Crystal (Orphans 2)

"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?'