It’s late.
I’m sitting on the mattress in my bedroom, legs crossed in front of me, eating Cool Whip from a plastic tub with a spoon. A glob falls onto my shirt; I scoop it up with one finger and suck it clean. The lights are off, the room illuminated only by the faint glow of my laptop, which rests on my pillow. I am playing Go.
Abruptly Dr. Bernhardt’s voice invades my thoughts: If things don’t change, I’ll have to recommend to the judge that, as a condition of your continued independence, you start seeing a counselor.
I make a stupid move, and my opponent captures several of my stones. Irritated with myself, I quit the game and close the laptop. I don’t feel like sleeping, so I retrieve my yellowing, dog-eared copy of Watership Down from the shelf, open it, and begin reading. I try to fall into the familiar rhythm of the sentences. The primroses were over. Toward the edge of the wood, where the ground became open and sloped down to an old fence and a brambly ditch beyond, only a few fading patches of pale yellow still showed . . .
I’ve read the book countless times. Returning to its world of intelligent rabbits and their struggle for survival is a comfortable ritual. But tonight, my thoughts keep wandering. I close the book with a sigh.
Dr. Bernhardt doesn’t understand, and I can’t explain it to him. He thinks my aversion to human contact is just fear of rejection. It goes so much deeper.
Inside my head, there’s a place I call the Vault. I keep certain memories there, sealed off from the rest of my mind. Psychologists call this repression. I call it doing what’s necessary to survive. If I didn’t have the Vault, I’d still be in the institution, or on so many heavy-duty medications I’d barely know my own name.
When I close my eyes and concentrate, I can see it in front of me—a towering pair of metal doors at the end of a long, dark hallway. The doors are strong and solid, with a massive bolt lock holding them shut, protecting me from what lies on the other side. I spent several years constructing this place, brick by brick, forming a sort of mental quarantine unit.
If Dr. Bernhardt forces me to go to counseling, the doctor will pick and pry at those doors and try to dismantle the fortress I’ve built to protect myself. Psychologists think the solution to everything is to talk about it.
My hands are shaking. I need to reduce my stimulation.
If I had a bed, I would hide beneath it, but there’s only my mattress on the bedroom floor. So I go into the bathroom, curl up in the empty bathtub, and cocoon myself with blankets. I wrap them tightly around me, covering even my face, so that there’s only a small slit for air. The pressure helps. Alone, in darkness, I breathe.
Quiet, enclosed spaces have always felt safe. When I was in second grade, my teacher, Mrs. Crantz, put a cardboard box around my desk and cut a small window out of the front so I could only see straight ahead. Because my gaze wandered, she thought I was distracted by my surroundings, that the box would help me pay attention. She didn’t understand that I was lost in my own thoughts. Cut off from the outside world, it was easier to withdraw inside myself. I spent my time drawing mazes and three-dimensional hexagons in my notebook, which was more fun than listening to Mrs. Crantz read Little House on the Prairie in her droning, nasally voice. Then one day, she tried to take away the box, and I screamed. When she put a hand on my shoulder, I kicked her in the knee. She hauled me to the principal’s office and called my mother.
Mama arrived wearing sweatpants, her hair still damp from a recent shower. In my head, I can see her now, sitting in the principal’s office, gray eyes wide, fingers clenched tightly on the strap of her purse. “Alvie,” she said quietly, “why did you kick your teacher?”
“She grabbed me,” I replied in a small voice. “It hurt.”
“I barely touched her,” Mrs. Crantz protested. “It couldn’t possibly have hurt.”
But it had. Lots of things hurt me—bright lights, loud noises, itchy dresses—but no one ever believed me when I told them. “It burned me,” I insisted.
“Burned?” Mrs. Crantz frowned.
The principal cleared his throat. “Ms. Fitz . . . perhaps you should take your daughter to see a behavioral specialist.”
Mama’s brow creased. “A doctor? But why?”
“She’s been having difficulty at school for some time now. I can give you a number to call, if you wish.” He slid a card across the desk. “Please understand . . . we’re just trying to help. For now, maybe you should take her home.”
I sat in the chair, head down, hands fisted in my lap.
As we drove home, Mama was quiet, staring straight ahead. Little pieces of her hair caught the sun, turning brighter red. “Does it hurt when I touch you?” she asked.
“No. Not when you do it.”
Her stiff shoulders unstiffened. “I’m glad.” She was quiet again for a while.
