Hello Stranger A Novel

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Again.
It’ssuchanhonortobeyourdaughter.
HowcanIeverthankyouenough?One
THEFIRSTPERSONIcalledafterIfoundoutI’dplacedintheNorthAmericanPortraitSociety’shugecareer-makingyearlycontestwasmydad.
Whichisweird.BecauseInevercalledmydad.
Notvoluntarily,anyway.
Sure,IcalledonbirthdaysorFather’sDayorNewYear’s—hopingtogetluckyandmisshimsoIcouldleaveasingsongymessagelike“Sosorrytomissyou,”getthecredit,andbedone.
ButIcalledonlyoutofobligation.Neverforfun.Never,everjusttotalk.Andnever—godforbid—tosharethings.
Mygoalwasalwaysnottosharethingswithmyfather.HowbrokeIwas.HowIwasstill—endlessly—failinginmychosencareer.HowI’dgivenuponyetanotherrelationshipandmovedintomynot-fit-for-human-habitationartstudiobecauseIcouldn’taffordaplaceofmyown.
Thatwasallneed-to-knowinformation.
Andhedefinitelydidn’tneedtoknow.
Itgavemesomestructure,inaway—craftingongoingfakesuccessstoriesaboutmyselfforhimandmyevilstepmother,Lucinda.Iwasalways“doinggreat.”Or“crazybusy.”Or“thrivingsomuch.”
Ididn’tactivelymakethingsup.Ijustworkeddevotedlytoobscurethetruth.
Thetruthwas,I’ddefiedallmydad’sinstructionseightyearsbefore,droppingoutofpremedandswitchingmycollegemajortoFineArts.
“FineArts?”myfatherhadsaid,likehe’dneverheardthetermbefore.“Howexactlyareyousupposedtomakealivingwiththat?”
Igavehimalittleshrug.“I’mjustgoingto…beanartist.”
Wow,thosewordsdidnotlandwell.
“Soyou’retellingme,”hedemanded,thatlittleveininhisforeheadstartingtodarken,“thatyouwanttobeburiedinapauper’sgrave?”
Ifrowned.“Iwouldn’tsayIwantthat.”
It’spossiblemydadwantedmetobeadoctorbecausehewasadoctor.Andit’spossiblemydaddidn’twantmetobeanartistbecausemymomhadbeenanartist.Butwedidn’ttalkaboutthat.
Hewenton,“You’rethrowingawayagoodcareer—agoodliving—sothatyoucanwasteyourlifedoingsomethingthatdoesn’tmatterfornomoney?”
“Whenyouputitthatway,itsoundslikeabadidea.”
“It’saterribleidea!”hesaid,likethatwasalltherewastoit.
“Butyou’reforgettingtwothings,”Isaid.
Mydadwaitedtobeenlightened.
“Idon’tlikemedicine,”Isaid,countingoffonmyfingers.“AndIdolikeart.”
Sufficeittosay,hedidn’tthinkanyofthatwasrelevant.ThenhewentontoimplythatIwasspoiledandfoolishandhadneverknowntruesuffering.
Eventhoughwebothknew—onthatlastone,atleast—hewaslying.
Anyway,itdidn’tmatter.Hedidn’tgettodecidewhatIdidwithmylife.
Iwastheonewhohadtoliveit,afterall.
Mydadwasnotabigfanoflosing.“Don’taskmeforhelpwhenyou’rebroke,”hesaid.“You’reonyourown.Ifyouchoosethispathforyourself,thenyouhavetowalkit.”
Ishrugged.“Ihaven’taskedyouforhelpsinceIwasfourteen.”
Atthat,mydadstoodup,scootingbackhiscaféchairwithahonkthatannouncedhewasdone.Donewiththisconversation—andpossiblydonewithfatherhood,aswell.
IstillrememberthedeterminationIfeltasIwatchedhimleave.Itseemsalmostquaintnow.I’llshowyou,Irememberthinking,withaself-righteousfireinmyeyes.I’llmakeyouwishyou’dbelievedinmeallalong.
Spoileralert:Ididnotshowhim.Atleastnotsofar.
Thatwaseightyearsago.
I’dgottenthatBFAinFineArts.I’dgraduatedallalone,andthenI’dmarchedpastallthefamiliestakingproudpictures,andthenI’ddriventriumphantlyoutoftheuniversityparkinglotinmybanged-upToyotathatmyfriendSueandIhadpaintedhotpinkwithflamesfortheArtCarParade.
Andthen?
I’dembarkedonmanyendlessyearsof…notshowinghim
Iappliedtocontestsanddidn’twin.Isubmittedmyworkforshowsanddidn’tgetaccepted.Iekedoutalivingsellingportraitsfromphotos(bothhumanandpet)onEtsyatahundreddollarsapop.
Butitwasn’tenoughtomakerent.
AndwheneverItalkedtomydad,IpretendedIwas“thriving.”
Becausehemighthavebeenrightthatday.Imightbeheadedforapauper’sgrave.ButIwouldbeunderthedirtinthatgravebeforeI’deveradmitit.
ThatmusthavebeenwhyIcalledhimaboutplacinginthecontest.
Thecontestitselfwasabigdeal—andhugeprizemoney,ifyoucouldwinit.
Iguessthelureofhavingagenuinetriumphtoreportkeptmefromthinkingclearly.
Plus,don’tweall,deepdown,carryaninextinguishablelongingforourparentstobeproudofus?Evenlongafterwe’vegivenup?
Inthethrillofthemoment,Iforgotthathedidn’tcare.
Itwasagoodthing—andnosurprise—thatmycallwentstraighttohisvoicemail.ItmeantIcouldmakemynextcall.Tosomebodywhodidcare.
“What!”myfriendSueshoutedassoonasthewordswereout.“That’shuge!”ShestretchedouttheUforwhatfeltlikeafullminute.Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuuge
AndIjustletmyselfenjoyit.
“Thegrandprizeistenthousanddollars,”Iaddedwhenshewasdone.
“Ohmygod,”shesaid.“Evenhuger.”
“Andguesswhatelse?”
“What?”
“Thebigshow—thejuriedshowwheretheypickthewinner—ishere.InHouston.”
“IthoughtitwasMiamithisyear.”
“Thatwaslastyear.”
“Soyoudon’tevenhavetotravel!”Suesaid.
“Whichisperfect!BecauseIcan’taffordto!”
“It’smeanttobe!”
“Butisittoomeanttobe?Isitsoinmyfavor,it’lljinxme?”
“There’snosuchthingastoomeanttobe,”Suesaid.Then,asifthere’dbeenaquestion,shesaid,“Anyway,it’ssettled.”
“What’ssettled?”
“Wehavetothrowaparty!”shesaid.Evertheextremeextrovert.
“Aparty?”Isaid,inameekattemptatresistance.
“Aparty!Aparty!”Suepracticallysangintothephone.“You’vebeentragicallyfailingatlifeforyearsandyears!Wehavetocelebrate!”
Tragicallyfailingatlifeseemedabitharsh.
Butfine.Shewasn’twrong.
“When?”Isaid,alreadydreadingallthecleaningI’dhavetodo.
“Tonight!”
