Crystal (7 page)

Bernie answered the door himself. The house was dark and quiet.
"Maid's night off," he muttered, and stepped back.
"Where are your parents?" I asked as I entered. After having lived all my life in orphanages and now living with Thelma, who kept the television on the way some people kept on lights, it seemed strange to enter a home that was so silent.
"Out," he said. "At a meeting or a dinner or something. They left numbers in the kitchen, but I didn't look at them. Come on," he said, leading the way down the hall to his room.
He had the microscope out and the new slides beside it. Next to that was a plastic replica of the human heart.
"These cells come from heart muscle," he said, and glanced into the microscope. He had yet to look at me directly.
I stepped up beside him and waited, and then he moved to the side.
"Go on, take a look," he said.
I sat and looked through the eyepiece. I had to adjust the focus to fit my vision, but it soon came in clear, and I was amazed at the detail I could see.
"This came with it," he explained, and read from a sheet of printed material.
"'We studied cardiac explants and autopsy hearts of patients with chronic congestive heart failure caused by either a dilated cardiomyopathy or ischemic heart disease and compared them with normal hearts. In control hearts, endothelial cells rarely were positive for PAL-E. In hearts of patients with ischemic cardiomyopathies, there was distinct staining with this marker.
"'Conclusions: A phenotypic shift in endothelial antigen expression of the coronary microvasculature occurs in both ischemic hearts and hearts with dilated cardiomyopathies, as revealed by PAL-E, compared with control hearts. The change may relate to compensatory mechanisms in long-standing chronic heart failure.' "
He put the paper down as if he assumed I understood any or all of it. I shook my head. "Where did you get all this?"
"A friend of my father's works at a
cardiovascular research lab in Minnesota. He sent it. My father tells everyone I'm some sort of scientific genius, and they send me things." He gazed at the sheet. "This is heavy research."
"Let me see it," I said, and he handed me the paper. I reread most of what he had read aloud. "No way could I understand it." I shook my head. "This might as well be in a foreign language. I mean, I know what some of the words mean, but putting it all together. . I guess they've found a way to diagnose a heart problenn"
"Right," he said. He looked relieved that I didn't know much more than he did.
I gazed at the cell under the microscope again.
"It is interesting to know that this was once part of a human being," I said.
"I didn't show you half of it before. I've got cells from all sorts of human organs," he said with more excitement in his voice. He went to his special small file cabinet and opened a drawer. Gazing in, he read from the labels. "Liver, kidney, lungs, ovaries, the prostate, even some brain cells."
It was almost as if I had gone shopping at a department store for human cells and he was the salesman. I couldn't help but smile.
"What's so funny?" he asked sharply.
"Nothing," I said, not wanting to make him feel bad. "It's just unusual to see someone have all that in his room."
He slammed the drawer closed. "I thought you would be interested and even excited about it," he said.
"I am! Really, Bernie, I am," I cried.
He looked at me sideways, his eyes narrow with suspicion.
"I mean it. I'm sorry," I said.
He hesitated and then opened the drawer again. "You want to see anything else?" he asked.
"I'd like to see a brain cell."
He brought it over and set it up in the microscope. Then he stepped back, and I looked.
"You know there are about ten billion of those in your brain," he said as I studied the cell. "The brain controls every vital function of our bodies and even controls our emotions like hate, anger, love."
This time, I did laugh.
"What?"
"My mother, Thelma," I said, looking up at him, "asked if we could see love in the heart cell."
'That's an old medieval belief that love is centered in the heart. I told you. It's all in the brain," he corrected. "And you can't see feelings."
"I know. It was just a silly little idea."
"Right. It is silly," he said. He started to put away the slides. "Do you know what you want to be?" he asked me.
"Maybe a doctor. I like writing, too. I might even be a teacher," I said, and he grimaced. "You wouldn't want to be a teacher?" I asked.
"Hardly," he said, turning back to me. "I couldn't put up with giggly girls and jocks and all their problems."
"But good teachers are important," I said.
"I'm not going to do that," he insisted. "Pure research is what I want to do. I don't want to put up with stupid people."
