And I am.
“One more thing, Jack. Most developmental prosopagnosics don’t expect anything from the face in the way that those with acquired prosopagnosia do. Just as a person born without sight has only ever known not seeing, those who are born with this don’t feel that lack in the same way. But for those who have acquired it, it’s not out of the ordinary for them to keep trying to use the face as the key to recognition. That’s the instinct.”
For some reason this is like a kick in the chest. I did this to myself. If I hadn’t climbed onto the roof that day … if I hadn’t tried to show off … if I hadn’t fallen … I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to a brain specialist. I should be heartbroken for six-year-old me lying on the front lawn, my world changed forever. But instead I just want to get out of here.
“Thanks, Dr. Klein. I should get home.”
She shakes my hand, thanks me for my time, apologizes that she couldn’t do more, as if it’s her fault. I want to tell her not to be sorry, that she’s not the one who pushed me off the roof way back when, but instead I say, “Good luck with the research.”
“Jack?”
I turn back. I see a woman there with glasses and sharp cheekbones and hair swept up off her neck. She says, “One person in every fifty is face-blind. It might help for you to remember that. You’re definitely not alone.”
On the drive back to Amos, I ask him questions about the test, and he answers them in this very short yes, no, yes, no kind of way. Then we’re quiet. He is far away, and I know what that feels like, to want to close yourself up. So I don’t force him to talk anymore. We just ride.
We ride for ten miles without saying a word. The silence covers us like a blanket. I’m staring out past the road into the great beyond, but after a while the blanket of silence starts to feel smothering, like it’s cutting off my circulation.
I almost tell him I was this close to getting tested too, but what comes out of my mouth is “I want to be a dancer. Not just a Damsel, but a professional dancer.”
To his credit, he doesn’t go veering off the road. He echoes, “A dancer.” And he’s still far away. But I can hear him tune in a bit.
“When I was little—not just young, but literally little—I took ballet. And I was great at it. I have this picture of me in a black leotard, standing in the most perfect fifth position you’ve ever seen. It was taken the night of our recital, my first ever, and I was glorious. Afterward my teacher told me, ‘You will never be a dancer. I can continue teaching you but it will only be a waste of your parents’ money. Your bones are too big. You don’t have the body for it. The sooner you learn this, the better.’ ”
“Wow. What a bastard.”
“It crushed me. For a long time I didn’t dance, no matter what my mom said. She offered to find me a different teacher, but something was ruined. I let that woman ruin it for me.” I stare at his profile, fixed on the highway. “But she can’t stop me from dancing. No one’s going to tell me not to dance anymore. No one should tell you what you can or can’t do either. Including you.”
We’re riding in silence again, but everything is lighter and cleaner. The mood has lifted and he’s back.
“My dad is having an affair.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. It’s Mrs. Chapman. At school.”
“As in Mrs. Chapman, chemistry teacher?”
“The very one.”
“Really?” Except for being young, there’s nothing about Mrs. Chapman that screams Take me for your mistress. “And you have to see her at school.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, you have to run into her at school.”
“Yeah.”
“What a bastard.”
“I’m sorry that people give you shit about your weight. I’m sorry for anything I did to make it worse for you.”
“I’m sorry you have to date Caroline Lushamp.”
He laughs, and suddenly the car is warm and crackling with electricity.
“I’m not dating her anymore.” These five words surround us, taking over the air, until he says, “I’m sorry my friends can be assholes.”
“I’m sorry you can’t recognize the people you know. Maybe if you could, you’d pick better friends.”
He laughs again, but not as hard.
“Look at it this way—everyone you meet, everyone you know, if they get on your nerves or piss you off, it’s okay. The next day they’ll just be new people. Different people.”
“I guess.” He’s not laughing now.
We come up on a road sign: AMOS … 5 MILES.
He says, “We could keep driving.”
“Into the sunset?”
“Why not?”
And suddenly it’s like I’m watching us from the sky—two outlaws, Jack Masselin and Libby Strout, sitting together in the front seat of a badass mo-fo of an old car, his leg inches from hers, his hands on the wheel, breathing the same air, thinking the same thoughts, sharing things with each other that they don’t share with anyone else.
His eyes are on mine again, and he says, “As someone recently diagnosed with prosopagnosia, I’m told that I don’t process faces like normal people. For instance, I avoid the eyes. But I don’t seem to have any trouble looking into yours. In fact, I like looking into them. A lot.”
Our eyes lock.
As in they lock.
As in I can’t imagine ever looking away.
“The road,” I say, but you can barely hear it.
I think about making a move on her. It would be so easy—pull the car over, lean in, touch her cheek, lean in a little more (close enough so she can feel my breath), catch her eye, look right into her, maybe brush her hair off her face. All the things I’ve learned to do in order to be the Guy Girls Want.
Her head is turned away so that I can only see her hair. When she speaks again, her voice sounds a little throaty, a little full, and there’s something else in it.
The something else is:
She might like you back.
Which means you might like her.
Because to like someone back indicates reciprocating something that was already in existence.
As in you liked her first.
As in I like Libby Strout.
Oh shit, do I?
And because I’m thinking about cancer and this old guy in San Francisco with face blindness and Dr. Amber Klein and aneurysms and how, when you get down to it, so much of life is out of our control, I decide to take control of something.
I reach over and take her hand. It’s soft and warm and fits exactly in mine, and to be honest I’m not really expecting anything, but suddenly my entire body is wired, as if I’ve been plugged directly into the sun.
We stare down at our hands, as if we’re seeing them for the first time.
Somehow, I remember I’m driving, so my eyes go back to the road, but I don’t let go of her hand. I rub her skin with my thumb, and you can almost feel the electrostatic discharge, that flow of electricity between two electrically charged objects suddenly coming into contact. ESD, as it’s called, can create amazing electric sparks, but it can also have harmful effects, like coal dust explosions or gas. Unlike with Caroline, who is mostly gas and coal dust, there aren’t any harmful effects here.
Libby is solid. She is real. As long as I hold her hand, she won’t vanish before my eyes.
He turns off the highway onto the Amos exit. We pass the Welcome Center and the Ford dealership and the mall and all the chain restaurants. We pass the old Victorians that line Main Street, and the little history museum, and the four blocks of downtown, and the courthouse. We pass the high school and the college and the mortuary, and then, finally, we pull into my neighborhood.
Do I like Jack Masselin? As in like like him?