Itwasalreadyclosetosunset.“Ican’tthrowa—”Istarted,butbeforeIevengotto“partytonight,”itwasdecided.
“We’lldoitonyourrooftop.Youneededahousewarmingparty,anyway.”
“It’snotahouse,”Icorrected.“It’sahovel.”
“Ahovelwarming,then,”Suewenton,takingitinstride.
“Won’tyourparentsgetmad?”Iasked.Mr.andMrs.Kimownedthebuilding—andtechnicallyIwasn’tevensupposedtobelivingthere.
“Notifit’sapartyforyou.”
Sue,whoseKoreangivenname,SooHyun,hadbeenslightlyAmericanizedbyanimmigrationofficial,hadalsodisappointedherparentsbybecominganartmajorincollege—whichwashowwe’dbonded—althoughherparentsweretoosoftheartedtostaymadforlong.Eventuallythey’dkindofadoptedme,andtheylikedtoteaseSuebycallingmetheirfavoritechild.
Alltosay—thispartywashappening.
ThiswasourOscarandFelixdynamic.Suealwaysoptimistically,energetically,andjoyfullysearchedoutwaysforustoextrovert.AndIalwaysresisted.Andthengrudginglygavein.
“Youcan’torganizeapartyintwohours,”Iprotested.
“Challengeaccepted,”Suesaid.Thensheadded,“I’vealreadysentthegrouptext.”
ButIstillkeptprotesting,evenafterI’dlost.“Myplaceisn’tfitforaparty.It’snotevenfitforme.”
Suewasn’tgoingtofightmeonthat.IwassleepingonaMurphybedI’dfoundinthelargetrash.Butshewasalsonotbrookingprotests.“We’llallstayoutside.It’sfine.Youcanfinallyhangthosebulblights.We’llinviteeverybodyawesome.Allyouhavetodoisgetsomewine.”
“Ican’taffordwine.”
ButSuewasn’tlikingmyattitude.“Howmanypeopleenteredthefirstround?”shedemanded.
“Twothousand,”Isaid,alreadygivingin.
“Howmanyfinalistsarethere?”
“Ten,”Ianswered.
“Exactly,”Suesaid.“You’vealreadyannihilatedonethousandninehundredandninetycompetitors.”Shepausedforimpact,thensnappedherfingersasshesaid,“What’sanothernine?”
“Howisthatrelevant?”Iasked.
“You’reabouttowintenthousanddollars.Youcanaffordonebottleofwine.”
ANDSOSUEsetaboutmakingalast-minutepartyhappen.
Sheinvitedallourart-majorfriends—withtheexceptionofmyex-boyfriend,Ezra—andsomeofherart-teacherbuddies,andherlongtimeboyfriend,Witt—notanartist:abusinessguywho’dbeenthecaptainofhistrackteamincollege.Sue’sparentsapprovedofhim,eventhoughhewasn’tKorean,becausehewassweettoher—andalsobecausehemadeagoodlivingandso,asherdadputit,shecouldbe“astarvingartistwithouthavingtostarve.”
Suesaid—lovingly—thatWittcouldbeourtokenjock.
Myjobwastoputonthevintagepinkpartydresswithappliquédflowersthathadoncebeenmymother’sandthatIworeonlyonvery,veryspecialoccasions…andthentogooffinsearchofthemostwineIcouldgetwithatwenty-dollarbill.
Ilivedintheold,warehouse-ypartofdowntown,andtheonlygrocerystorewithinwalkingdistancehadbeentheresincethe1970s—acrossbetweenabodegaandafive-and-dime.Therewasfreshfruitupfront,andold-timeR&Bplayedonthesoundsystem,andMarie,theever-presentowner,satbytheregister.Shealwaysworebright-patternedcaftansthatlitupherwarmbrownskin,andshecalledeverybodybaby.
JustasIwalkedin,myphonerang.Itwasmydadcallingmeback.
Nowthattheinitialrushhadpassed,Idebatedwhethertoanswer.MaybeIwasjustsettingusbothupfordisappointment.
Butintheend,Ipickedup.
“Sadie,whatisit?”mydadsaid,allbusiness.“I’mboardingaflighttoSingapore.”
“Iwascallingyouwithsomegoodnews,”Isaid,duckingintothecerealaisleandhushingmyvoice.
“Ican’thearyou,”mydadsaid.
“Ijusthavesomegoodnews,”Isaidalittlelouder.“ThatIwanted”—wasIreallydoingthis?—“toshare.”
Butmydadjustsoundedirritated.“They’vegotduelingannouncementsgoingovertheloudspeakersandI’vegotonepercentbattery.Canitwait?I’llbebackintendays.”
“Ofcourseitcanwait,”Isaid,alreadydecidingthathe’dforfeitedhischance.MaybeI’dtellhimwhenIhadthatten-thousand-dollarcheckinmypocket.Ifhewaslucky.
Ormaybenot.Becauserightthenthelinewentdead.
Hehadn’thunguponme,exactly.He’djustmovedontootherthings.
Weweredonehere.Withoutagoodbye.Asusual.
Itwasfine.Ihadapartytogoto.Andwinetobuy.
AsImovedintothewineaisle,SmokeyRobinsoncameoverthesoundsystemwithasongthathadbeenoneofmymom’sfavorites—“ISecondThatEmotion.”
NormallyIwouldneversingalongoutloudtoanythinginpublic—especiallyinfalsetto.ButIhadmanyhappymemoriesofsingingalongtothatsongwithmymom,andIknewitwasalltooeasyformetostewovermydad’stoxicity,anditkindoffelt,inthatmoment,likeSmokeyhadshoweduprightthentothrowmeanemotionallifeline.
Iglancedoverattheowner.Shewasonthephonewithsomebody,laughing.AndasfarasIcouldtell,therewasnooneelseinthestore.
SoIgaveinandsangalong—quietlyatfirst,andthenalittlelouderwhenMariedidn’tnoticemeatall.Shiftingbackandforthtothebeat,thereinmyballetflatsandmymom’spinkpartydress,Ijustgaveinandletmyselffeelbetter—doingashimmymymomtaughtmeandthrowinginanoccasionalbootyshake.
Justalittleprivate,mood-liftingdancepartyforone.
Andthensomethinghitme,thereintheaisle,singinganoldfavoritesongwhilewearingmylong-lostmother’sdress:Mymother—alsoaportraitartist—hadplacedinthiscontest,too.
Thisexactsamecontest.TheyearIturnedfourteen.
I’dknownitwhenIapplied.Buttobehonest,Iappliedtosomanycontestssooften,andIgotrejectedsorelentlessly,Ihadn’tthoughttoomuchaboutit.
Butthiswastheone.Theoneshe’dbeenpaintingaportraitfor—ofme,bytheway—whenshedied.Sheneverfinishedtheportrait,andshenevermadeittotheshow.
Whathadhappenedtothatportrait?Isuddenlywondered.
IfIhadtobet?Lucindathrewitaway.
I’mnotabigweeper,ingeneral.AndI’msureitwaspartlyalltheexcitementofplacinginthecontest,andpartlytheunexpectedharshnessofmydad’svoicejustthen,andpartlythefactthatIwaswearingmylong-lostmother’sclothes,andpartlytherealizationthatthiscontestwashercontest…butashappyasIfeltsingingalongtothatoldfavoritesonginanemptygrocerystore,Ifeltsad,too.
