off and lets out a short sigh. “Look . . . I know I have lousy self-esteem, but that’s my own problem. I’m not going to blame anyone else for it. He might be a coward, and God knows he’s not going to win any Father of the Year awards, but he’s not an abuser. Now, can we drop the subject?”
I lower my gaze. “Okay.”
We keep going through applications. I shuffle through the papers, my gaze sliding over the different questions without really seeing them. Stanley tries to sound cheerful when he gives me advice, but I can detect a difference in his tone. I’ve crossed a line.
For a few minutes, when we were talking about neurology and absinthe, things felt almost normal between us. But now he’s withdrawn into himself again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
That afternoon, I drop Stanley off at Westerly College and watch him wheel across the parking lot, up the ramp to the automatic door. I wait until he’s inside before I pull out of the lot.
As I drive, I spot a red-tailed hawk perched atop a telephone pole. He takes flight, wings silhouetted against the pale sky, and I think about Chance.
The last time I saw him was when I dropped him off at the wildlife rehabilitation center. I’ve had a lot on my mind since then. But it’s been too long. I need to make sure he’s all right, at least.
The drive to Elmbrooke Wildlife Center takes about fifteen minutes. The receptionist’s gaze flits over me without recognition. I wander through the building, which has a comfortable air about it, like a library. I look at the aquariums full of turtles and frogs, the terrariums of birds and lizards.
Outside, in a small wooded area behind the center, there are enclosures with coyotes and foxes and raccoons and a pair of golden eagles. In front of each one is a sign with the animal’s name and personal story. Most of them were brought in injured, and for various reasons were unable to be returned to the wild. A cobblestone path winds in gentle curves, dappled with leaf shadows and glints of sunlight.
Near the end of the path, I see a large cage, and in it, a one-winged, red-tailed hawk drinking from a dish of water. He looks up, fixing his bright copper gaze on me. Then he leaps to the floor of the cage and attacks the bloody remains of a rat amid the cedar chips.
I look at the sign next to his enclosure. It’s poster board—maybe they haven’t had time to make an official one yet—with big letters written in marker. CHANCE, it reads.