When My Heart Joins the Thousand(85)

“So, how was work?” he says.

I tell him about Kitt, the three-legged fox, and Dewey the crow, who can tie a piece of red twine in a knot using his beak. I tell him about the hexagonal tiles on the cobblestone paths in the wooded area behind the shelter, about the koi pond with the little bubbling fountain. I was worried the fountain would bother me, but the sound of water doesn’t seem to affect me as much as it used to.

“You’re going to be wonderful there,” he says.

“Thank you.” I twirl my fork in my spaghetti, conscious of the sore spot on my chest. His tablecloth is off-white and green checkered. I find myself counting the rows of green squares, doing math in my head to estimate the total number of squares on the table. The tablecloth is rough-woven, the fibers thick and visible, a complicated crosshatch of strands overlapping and blending together. It’s easy to see them as a seamless whole, when I let my eyes drift out of focus, but nothing is ever seamless or simple if you study it closely.

“Is anything on your mind?” he asks.

I stand. “Come with me.”

His brow furrows. He starts to pick up his plate, but I say, “We’ll take care of that later.” I walk toward the bedroom. He follows me slowly. He’s graduated from wheelchair to crutches, but he still struggles getting from place to place.

Once we’re inside, I shut the door and face him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, crutches resting beside him, and I’m reminded of that first night in the motel room.

I’m still wearing my work shirt. Now, I start to unbutton it.

His eyes widen. “What—”

“I got something for you today.” My shirt drops to the floor. I undo the clasp of my bra, and it falls. “Don’t touch it. It’s new.” Carefully, I peel off the bandage covering the tattoo.

It took a very long time, and it was agony. Not because of the physical pain, which was bearable. Forcing myself to be still for so long—putting myself at someone else’s mercy—went against everything in my nature. I remember sitting, rigid as a board, fingers digging into the arm of the chair, shaking so hard my teeth rattled. The tattoo artist kept smirking at me, as if my discomfort was the most hilarious thing he’d ever seen, and more than once I had to forcibly choke down the urge to kick him. But the result is worth it.

A carnation blossoms on my skin, bright red petals inked over my heart. It’s identical to the one Stanley gave me—the one I broke. It’s still tender, the skin around it faintly pink, but it’s not bleeding.

Stanley’s eyes widen. Slowly, he reaches out, but his fingers stop an inch from the flower.

I fidget and tug my braid, resisting the urge to avert my gaze and start studying the carpet. I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with my naked skin.

My heartbeats echo through the silence as I wait for him to say something. At last, he clasps my hand against his cheek, then turns his face and kisses the palm. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers.

The tension runs out of me, leaving me weak and shaky with relief. The last thing I want is for him to look at me when I’m naked and think, If only she didn’t have that stupid red blob between her tits.

He starts to reach toward it again, then stops. “Does it hurt?”

“A little.”

He lightly touches the skin just left of the carnation. The touch is as soft and tentative as the brush of a moth’s wing.

His gaze meets mine. “Can you . . . can you turn off the lights for a minute?” He smiles, though I can see the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth. “It’s easier for me to get undressed with the lights off.”

For a moment, everything inside me goes still. There’s a little leap in my chest, a breathless tremor of anticipation. I flip off the light switch.

The rustle of cloth breaks the silence. He’s taking off his shirt. The darkness is thick, tangible; it presses in on me like black fur, and no matter how I strain my eyes against it, I can’t see anything.

His fingers curl around my wrist, and he pulls my hand to his chest. I feel the roughness of scars against my fingertips. He’s tense, his breathing heavy and rapid as I slide my fingertips lower, feeling the ripples and hard lines of scar tissue. My hands glide over his shoulders, and I trace the length of a long scar running from the base of his neck to the middle of his back. I remember him telling me about how he broke his scapula, how they had to open him and reset the bone surgically; months of agony and immobility, compressed into a line of raised flesh. I trail my fingers lower down his back, and there is another scar. And then another. I touch his arms, and there are more. Eight, nine, ten, eleven.

I quickly lose track.

“I want to turn on the lights,” I say.

There’s a faint click in his throat as he swallows. “It’s okay. Go ahead.”

Instead of the light switch, I turn on the lamp. He’s naked, except for his boxers. The lamp’s soft amber glow casts pools of shadow in the hollows of his clavicles and between his ribs, emphasizing the thinness of his body. The scars are like a bas-relief sculpture carved on his skin, overlapping lines, some faded and almost invisible, others fresh and bright pink. There are dimples of scar tissue where surgical pins pierced his flesh—rows of them, marching alongside the straight lines of past incisions.

My fingers graze his chest. I trace the scars on his ribs, like Braille. A history of pain. But without that pain, he wouldn’t be who he is: someone with enough empathy to reach out to me, enough courage to love me. “You’re perfect, Stanley.”