Ifeltmyeyesspringwithtearsoverandover,andIhadtokeepwipingthemaway.Youwouldn’tthinkyoucoulddoallthosethingsatonce,wouldyou?Dancing,singing,andgettingmisty-eyed?ButI’mhereasproof:It’spossible.
Butmaybethatsongreallywasatalismanforjoy,becausejustasthesongwasending,Ispottedawinewithacelebratorypolka-dottedlabelonsaleforsixdollarsabottle.
BythetimeImadeittotheregisterwithmyarmsfullofwine,IwasfeelinglikeSuehadtherightidea.Ofcourseweshouldcelebrate!I’dhavetoputmydogPeanut—whowasevenmoreintrovertedthanIwas—intheclosetwithhisdogbedforafewhours,buthe’dforgiveme.Probably.
Ipickedupsomelittletaco-shapeddogtreatsasapreemptiveapology.They’dtakemeoverbudget,butPeanutwasworthit.
Attheregister,Ieyedalittlebouquetofwhitegerberadaisies,thinkingitmightbenicetohaveonetotuckbehindmyear—somethingmymomusedtodowhenIwaslittle.Itfeltlikeshemightliketoseemecelebratethatway.Withaflower.
ButthenIdecideditwastooexpensive.
Instead,Isetthewineanddogtreatsonthecounter,smilingatthestoreowner,andIreachedaroundformypurse…
OnlytorealizeIdidn’thaveit.
Ilookeddownandthenfeltmyotherhip,toseeifImighthaveslungitonbackward.ThenIglancedaroundatthefloortoseeifI’ddroppedit.ThenIleftmywineanddogtreatsonthecounter,holdingmyfingeruplike“onesecond”asIdashedtochecktheemptyaisles.
Nothing.Huh.I’dleftitathome.
Notallthatsurprising,giventheflurryoftoday.
MariehadalreadystartedringingupthewinebythetimeIgotbackandso,notwantingtointerruptherconversation,Ishookmyhandsather,like,Nevermind
Shelookedatmelike,Don’tyouwantthis?
Ishruggedbackinawaythattriedtoconvey,I’msosorry!Iforgotmypurse.
Shedroppedhershouldersinasigh,butbeforeshecouldstarttocanceleverything,aman’svoicefrombehindmesaid,“I’llgetit.”
Iturnedaroundinsurprise,frowningathim,like,Howdidyougetinhere?
Buthejustgavemeanodandturnedbacktotheowner.“Icancoverthat.”
Thisisn’trelevant…buthewascute.
Hewasagenericwhiteguy—youknow,thekindthat’spracticallyaKendoll.Butareally,reallyappealingversion.
Becauseofmyjobasaportraitartist,Icanneverlookatafaceforthefirsttimewithoutmentallyassessingitforitsshapesandstructureandmostcompellingfeatures—andIcantellyouexactlywhyhewashandsomeandalsowhyhewasbasic.Artistically,Imean.
Everythingabouthimwasgenerically,perfectlyproportional.Hedidn’thaveanoutsizechin,forexample,orcavernousnostrilsorDumboears.Hedidn’thaveStevenTylerlipsorcrazyteethoraunibrow.Notthatanyofthosethingsarebad.Distinctivefeaturesmakeafaceunique,andthat’sagoodthing.Butit’salsotruethatthemostgenericfacesareconsistentlyratedasthebest-looking.
Like,themoreyoulooklikeacompositeofeveryone,themorewealllikeyou.
ThisguywasasclosetoacompositeasI’dseeninawhile.Short,neathair.Aproportionalforehead,nosebridge,jaw,andchin.Perfectlyplacedcheekbones.Astraightnosewithstunninglysymmetricalnostrils.Andyoucouldn’tdrawbetterears.Flawless.Nottooflat,butnottooprotruding.Withperfectplumplittleearlobes.
Iamabitofanearlobesnob.Badearlobescouldreallybeadeal-breakerforme.
Notkidding:I’vecomplimentedpeopleontheirearlobesbefore.Outloud.
Whichnevergoeswell,bytheway.
Therearetrickstomakingafacelookappealingwhenyou’redrawingaportrait.Humansseemtofindcertainelementsuniversallyappealing,andifyouemphasizethose,thepersonlooksthatmuchbetter.Thisisascientificthing.It’sbeenstudied.Thetheoryisthatcertainfeaturesandproportionselicitfeelingsof“aww,that’sadorable”inus,whichpromptscaregivingbehaviors,affection,andanurgetomovecloser.Intheory,weevolvedthisreactioninresponsetobabyfaces,sowe’dfeelcompelledtotakecareofouryoung,butwhenthosesamefeaturesandpatternscropupinotherplaces,onotherfaces,welikethemthere,too.
Wecanevenfindseacucumbersadorable,fromtherightangle.
Orthemanwho’sattemptingtopayforourwineanddogtreats.
Becauseinadditiontohisgenerichandsomeness,thisguyalsohadelementsinhisfeatures—invisibletotheuntrainedeye—thatsubliminallyestablishedcuteness.Hislipsweresmooth,andfull,andawarm,friendlypinkthatsignifiedyouth.Hisskinwasclearinawaythatevokedgoodhealth.Andtherealclincherwastheeyes—slightlybiggerthanaverage(alwaysacrowd-pleaser)withaslightmelancholicdownturnattheircornersthatgavehimanirresistiblesweetpuppy-doglook.
Iguaranteethisguygoteverywomanheeverwanted.
Butthatwashisbusiness.
Ihadaforgotten-walletsituationtodealwith.Andalast-minutepartytohost
“It’sfine,”Isaid,wavingmyhandsathimandrejectinghisoffertopayformystuff.
“Idon’tmind,”hesaid,pullinghiswalletoutofhisjeans.
“Idon’tneedyourhelp,”Isaid,anditcameoutalittleharsher-soundingthanImeant.
Helookedfromme—purseless—tothecounterofstuffIhadyettopayfor.“Ithinkmaybeyoudo.”
ButIwasn’thavingit.“Icanjustrunhomeformypurse,”Isaid.“It’snoproblem.”
“Butyoudon’thaveto.”
“ButIwantto.”
WhatpartofIdon’tneedyourhelpdidthisguynotunderstand?
“Iappreciatethegesture,sir,”Isaidthen.“ButI’mfine.”
“Whyareyoucallingmesir?We’re,like,thesameage.”
“Sirisnotanagething.”
“Itabsolutelyis.Sirisforoldmen.Andbutlers.”
“Sirisalsoforstrangers.”
“Butwe’renotstrangers.”
“Gottadisagreewithyouthere,sir.”
“ButI’mrescuingyou,”hesaid,likethatmadeusfriends.
Iwrinkledmynose.“Iprefertorescuemyself.”
Fortherecord,Irecognizedthathewastryingtodosomethingnice.Ialsorecognizedthatmostofhumanitywould’velethimdoit,thankedhimgratefully,andcalleditaday.Thisisthekindofmomentthatcouldwindupontheinternet,gettingpassedaroundwithcaptionslikeSee?Peoplearen’tsoterribleafterall!
