When My Heart Joins the Thousand(82)

“Mama wasn’t a bad person.” My voice is weak. “She . . . she just couldn’t . . .” I trail off. I don’t even know what I want to say. “It was too much for anyone, taking care of me.”

“What about my parents’ divorce? Do you think that was my fault?”

I stiffen. “No. Of course not.”

“Then why do you blame yourself for this?”

“That’s just . . . different.”

“No. It’s the same thing. It took years for me to stop blaming myself for everything that happened. And sometimes, I still feel responsible.

“After the divorce, my mom fell apart. She’d always been protective—and once Dad was gone, I was all she had. I wasn’t allowed to play outside with other kids. If I tried to sneak out, she would lock me in my room for days. I missed so much school anyway, because of fractures and surgeries, no one really thought it was strange when I didn’t show up. Eventually she just pulled me out altogether.”

I listen, holding my breath.

“It wasn’t all bad. Most of the time, she was kind. Gentle. She gave me everything I needed—bought me books and computer games so I wouldn’t get bored, even though I was cooped up in the house all the time. But I felt like I was suffocating. When I told her I wanted to go away to college, she freaked out. Said I was breaking her heart, that I would kill her if I left. But I wouldn’t give up. It was the only argument I ever won. Then . . .” He stops. His eyes shine, wet and reflective with tears.

“She got sick, started passing out. She’d known for a while there was something wrong with her, but she didn’t go to a doctor, because all the money went to my medical bills. When she finally saw a neurologist, it was too late to do anything. After that, I had to come back. I couldn’t leave her. She got worse and worse. She started having these rages, these fits where she ranted at me and threw things. There was this one night . . .” His voice cracks. He stops and takes a breath. “I was taking a bath. She broke into the bathroom, this empty look in her eyes, like she wasn’t there, and started washing me. All over. Like—like I was a baby, or something. I kept telling her to stop, but it was like she couldn’t hear a word I was saying, and I was too scared to push her away. Scared I’d set her off.” He sits, shoulders hunched, hands balled into tight fists. “It wasn’t . . . I mean, she didn’t hurt me. But the next time I went to my doctor and she asked me to undress so she could see how the latest break was healing, I had a panic attack.”

Oh, Stanley, I think. Stanley. Stanley.

“I know she loved me,” he says. “And I loved her . . . and my dad, too. I still do. I think it’s easier, in a way, when someone hurts you out of hate. It’s less confusing. When the ones who hurt you are the people who love you most . . . no one ever tells you how you’re supposed to deal with that.”

There’s a hard, hot ball in my chest. Suddenly I want to go into his mother’s room and break all the ceramic figurines, rip apart the flowered coverlet and the rose-patterned curtains. Erase all the pain, all the memories.

“Listen to me.” He frames my face between his hands. His palms are warm on my cheeks. “What happened is not your fault. Not even a little. And I’ll say that as many times as it takes for you to believe it.”

It seems impossible, what he’s saying. It seems like a logical fallacy. My mind won’t accept it. “If I had never picked up your phone in the park, if I’d never sent you that email, you wouldn’t have gone through all this suffering.” My voice wavers. “You wouldn’t be sitting in this chair, now, with half your body in bandages.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I wouldn’t be here. I’d be lying next to my mother in the cemetery.”

At first, the words don’t sink in. Don’t register. Slowly I raise my head. “What.”

“After you sent me that email, I changed my mind.”

It takes me a moment to find my voice. “Why,” I whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me.”

“I didn’t want you here out of pity. I needed to know that this was real.”

I can’t help it. I kiss him. I feel his soft intake of breath—he tenses briefly, then relaxes into it.

He smiles, tears in his eyes. “I wouldn’t give up a single minute of the time I’ve spent with you. Not even the difficult parts.”

I close my eyes and exhale a shuddering breath. My face is still anchored between his hands. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Stop telling yourself that.” His voice is harsh, almost angry, but beneath that, there’s a husky throatiness, as if he’s close to tears. “I’m not a saint, whatever you think. You deserve to be loved. You deserve to be happy. So please . . .” His grip gentles, and his eyes soften. “Please stop punishing yourself.”

I can’t speak.

I was so sure that when I told him, he’d be horrified. He’d see me for the monster I was, a creature so detestable that my own mother tried to destroy me. Deep down, a part of me always believed that she was right—that I was better off dead. That my life could never be anything but a mistake. “I’ll always be like this, you know.”

“Good. Because I want you exactly the way you are.”