"But why do it if you don't care about people?" I asked
"I care. I just don't want to be. . interrupted and annoyed."
"Not everyone will be annoying," I insisted.
He stared at me. "You like to argue, don't you?" "No, but I don't mind having a discussion," I said.
He finally smiled, a small twitch of his lips in the corners and a brighter light in his green eyes.
"You hungry?"
"No. I just finished supper, remember? Didn't you eat your supper?"
"No. I got too involved with my new slides and forgot. The maid left me something to warm up. You want to watch me eat?" he asked.
"Is it as much fun as looking at the slides?"
He laughed. "You're the first girl I've met who's easy to talk to," he said.
"Thanks, I guess."
"Come on," he said, and I followed him to the kitchen. It was three times the size of ours and had appliances that looked as if they belonged in a space station.
"What is that?" I asked, pointing at a machine on the counter.
"That? A cappuccino machine. My mother likes her cappuccino after dinner. Whenever she eats at home," he added. He opened the giant refrigerator and took out a covered plate. "Lasagna," he said. "I just have to put it in the microwave for a couple of minutes."
I watched him do so.
"How about something to drink? Lemonade, iced tea, soda, milk, beer?"
"Beer!"
"You never had it?" he asked skeptically.
"Not really," I said. "I'll have whatever you have."
He poured us both some iced tea. There was a place setting all ready for him at the dining-room table. It was a large, oval, dark oak table with thick legs. There were twelve captain's chairs set around the table, and above us a large chandelier dangled on a gold chain. Behind us, the wall was all mirror. Against the far wall was a grand hutch with matching wood, filled with dishes and glasses that all looked very expensive.
Bernie brought his food out and set it down. "Our maid is a good cook. Otherwise I'd starve," he quipped.
"Your mother doesn't cook?"
"My mother? She couldn't boil water without burning it," he said.
"You can't burn water."
"It's a joke. At least, it was supposed to be:' "How often do you eat alone like this?" I asked. He paused and thought, as if I had given him a difficult question to answer. "On the average, I'd say four times a week."
"Four!"
"I said average, so you know that there are weeks when it's more," he lectured.
"You should be a teacher," I said. "You like pointing things out, and I bet you love correcting people." He gazed at me a moment and then smiled. "You want to do our math homework after I eat?" he asked.
"I did it before dinner," I said.
"I did it on the bus," he countered.
"So why did you ask?"
He shrugged. "I thought I'd help you."
"Maybe I would have helped you?'
He laughed again and then grew serious, his eyes small and fixed on me intently. Bernie had a way of looking at people as if they were under his microscope. It made me a little uncomfortable.
"What?" I said.
"I was wondering what it was like for you, living in an orphanage," he said.
"Here I go again." I moaned.
"What?"
"That's all anyone wants to know."
"I was just curious, from a scientific point of view," he added.
"You really want to know?I'll tell you, it was hard,"
I fired at him "I didn't feel like I was anyone. I felt like I was dangling, waiting for my life to start. Everyone is jealous of whatever lucky thing happens to anyone else. Counselors, social workers, adults who come around to choose a child make you feel like you're . ."
"Under a microscope?"
"Yes, exactly. And it's no fun. You're afraid to make friends with someone because he or she might be gone the next month."
"What about your real parents?" he asked.
"What about them?"
"Why did they give you up?"
"My mother had me out of wedlock," I said. "She was too sick to take care of me. I don't know who my father is, and I don't care:'
"Why not?"
"I just don't?' I said, tears burning under my eyelids. "So, to answer your question, it wasn't pleasant?' I concluded in a tone that was much sharper than I intended.
Bernie didn't wince or look away. He just nodded. "I understand," he said.
"Really? I don't see how you could unless you were an orphan, too," I replied, not in a very generous mood.
He looked around the room and then at me. "I
am
an orphan," he said nonchalantly, as if it was an obvious fact. "An orphan with parents. It's always been like this. My mother treats me as if I was some sort of space creature She had a difficult pregnancy with me, and she had to have a cesarean delivery. You know what that is, right?"
"Of course."