ButIwasn’tlikemostofhumanity.Ididn’tlikebeinghelped.Isthatacrime?
SurelyI’mnottheonlypersononthisplanetwhopreferstohandlethingsonherown.
Itwasn’thimIwasopposedto.Hewasappealing.Strongly,viscerallyappealing.
Butthehelping—includinghispushinessaboutit—wasnot.
Westaredateachotherforasecond—atanimpasse.Andthen,fornoreason,hesaid,“That’sagreatdress,bytheway.”
“Thankyou,”Isaidsuspiciously,likehemightbeusingacomplimenttolowermydefenses.Thenwithoutreallymeaningto,Isaid,“Itwasmymother’s.”
“AndyoudoagreatSmokeyRobinson,bytheway.”
Ohgod.He’dheardme.Iloweredmyeyestohalf-mast,displeased.“Thanks.”
“Imeanit,”hesaid.
“Thatsoundedsarcastic.”
“No,itwasgreat.Itwas…mesmerizing.”
“Youwerewatchingme?”
Butheshookhishead.“Iwasjustshoppingforcereal.Youweretheonedoingacabaretshowinagroceryaisle.”
“Ithoughtthestorewasempty.”
Heshrugged.“Itwasn’t.”
“Youshouldhavestoppedme.”
“WhywouldIdothat?”heasked,seeminggenuinelybefuddled.Then,atthememory,somethingliketendernesslithisexpression.Hegavealittleshrug.“Youwereajoy.”
Ihadnoideawhattomakeofthisguy.
Washebeingsarcasticorserious?Washehandsomeorgeneric?Washekindtohelportoopushy?Washeflirtingwithmeorbeingapain?Hadhealreadywonmeover,ordidIstillhaveachoice?
FinallyIcircledbackto:“Fine.Just…don’thelpme.”
Hisexpressionshiftedtowry.“I’mgettingthesensethatyoudon’twantmetohelpyou.”
ButIplayeditstraight.“That’scorrect.”
ThenbeforeIcouldloseanymoreground,Iturnedtotheowneratthecounter—stillchattingawaywithherfriend—andstage-whispered,“I’llbebackinfivewithmypurse.”
ThenIzippedoutthedoor.
Caseclosed.
IWASWAITINGatthecrosswalkforthelighttochangewhenIturnedbacktoseethegrocerystoreguywalkingoutwithapaperbagthatlookedsuspiciouslylikeitmighthavethreeverycheapwinebottlesandsomedogtacosinit.
Istaredathimuntilhesawme.
Thenhegavemeabigunapologeticyagotmesmile.
Fine.Ihadmyanswers:Yes.
Whenhearrivednexttometowaitforthesamecrosswalk,Ikeptmygazestraightahead,butsaid,likewewerespiesorsomething,“IsthatbagfullofwhatIthinkit’sfullof?”
Hedidn’tturnmyway,either.“Doyouthinkit’sfullofhumankindness?”
“Ithinkit’sfullofunwantedhelp.”
Helookeddowntoexaminetheinsideofthebag.“OrmaybeIjustreally,reallylove…six-dollarwine.”
“Anddogtreats,”Isaid,glancinghisway.
Icouldseethesidesofhiseyescrinkleupatthat.
“Fine,”Isaid,acceptingmydefeatandholdingoutmyarmsforthebag.
Butheshookhishead.“Igotit.”
“Areyougoingtobestubbornaboutthis,too?”
“Ithinkthewordyou’relookingforischivalrous.”
“Isit?”Isaid,tiltingmyhead.
Then,asifthequestionhadanswereditself,Iheldmyarmsoutforthebagagain.
“WhyshouldIgivethistoyou?”heasked.
“Becauseyougotwhatyouwantedlasttime,”Isaid,tiltingmyheadbacktowardthestore,“andnowit’smyturn.”
Heconsideredthat.
SoIadded,“It’sonlyfair.”
Henoddedatthat,andthen,likehe’dbeentotallyreasonableallalong,heturned,steppedcloser,andreleasedthebagintomyarms.
“Thankyou,”IsaidwhenIhadpossession.
Thelighthadturned,andthecrowdarounduswasmovingintothestreet.AsIstartedtomovewithit,Ilookeddowntocheckthebag’scontents,andIsawabouquetofwhitegerberadaisies.Istartedtoturntohimnexttome,buthewasn’tthere—andwhenIspunback,hewasstillatthecurblookingdownathisphonelikemaybehe’dstoppedforatext.
“Hey!”Icalledfromthemiddleofthestreet.“Youforgotyourflowers!”
Buthelookedupandshookhishead.“Thoseareforyou.”
Ididn’tfighthim.Itwashisturn,afterall.
IfI’dknownwhatwasgoingtohappennext,Imighthavehandledthatmomentdifferently.Imighthavekeptarguingjustsowecouldkeeptalking.OrImighthaveaskedhimhisnamesoI’dhavesomewayofrememberinghim—sothathewouldn’tjustremain,inmymemoryafterthat,theGroceryStoreGuywhogotaway.
Ofcourse,ifI’dknownwhatwouldhappennext,Iwouldneverhavesteppedintothestreetinthefirstplace.
ButIdidn’tknow.Thesamewaynoneofuseverknow.Thesamewaywealljustmovethroughtheworldonguessworkandhope.
Instead,Ijustshrugged,like,Okay,andthenturnedandkeptwalking—notingthathewasthefirstmanI’dbeenattractedtoinallthemonthssincemybreakup,andhalfhopinghewouldjogtocatchupwithmeinaminuteortwo.
Butthat’snotwhathappenednext.
Next,Ifrozerightthereinthecrosswalk,myarmsstillhuggingmybagofwine
AndIdon’trememberanythingafterthat.Two
IWOKEUPinthehospitalwithmyevilstepmotherLucindabymybed.
AndyouknowitwasbadifLucindashowedup.
Iopenedmyeyes,andIsawoneofmyleastfavoritepeopleontheplanetleaningforward,elbowsonknees,peeringoverthebedrail,flaringhernostrilsandstaringatmelikeshe’dneverseenmebefore.
“Whathappened?”wasallIcouldthinkoftosay.
Atthat,Lucindawentintofullgossipmode,fillingmeinonthedetailsasifsheweretalkingtoarandomneighbor—andIcan’ttellyouhowweirditwastobegettingthestoryofmylifefromthepersonwhohadruinedit.
Anyhoo.
Apparently,I’dhadwhattheycallanonconvulsiveseizure,rightthereinthemiddleofthecrosswalkinfrontofmybuilding.IfrozeintoanemptystareinthestreetandwasalmostmoweddownbyaVolkswagenBeetlebeforeamysteriousGoodSamaritanshovedmetothecurbatthelastsecondandsavedmylife.
Next,afternotgettingrunover,Ipassedoutonthesidewalkinfrontofmybuilding.
TheGoodSamaritanthencalled911andhandedmeofftotheparamedicswhentheyarrived.Accordingtothenurseatthehospital,Iwassemiconsciouswhentheywheeledmeinandwasaskingeveryonetofindmyfather—thoughthat’sanotherthingIdon’tremember.