It was hot in the car. Sweat glued my shirt to my back. “Why does the principal want me to see a doctor. I’m not sick.”
“Maybe not, but . . .” She bit her lower lip. “Maybe we should go. Just to be safe.” Her eyes were watery from the bright sunlight. “I love you very much, Alvie. You know that, don’t you?”
The musty smell of blankets seeps into my awareness, pulling me back to the present. Suddenly the fabric around me doesn’t seem protective so much as constrictive. I gasp, overcome with the feeling that I’m suffocating. I jerk upward, clawing free.
Moonlight from the tiny window gleams on the tiles, illuminates the pattern of cracks in the walls and the spots of rust blooming on the tub.
I slump, leaning my head against the wall. My throat thickens briefly, and I choke down the feeling. Mama is gone now. Dwelling on the past won’t help anything. I push the memory of that day back into the depths of my mind, where it belongs.
Focus. Isolate the problem: Dr. Bernhardt wants me to have a social life. But he can’t hold me accountable if other people avoid me, so if I can just present him with some evidence that I’ve been making an effort, maybe he’ll leave me alone.
The phone I retrieved from the pond is still sitting on my coffee table. I retrieve it and study the information on the back.
Stanley Finkel. The name of the boy in the park, the boy with the cane. What would I say to him, anyway?
It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. I open my laptop, log in to my email and plug Stanley’s address into the “to” box. I type the first question that pops into my head: What do you think of the Copenhagen interpretation?
Stanley will probably assume the message is spam. And even if he doesn’t, he has no idea who I am, so why would he care?
I stroke the touchpad, dragging the cursor toward the corner of the screen to close my email program. But before I can, a new message appears in my inbox: Hi, ThousandEnemies. :) That’s an interesting handle. Uh, do I know you?
I sit, frozen. Sweat trickles down my sides, tiny cold beads. He asked me a question; I should at least answer it. I send: No.
How did you get my address?
It was on your phone. I found it in the park. It doesn’t work anymore.
A pause. Oh. Well, that’s fine. I’m overdue for a new one, anyway. So, what’s the Copenhagen interpretation?
I didn’t expect him to respond at all. I take a few minutes to compose myself, and then I respond, fingers flitting rapidly over the keys: It’s a common interpretation of quantum physics. It holds that quantum particles don’t conform to one objective reality, but instead exist as multiple probabilities. Only the act of observing or measuring those particles causes them to collapse into a single reality. The thought experiment known as “Schrödinger’s cat” is the most common example. In it, there’s a cat in a box. The cat’s life or death depends on the behavior of a subatomic particle. If the particle spins in one direction, a flask of poison gas is opened. If it spins in the other, the flask remains sealed. According to the Copenhagen’s interpretation, while the box is closed, both exist as possibilities, so the cat is both alive and dead. Only when the box is opened does a single reality emerge.
I hit send. My palms are damp, so I rub them on my shorts.
His reply comes a minute later: Well, that’s definitely one of the more unique conversation starters I’ve heard. People usually say something about the weather. Or sports. Though, come to think of it, I never know how to respond to that, either.
Of course. He doesn’t want to hear about quantum theory. People usually don’t.
Do you want me to leave you alone? I send.
No, he replies quickly. You can talk to me about Copenhagen all night if you like. Hey, you want to sign on to Gchat? It’ll be easier.
Fine. I sign on.
So what’s your name? he types.
I suppose there’s no harm in giving him that information. Alvie Fitz.
Alvie, huh? Like that guy from the Annie Hall movie?
It can be a girl’s name, too.
Oh. You’re a girl?
I’m female, yes.
I like it, he sends. Your name, I mean. It’s better than mine, anyway. I mean, Stanley Finkel. It sounds like a skeevy game show host or something. Also it rhymes with “tinkle.” Which, needless to say, made grade school a blast.
It sounds like a normal name to me.
Well, thank you. :) And then: I have to ask. How did you come across my phone?
I saw you throw it into the pond. There’s no response. I wait. Why did you throw it away?
Several minutes pass without a reply, and I begin to wonder if he’s gone. Then a new message appears: I didn’t think I’d need it anymore. I was being stupid. It doesn’t matter now.
I’m not sure how to respond, so I don’t. After a minute, another line of text pops up: Alvie? Thank you.
For what?
Nothing. I just wanted to say thank you.
I can’t remember the last time someone has thanked me. It’s a strange feeling.
I have to go, I say.
I close my laptop. For a while, I sit, staring into space. My heart is beating faster than normal.