"So she never had any more children, and if she could have, she probably would have aborted me. Once, when she was angry at me for something, she said that," he added hotly.
"How terrible?' I said, shaking my head.
"My father is disappointed that I'm not a jock. He tries to get me to go down to his place and work with his mechanics, to build myself or, as he puts it, to build character. He thinks character comes from sweat."
He dropped his fork onto the plate with a clang that nearly made me jump in my seat.
"Sorry," he said. "I know you don't want to hear this garbage."
"That's all right. I'm just surprised, that's all," I said.
"You're surprised? You can imagine how surprised I am. Well," he said, pushing back from the table, "they leave me alone and buy me whatever I ask for. You know what I think." His eyes were now looking glassy with tears. "I think my own mother is afraid of me. She hates coming into my room. She says she can't stand looking at those specimens I have in jars and that it smells. Does my room smell?"
"No," I answered honestly.
"All she wants to do is buy me what's fashionable in clothes. That's practically the only time I go anywhere with her."
I looked down. How strange it was to hear someone with parents sound more unhappy than I was without them. Maybe he was right; maybe there were more orphans out there than I could have imagined.
"Did you ever have a boyfriend at the orphanage?" he asked softly.
I looked up and shook my head. "Everyone I meet wants to know that, too. Even Thelma asked me that," I said.
"I just wondered what kind of boys you liked," he said.
"I like boys who are honest and intelligent and caring about someone else's feelings as much as they are about their own?"
"What about looks?"
"It helps if they don't have a wart on the tip of their nose or an eye in the middle of their forehead," I said, and he laughed.
"I think you're nice," he said. "I think you're nicer than most girls I know who aren't orphans. You must have good genes;' he concluded. "Your mother must have been nice, too."
I looked away.
"What did she die of?" he asked. I was silent. "What was her sickness?"
"She was a manic-depressive," I shot back at him, and stood up. "She died in a mental hospital. I'd appreciate it jj you wouldn't tell anyone. So, you see, my genes are not so good after all. I've got to go home," I said. "I told them I wouldn't be here that long."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean .
"It doesn't matter. Thanks for showing me your slides," I said, and headed for the door.
He came after me and took my arm to stop me before I opened the door. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to ask so many personal questions?'
"It's all right. I've got to learn how to deal with it," I said. "I'm just afraid, that's all, afraid of becoming her?'
"You won't," he assured me.
"I won't? What about your belief about genes?"
"You have your father's genes, too."
"He was worse," I said, without going into it. "Well, you have grandparents. There are lots of combinations and influences on who we are."
"When do we find out?" I asked him, my tears now bubbling at the lids.
"Find out what?"
"Who we are."
"We're always making discoveries about that," he said.
I opened the door.
"Hey," he said, stepping out alongside me. "What?"
"Thanks for coming over." He leaned in before I could react and kissed me quickly on the cheek. "Why did you do that?"
He shrugged. "My genes, I guess," he said, and laughed as he stepped back inside and closed the door.
I stood there for a moment with my hand on my cheek where he had kissed it. It had happened so fast, too fast. I was disappointed.
That's the first time a boy ever did that to me, I thought as I started for home. I tried to understand the excitement that made my heart thump and brought a heat to my face. There was a movement of feelings through my body, a current that rushed in waves from my legs, through my stomach, and up around my heart, sending trickles of electricity down to the very tips of my fingers. Was this love, my first love?
My eyes were filled with his green eyes. His smile fit like a glove over mine My brain of ten billion cells was a kaleidoscope of emotions. I felt sorry for him living like an orphan in that big, beautiful, expensive house. I wanted to go back and be with him. I wanted to hold him in my arms and tell him how to overcome the loneliness, a loneliness so strong that even all the money in the world, buying all the things he could fancy, wouldn't stop it from making his heart ache. I wanted to kiss his cheek, and then I wanted our lips to touch.
I wanted more, and what I wanted frightened me. I closed my eyes but quickened my steps. When I opened them, I was standing in front of my new home. I started to laugh.
It was funny. When I had left, Thelma had asked if I could see love under the microscope.
Maybe I had.