Ireallymusthavebeenoutofittoaskformydad.Ofallpeople.ApersonIwouldnevervoluntarilyturntoinneed.
Butoverandover,apparently,Iaskedforhim,sayinghisname.Whichthenursesrecognized.Becausemydadwas,tobehonest,abitofacelebritysurgeon.
Thestaffcalledhisoffice,accordingtothatsamenurse,buthewas“unavailable.”
WhichishowLucindawounduphere.
ShewasabsolutelythelastpersonI’dwantatmybedside—besidesperhapsherdaughter.Honestly,I’dratherhavewokenuptoMirandaPriestly.OrMommieDearest.OrUrsulafromTheLittleMermaid.
Andfromthelooksofthosenostrilsofhers,Lucindawasn’ttoothrilledtobeseeingme,either.
Still,shekindoflikedthedrama.
Hertonewasalittlebitincredulousasshebroughtmeuptospeed,likehowIcould’vechosenthecrosswalkofabusystreet,ofallplaces,tohavethatnonconvulsiveseizurewasbeyondher.“IfthatGoodSamaritanhadn’tsavedyou,you’dbeflatasapancakerightnow.”Shepausedandtiltedherhead,likeshemightbepicturingthat.“IwasatmyWhining&Wine-inggroupwhentheycalled,butit’sokay.It’sfine.OfcourseIdroppedeverythingandcamehererightaway.”
Hertonemademewonderifthatwastrue.Likemaybeshe’dtossedbackonelastglassofchardonnay.
Ishookmybaffledheadagain,like,Wait.“Whathappened?”
Sheleanedinalittle,likeIhadn’tbeenpayingattention.“Youalmostdiedintheroad.”
“Butwhatcausedtheseizure?”Iaskedatlast,mywitsstartingtocomeback.
“Theydon’tknow.Couldevenjustbedehydration.ButtheywanttodoanMRIbeforetheyreleaseyou.Lookslikeyou’llhavetostayovernight.”
Andthen,quickly,tosnuffouteventhepossibilitythatImightaskhertostay—whichIwouldabsolutelyneverdo—sheadded,“I’llbebackfirstthinginthemorning.”
IwaitedforitalltosinkinwhileLucindacheckedhertextsandthengatheredupherthings.
Shewasoneofthoseput-togetherladieswhoalwaysmatchedhershoestoherpurse.Shekeptherhairno-nonsenseandshort,butshealwayshadafullfaceofmakeup.I’dalwayssuspectedshefocusedhardonhersurfacebecausetherewasn’tmuchunderneath.ButIreallydidn’tknowherthatwell.Evenafteralltheseyears.
Ididnotanticipate,forexample,thatwhenherdaughter,Parker,alsoknownasmyevilstepsister,FaceTimedherrightthen,Lucindawouldanswerthecall.Orthatshe’dproceedtofillParkerinoneverythingthathadjusthappenedlikeshewasrelatingthehottestofhot-off-the-pressgossip.Andthen,whenParkersaid,“Letmesee,”thatLucindawouldturnthephonearoundandtrainitonme.
IfrownedatLucindaandshookmyhead.Butitwastoolate.
TherewasParker’scatlikeface—asscaryatiPhonesizeasitwasinreallife
HowlonghaditbeensinceI’dseenher?Years.
Icouldgomywholelife,anditwouldn’tbetoolong.
“Ohmygod!”Parkershrieked.“Ican’tbelieveyoualmostgotkilledbyaVolkswagenBeetle!Imean,atleastpicksomethingcool,likeaTesla.”
“Noted,”Isaid.
Itwasstrangetoseeheragain.She’dhighlightedthehelloutofherhair.Andshe’dreallytakenadeepdiveintotheworldofeyeshadow.Shehadbetterstylethanshehadinhighschool—inanewscaster-ishway.Thesightofherkindofstungmyeyes.ButIcouldn’tdenythattechnically—andIsaythisasaprofessionalintheindustry—shehadaprettyface.
Toobadsheruineditbybeing…pureevil.
“Youlookterrible,”Parkersaid,squintinginfauxsympathy.“Didyoulandonyourface?”
IlookedatLucinda,like,Seriously?
ButLucindajustsmiledandgesturedformetoanswer,likeshethoughtthismightbeaniceconversation.
Isighedandshiftedmyeyesbacktothescreen.“Ididnotlandonmyface,”Iansweredrobotically.
“Youjustlooksobloated,”shewenton.
“I’mfine.”
“Didtheyhavetopumpyoufullofsalineorsomething?”
“What?No.”
“YoujustkindoflooklikeJamesGandolfinirightnow.That’sallI’msaying.”
Okay.Weweredonehere.
“Hoo-boy,”Isaid,checkingthenonexistentwatchonmywrist.“Lookatthetime.”
ThenIrolledovertofacethewall.
“Isshepouting?”ParkerdemandedasLucindatookthephoneback.
“You’dbefussy,too,ifithadhappenedtoyou.”
“Butitwouldneverhappentome.IfIevergetrunover,it’llbebyanAstonMartin.”
Athousandyearslater,afterLucindafinallyhungupandwasreadytogo,shepausedbymybed,lookingmeoverasifshecouldn’tbegintofathommylifechoices.
“IhopetheBettyFordCenterisn’tnextforyou,”shesaidthen,shakingherheadlikeIwasanunsolvablemystery.“TheysaidyoushowedupintheERpositivelydrippinginredwine.”
Atthewords,Isuckedinabreath.“Where’sthedress?”
“Whatdress?”
“TheoneIwaswearing.WhenIgothere.”
“Oh,”Lucindasaid,shakingherheadwithdisgust.“It’sinthetrash.”
“Thetrash?”Igrabbedthebedrail.
“Itwasruined,”Lucindasaid.“Wine-drenched,bloodstained—andtheparamedicshadtocutitoffyou.It’snotevenfitforcleaningragsnow.Unsalvageable.Itoldtheorderlytothrowitaway.”
Idon’trememberstartingtocry,butbythetimeLucindapaused,myfacewaswet,mythroatwasthick,andmybreathingwasshaky.“Theythrewawaythedress?”
“Itwastrash,Sadie,”Lucindasaid,doublingdown.“Itwasbeyondhope.”
ButIshookmyhead.“ButIneedit,”Isaid.
Lucindaliftedhereyebrows,like,Thisbetterbegood.“Why?”
“Because…”Istarted.
Buttherewasnothingtosay.Lucindahadspentherentiremarriagetomydadtryingtoerasealltracesofmymother.Ifshe’dknownthatdresswasmymom’s,she’dhavethrownitawayevensooner.
Andmaybesetamatchtoitfirst.
“…BecauseIjustdo,”Ifinished.
Lucindasteppedbackthenandeyedmeasiftosay,JustwhatIexpected.Likeshe’dcalledmeonmyinsultinglyobviousbluff.“It’sgone,”shesaidonherwayoutthedoor.“Justletitgo.”
Butaftersheleft,Ipressedthebuttonforthenurse.
Whensheshowedup,Iwascryingsomuch,shetookmyhandandsqueezedit.“Deepbreaths.Deepbreaths,”shesaidencouragingly.
