When My Heart Joins the Thousand(83)

Two tears slip from my eyes and down my cheeks.

He holds his arms out to me, and I collapse. My hands fist in his shirt. My face presses against his neck, and the sobs pour out—ugly, raw, animal sounds. I can’t stop. It’s frightening. It hurts, like I’m splitting open and all my insides are pouring out.

He cradles my head against his shoulder and rocks me back and forth.

I cry for a long time. When it’s over, I am exhausted, weakened and empty. But it’s a clean sort of emptiness. I feel new, like a baby opening her eyes for the first time, looking upon the world in all its strangeness and beauty.

“We didn’t have the best luck with family, did we,” I say, my voice faint and hoarse.

He lets out a choked laugh. “No.”

“If we ever have children,” I say, “let’s do better.”

That night, we share his bed for the first time since I moved in. He clings to me in the darkness. “You’ll stay?”

I take his hand in mine and hold it against my cheek. “I’ll stay.”

His hair shines in the lamplight. On impulse, I touch it. It’s short, bristly yet soft, like fur; there’s something comforting about the texture. Slowly I slide my fingers through it. His breath catches.

“Is that bad,” I ask.

“No. It feels nice.”

I touch the back of his neck, where the skin is warm and velvety, and he shivers. When I start to slide my fingers under the collar of his shirt, he tenses, so I pull back and resume combing my fingers through his hair, a slow, steady movement.

I missed this. I missed touching him. His warmth, his scent. The sensation awakens something restless in me, and I want more.

I rest my hand on his thigh.

“Alvie . . .” He gulps

“What’s wrong.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he says. “I do. Believe me. It’s just . . . my legs are still in braces. I can barely move my lower body. I mean . . .” He clears his throat. “That part of me is okay, but still. It’ll be a while before I’m in any shape for this kind of thing.”

“Even if we can’t do it the usual way, we can still do something. When I did my research—”

“Research?”

Oh, right. I never told him. “I watched a lot of pornography to prepare myself. For the first time, I mean.”

“Uh.” He won’t look directly at me.

“I saw a lot of different positions and methods,” I continue.

“Alvie.” His voice sounds a little strained.

“What.”

“I want our first time to be special.” He takes my hand in his. “I really want to do this right. I want to be prepared, and I don’t want to be stuck in braces when it happens.”

The words frustrate me.

When I first propositioned Stanley, I just wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. I didn’t even care if I enjoyed it; I just wanted to feel connected to another human being, if only for one night. But it’s not like that anymore. I want him. I want to touch him, to feel his skin against mine.

But I remember what he said about his mother—how afterward, he couldn’t even get undressed in front of a doctor.

“I just need a little more time,” he whispers.

Stanley has been patient with me. I can be patient, too.

I touch his chest and say, “When you’re ready.”

He relaxes, and I know I’ve made the right choice not to push. Still, the frustration remains. We’ve revealed so much to each other. This is the last barrier between us.





CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


The lake looks the way I remember it—smooth, glassy blue, like a mirror. I pull into the small lot next to the beach.

“You really want to do this?” Stanley asks.

“Yes.”

Early-morning sunlight smudges the clouds with pink as I walk across the damp sand. My legs tremble, and sweat pools in the small of my back, despite the crisp, cool air. I face the water. Waves lick the shore.

My mother’s body was pulled out of the lake during the investigation, years ago. I learned later that she was cremated, in accordance with the wishes of some estranged relatives I never even met. There is no casket, no headstone. Though she’s not here anymore, this lake is the closest thing to a grave she will ever have.

I crouch and place a hand on the smooth, water-polished sand. It’s warm, like a living thing. Waves lap over my fingers. Carefully, with one fingertip, I write a name in the sand: CASSIE ELEANOR FITZ.

To me, she was always Mama. I never found out who she was outside of that. I’ll never have the chance.

I think back to the days before all the trouble started, when we were just mother and daughter. I am three, maybe four years old. Mama and I are making cookies together. I’m fascinated by the sticky dough, and I keep putting my hands in it and playing with it like clay, getting it on my face and in my hair, and the whole time, Mama is laughing. Later, she wipes my face clean, still beaming. She kisses me on the head and says, “Do you have any idea how perfect you are?”

I’m sure there were difficulties, even back then. I’m sure that I threw tantrums, climbed on furniture, and hid under the bed. But we were happy.

I will always wonder how I could have changed things, if I’d made different choices—if I’d just told her that I’d been taking vitamins instead of antipsychotics, if I hadn’t gotten myself expelled, if I’d been able to hug her more often, if I’d found the words to make her understand that it wasn’t her obligation to fix me, because it’s okay to be imperfect.