Finally,throughbreathsthatweremorelikespasms,Iconveyedthequestion.“Thedress—Iwaswearing—whenIcamehere—mystepmothersaid—tothrowitaway—butIneedit.Isthereanywayto—getitback?”
Hersighseemedtodeflateherentirebody.“Oh,sweetheart,”shesaid—andbytheendofthosefirsttwowordsalone,Iknewallhopewaslost.“Ifwethrewitaway,itwenttotheincinerator.”
Andsotherewasnothinglefttodobutcrymyselftosleep.
LUCINDADIDNOTreturn“firstthinginthemorning.”Whichwasfinewithme.I’dalreadyhadbreakfast,anMRI,andbegunaconsultationwithadeeplyseriousFilipinobrainsurgeonnamedDr.SylvanEstrerabeforesheshowedbackup,appearingintheroomjustashegottothejuicystuff.
“Thescandidn’trevealanythingurgent,”Dr.Estrerawassaying.“Nostrokeorhemorrhage.Nosignificantbleedsinthebrain.”
“That’sarelief,”Isaid.
Thenhecontinued.“Butitdidrevealaneurovascularissue.”
Okay,thatdidn’tsoundgood.“Aneurovascularissue?”Thewordneurovascularfeltlikeaforeignlanguageinmymouth.
“Alesion,”heexplained,“thatshouldbetreated.”
“Alesion?”Iasked,likehe’dsaidsomethingobscene.
Dr.EstreraputsomeimagesfromtheMRIupontoalightboard.Hepointedtoanareawithatinydarkdotandsaid,“Thescanrevealedacavernoma.”
Hewaitedforrecognition,likeImightknowwhatthatwas.
Ididnot.SoIjustwaitedforhimtogoon.
“It’samalformedbloodvesselinthebrain,”heexplainednext.“You’vehaditallyourlife.Aninheritedcondition.”
IglancedatLucinda,likethatdidn’tseemright.
ButLucindaliftedherhandsandsaid,“Don’tblameme.I’mjustthestepmother.”
Ilookedbackatthescan—andthatmenacinglittledot.
Couldhehavegottenmyscanmixedupwithsomeoneelse’s?Imean,Ijustdidn’tfeellikeapersonwalkingaroundwithamalformedbloodvesselinherbrain.
IfrownedatDr.Estrera.“Areyousure?”
“It’splainasdayrighthere,”hesaid,pointingattheimage.
Plainasday?Morelikeafuzzyblur,butokay.
“Cavernomasfrequentlycauseseizures,”hewenton.“Theycanbeneurologicallysilent.Youcouldgoyourwholelifewithouteverhavingaproblem.Buttheycanalsostarttoleak.Soyourbestoptionistogetitsurgicallyresected.”
“It’sleaking?”Iasked.
“Itis.That’swhatbroughtontheseizure.”
“Thenonconvulsiveseizure,”Lucindanoted,likethatmadeitbetter.
“Ithoughtyousaidtherewasnobleedinthebrain,”Isaid.
“Nosignificantbleed,”heclarified.
WhywasIarguingwithhim?
Hewenton,“Weneedtogoinandresectthatbloodvessel.”
Huh.“Bygoin,”Isaid,“doyoumeangoin…tomybrain?”
“Exactly,”hesaid,pleasedIwasgettingitnow.
Iwasdefinitelygettingitnow.“You’retellingmeIneedbrainsurgery?”
IlookedatLucindaagain.Therewasnooneelsetolookat.
Lucindaleanedtowardthedoctorlikeshehadajuicysecret.“Herfatherisaveryprominentcardiothoracicsurgeon,”shesaid,asifthatmightsomehowearnmeapass.Then,withalltheconfidenceofawomanwhosebiggestaccomplishmentwasbeingmarriedtoaveryprominentcardiothoracicsurgeon,shestated:“RichardMontgomery.”
Dr.Estreratookthatinlikearandompleasantryhewastoopolitetoignore.“Yes.I’vemethimonseveraloccasions.”Heturnedbacktome.“It’sanelectiveprocedure,inthesensethatyoucanscheduleitatyourconvenience.ButI’drecommendsoonerratherthanlater.”
“Howcanbrainsurgerybeanelectiveprocedure?”Iasked.Botoxwasanelectiveprocedure.Tummytucks.Tonsillectomies.
“I’llhavetoreferyoutoscheduling,”Dr.Estrerawenton,“butwecanprobablygetitdoneinthenextfewweeks.”
Thenextfewweeks!Uh,no.Thatwouldn’twork.
ImentallyscannedbackthroughtheemailIhadjustgottenyesterdayaboutplacingintheportraitcompetition.
Placinginthiscontest—landinginthetoptenoftwothousandentrants—meantthatIhadexactlysixpreciousweekstoplanandexecutethebestportraitI’deverpaintedinmylife.Fromchoosingamodel,acolorpalette,andasetting,todoingtheprepworkandtheinitialsketches,torenderingthefinal,fullpainting…IwasgoingtoneedeveryminuteIhad.
Thecompetition.I’dalmostforgotten.Iwasafinalistinthemostprestigiousportraitcompetitioninthecountry.
Icouldn’tblowit.Afterallthoseyearsoffailure:justscrapingbyandworkingoverlappingjobsandquestioningmyvalueasahumanbeing,Ihadtowin.
Suehadwantedtocelebrateyesterday,butnowtherealworkstarted.Thiswasmyshot.PossiblytheonlyoneI’deverhave.
Sono,Iwasn’tgoingtosignupforelectivebrainsurgeryrightnow,thanksverymuch.
“Um,”IsaidtoDr.Estrera,inasoftvoice,likeIdidn’twanttooffendhim,“Ijustdon’thavethetimeforbrainsurgery.”
Howbizarretosaythosewordsoutloud.
AndthenmydesirenottohavebrainsurgeryranintodirectconflictwithmydesireforLucindatoneverknowanythingaboutmylife—andIhesitatedsohardtoexplainmysituationthatwhenitallcameout,itwasonerapidburst:“I’maportraitartist,andI’mafinalistinacompetitionthathasadeadlineinsixweeks,andthefirst-placeprizeistenthousanddollars,andthisreallyismybigbreakthatcouldchangeeverythingforme,andI’mgoingtoneedeverysinglesecondbetweennowandthentocreatethemostkick-assportraitinthehistoryoftimebecauseIreally,reallyneedtowinthisthing.”
HadIjustsaidthewordassinfrontofabrainsurgeon?
“Iunderstand,”Dr.Estrerasaid.“Butpleaserealize,thereissomeurgencyhere.Bleeding—evenseepage—inthebrainisneveragoodthing.Andwhile‘brainsurgery’”—hemadeairquoteswithhisfingers—“soundslikeabigdeal,anditis,thisprocedureisrelativelyquick.You’dneedonlytwotofourdaysinthehospital.Wecanevendohair-sparingtechniquestoavoidshavingyourhead.”
Washetryingtomakeitsoundappealing?Ihadn’teventhoughtaboutanyoneshavingmyhead.
Whathadstartedasasimplenowasrapidlybecominga“hell,no.”InoddedlikeIwasthinkingaboutit.Butwhatwastheretothinkabout?AnoldNewYorkercartoonofapersonschedulingameetingandsaying,“Howaboutnever?”cametomind.
“Ithink,”Isaidthen,“thatI’dreallyliketoputthesurgeryoffforaslongashumanlypossible.”Three
LUCINDATRIEDTOforcemetoridehomewithherinherNavigator,butIcalledanUberinstead.NowaywasIacceptinghelpfromher.
Orlettingherseemyapartment,either.
Though“apartment”wastoogenerousaterm.Moreofan“efficiency.”Ormoreaccurately,a“shack”—builtasthecaretaker’squartersinthe1910swhenthebuildingwasconstructedasawarehouse.
Sue’sdad,Mr.Kim,hadrenovatedthebuilding,turningitintohipsterindustrialcondos.Buttherooftopshackwaslastonhislist—andinhiswords,wasstill“notfitforhumanhabitation.”Suehadtalkedhimintoleasingittomeasastudiospace—promisinghimI’duseit“almostlikeastorageroom.”
ThatwasbeforeIleftmyex,Ezra—afterhefullyforgotmybirthday,and,whileIwasgettingstoodupintherestaurant,Iwoundupreadingaclickbaitarticleonmyphoneaboutnarcissists…realizinginasuddenflourishthatIwasdatingone.TwolongyearsofcluesIignored,thenoneveryenlighteningarticle—andthensuddenlyIwasdone.
Leavingwasjustarelief.
FindingaplacetoliveontheincomefrommyEtsyshopwasgoingtobeachallengeatbest,andI’ddrainedalmostallthecashIgotfromsellingmycar—aradicalchoiceinHouston,whichisnotexactlyawalkingcity.Myhovelwasfinefornow.For$475amonth,Ididn’tneedashowplace.
Butmylivingsituationnowwasmorelike“alittleprincessbanishedtotheservants’quarters”scenariothana“livingthehighlifeinaluxurypenthouse”one.
IhadpromisedMr.KimIwasn’tactuallylivingthere,andhewascompassionatelyturningablindeye.Whichistosay,oneperson’s“notfitforhumanhabitation”isanotherperson’sperfectlyacceptablehovel.
Thelightalonewasincredible.
Nottomentiontheviewsofdowntown.Andthebayou.
Suethoughtmymovingintomystudiowasageniusgaming-the-systemmove.Notanormallivingsituation,butcooler.She’dbeenpushingforashack-warmingpartyfromthestart.ButasmuchasIwantedtoembracethespinthatIwastoofantastictolivelikenormalpeople,thetruthwasthatIwasjusttoobroke.
Backhomeafterthatnightinthehospital,nothingaboutmyshack,ormylife,ormyselfhadeverfeltlessfantastic.It’sadisorientingthingtoknowthere’ssomethingwrongwithyou.Itmadeeverythingaboutmylifeseemdifferent.Worse.False.LikeI’dbeenmisunderstandingeverythingallalong.
IHADSOMEportraitsqueueduptofinish—alittlegirlwithhercockerspaniel,ayoungman’sgraduationphoto,asweetgrandmotherinaneightiethbirthdaypartyhat—andIcouldn’tbillforthemuntilIshippedthem.Theywereahundredbucksapop,sothat’swhatIshouldhavebeendoingalldayafterIgotbackfromthehospital:coveringthismonth’srent
But,instead,Ifoundmyselfgooglingcavernomas.
Lotsofgrainygraybrain-scanimages,lotsofillustrationsofpeopleholdingtheirheadsliketheywerehavingtheworstmigrainesinhistory,andlotsofcartoonillustrationsofveinswithplumpraspberry-shapedmalformations.
WhichwerecuterthanIwould’veexpected.
Itriedtopicturetheinsideofmyhead.Hadtherereallybeenatinylittlebloodraspberryintherethiswholetime?
IalsogoogledDr.SylvanEstrera.Whoapparentlydidsomeamateurswingdancingasahobby.Whenhewasn’t,yaknow,doingbrainsurgery.
Whenmyeyesweredryfromscrolling,Iclamshelledmylaptopandwenttogositnexttomydog,soulmate,andonlyrealfamily,Peanut,whowasfastasleeponthesofawithhislegssplayedoutandhisbellyfacingtheceilingasifnothingcrazyhadeverhappenedintheworld.
Iappreciatedhisattitude.Itwasnicethatatleastonepersoninmylifewasn’tfreakedout.
He’dbeenabirthdaypresentfrommymomtheyearIturnedfourteen.Arescue,butstillapuppy,andhe’dpeedoneverysurfaceinthehouseuntilwegothimtrained.MydadwouldprobablyhavedecidednottolikePeanutforthatreason—ifPeanuthadn’tdislikedmydadfirst.Heshunnedmydadfromtheget-go—barkingandglaringathimwheneverhecameintotheroom.Later,wefoundoutthatPeanuthatedallmen,andwewonderedifsomethingbadhadhappenedtohimthathadleftsomePTSD.
Butmymomadoredhim,nomatterwhat.Hewaseighteenpoundsofsolidcuteness—somekindofMaltese/Havanese/poodle/shihtzu/Yorkiemix.Whenpeoplestoppedustoaskhisbreed,whichtheydidoftenbecausehewasliterallythecutestdogintheworld,we’djustsay,“Texasfluffball.”LikethatwasanAKC-recognizedthing.
MymomhadlovedtoputhiminFairIslesweatersanddoggiebomberjackets.Whenmydadgrumbledabouthowitwas“humiliating”foradogtowearhumanclothes,she’dsnugglePeanutcloseandsay,“You’rejustjealous.”
Mymomdiedlaterthatsameyear,andIdon’tthinkmydadeverevenlookedatPeanutagainafterthat.Peanutstayedinmyroomandcamewithmeeverywhere.Igotanafter-schooljobatapetstoreandspentmuchofmypaycheckontoysandtreatsforhim.Weweretotallyinseparablefromthenon.
Exceptforthetwo-yearperiodwhenIwassentaway.
ButPeanutandIdidn’ttalkaboutthat.
SittingnexttoPeanuttoday—asmybrainspunandtriedtotakeinthisnewreality—forthefirsttimeinawhile,IfeltthebitterlongingthatalwaysseepedthroughmewheneverIreallymissedmymom.Itstoodofftothesideofallotherfeelings,dampandcold—asifmysoulhadbeenrainedonandcouldn’tseemtodryout.
Mostofthetime,ItriedtojustfeelgratefulforthetimeI’dhadwithher.
IknewI’dbeensolucky.
EverySunday,sheboughtabouquetofflowersatthegrocerystore.Theneverymorning,she’dsniponeoftheflowersoutofthebouquetandwearitbehindherear.Idon’thaveamemoryofmymomwithoutaflowerbehindherear.
Evenonthedayweburiedher.
Backatmyhovel,sittingonmylittlelove-seatsofa,Ifeltalongingformymomsointense,itfeltlikeitwasfillingupmylungs.Ifshe’dbeenhere,Iwould’verestedmyheadonhershoulderandshe’dhavestrokedmyhair.Iwould’vepressedmyearagainstherchest,shushedbytherhythmofherbreathing.Andthenshe’dhavetightenedherarmsaroundmesoI’dknowforsureIwasn’talone.
Becausethatwasthemostessentialthingaboutmymom.Shecouldn’talwaysfixthingsforme,butshewasalwaysthere.
Untilthedayshewasn’t.
IWASJUSTwonderingifthiswasthemostaloneI’deverfeltinmylifewhenIgotatextfrommyfather.
Inevergottextsfrommyfather.
Ididn’tevenknowhehadmycontactinfo.
Butthephonepinged,andthereitwasonthescreen:ThisisDad.I’matyourbuilding.Whichapartmentareyou?I’mcomingup.
Wait—atmybuilding?Comingup?Wasn’theinSingapore?
You’renotinSingapore?Itexted.
I’mback.
Oh,no.Hewasn’tcomingup.I’dbeenpretendingtobesuccessfulinfrontofhimforyears.NowaywasIlettinghimseethetruthofmylife.
I’llcomedown,Itexted.
Ineedtotalktoyou.Privately.
Waitrightthere.
Beforehecouldargue,Ileaptintoaction.Hewasnotcominguphere.
Iwasalreadyreadyforbed.Ithadbeenthatkindofaday.ButIswungonmyfavoritebatik-printcottonrobe—oncemymom’s—kickedonsomefuzzyslippers,andthenheadedtowardthetop-floorhallwaylooking,shallwesay,notexactlyreadyforprimetime.
IslippedintotheelevatorjustbeforethedoorsclosedandonlynoticedwhenIturnedaroundthattherewassomeoneelseintherewithme.
Icouldseenothingbuthisbackandthebackofhisbaseballcap,butthatwasenough.
Heslouchedagainstthefrontcorner,facingaway,leaninghardintothatcorner,likeitwastheonlythingholdinghimup.Hewaswearingavintage1950s-stylebowlingjacketlikehipsterslovetofindwhenthey’rethrifting.Buthedidn’tseemlikeahipster.Andthejacketdidn’tseemallthatvintage,either.Morelikeanewversionofanoldjacket?
Whodidthat?
IwasabouttoaskhimtopressLobbyformewhenIrealizedthatone,he’dalreadypressedit,andtwo,hewasbusytalkingonthephone.
“Oh,mygod,she’ssofat,”hesaidthentohisphone,withadefinitevibelikehehadnoideaIwasthere.“Ithoughtshehadtobepregnant,butno.She’sjustunbelievablyobese.”
IfeltmyfacemakeanUmm—what?frown.
“Seriously,”hewenton,“herwholesideofthebedwassagging.Fifty-fiftyshebrokethesprings.BellyfatfortheGuinnessbook,Iswear.Andshedoesthatthingwhereshebreatheslikeshe’schoking.It’shilarious.”
Hilarious?Whatthehellkindofconversationwasthis?
Hewenton.“Anotherone-nightstand.Bigmistake.Hugemistake.Sheshreddedthesheets.Thosenails.Notevenkidding—Imightreallyneedstitches.ButwhatwasIsupposedtodo?Shethrewupinmyentryway.”
Okay.Nowhereallyhadmyattention.
“Iknow,”hewenton,voicestillatfullvolume.“Butthenfiveminuteslater,she’sdry-humpingmeagain—justlikeintheparkinggarage.IthinkIpulledahamstring.”Hetappedhisheadagainsttheelevatorwall.“Itriedtokickheroutofbed,”hesaidnext,“butshejustkeptcomingback.Andohgod,she’samoaner.”
ThismustbetheworstconversationI’deveroverheard.Whotalkedlikethis?Ihateadmittingtobeingthisnaive,butithadneverevenoccurredtomethatconversationsthisawfulevenhappened.
Whowasthisguy?Whataweasel.
Ilookedhimupanddownforidentifyingdetails.Buttherewasn’tmuchtogoonwithhimfacingaway,slumpedinthecornerlikethat.Hishairwasbrownish.Hisheightwastallish.Theonlydistinctivethingabouthimwasthatbowlingjacket.Redandwhitewithcursivestitching.
Hewasstilltalking.“Yeah,Igothomefromworkandshe’sstillinthebed.Sonowit’satwo-nightstand.Andlastnight,shedidthatthingwheresheplantedherfatassrightinthemiddleofthemattressandthensherolledontopofmyface.Ialmostsuffocated,Iswear—underamountainofblubber.”
“Amountainofblubber”???
DidIreallyjusthearthat?
Iwasbaldly,openlystaringatthebackofthisguy’sweaselly,nondescriptbaseballcapnow.
Whatthehell?Whoeventhoughtthosethingsaboutapersonthey’djustspentthenightwith,muchlesssaidthemoutloud?
Asweapproachedthefirstfloor,justasIwasthinkingthisconversationcouldn’tpossiblygetanymoreappalling,theWeaseladded,“Igotsomepictureswhileshewassleeping.I’lltextthemtoyou.Oh,andthere’savideo.Soundupforthatone.You’veneverheardsnoringlikethatinyourlife.Goaheadandpostthemall.”
Withthat,thedoorsslidopenandheslidout,stilltalking,withoutevernoticingIwasbehindhim.
Holyshit.
Isteppedout,too,butIslowedtoanastonishedstopjustoutsidethedoors.
ThisrightherewaswhyIhadn’tdatedanyonesinceEzra.ThiswaswhyIspentSaturdaynightsathomewithPeanut.Justthefactthatmenlikethisexisted
WhathadIjustoverheard?Wasthatunbelievabledouchebagtextingpicturesofsomepoorunconsciousladytohisfriends?“Postthem”?!Whatdid“goaheadandpostthem”mean?Didhehavesomekindofwebsitewhereheluredwomenbacktohisapartmentandfilmedthem?Wasn’tthatillegal?ShouldIcallthepoliceandreporta—A…?Amorallyrepugnantpersoninthevicinity?
OrshouldIgofindthisguy’sapartment,bangonhisdoor,rescuethiswoman—whohadclearlyjustmadetheworstone-night-standdecisionofherlife—andlendherafuzzysweater,makehersometea,andgiveheralittleTEDTalkonBadMenandHowtoSpotThem?
Iwasstillundecidedwhen—speakingofmenwhomadeyouloseyourfaithinmen—Ifeltsomethingclampmyelbowandturnedtoseemydad.Butnotsomuchhisfaceasthebackofhishead,becausehewasalreadydraggingmeofftoward—where?Thestreet,maybe?
“Hey!”Isaidinprotest,likehe’dforgottenhismanners.
“Weneedtotalk,”mydadcalledback—notslowingorturning.
HowlonghaditbeensinceI’dseenhim?Ayear?Two,maybe?OurlastcommunicationwasLucinda’sthree-pagecomputer-printedholidayletter—whichIhadn’tread—andnownotevena“Hi!Howyadoing?”fromthisguy?Hewasjustgoingtograbmyelbowandsteermethroughmyownlobby?
Ituggedbacktoresist,like,Thisisnothowyoudothis.
Atthat,mydadslowedandturned.
Hetookintherobe.Andtheslippers.Thenhesaid,“IgotthewholestoryfromLucinda.”
“I’msureyoudid,”Isaid.
“You’regoingtoneedtogetthesurgery,Sadie,”hesaidnext.
Ilookedaroundtoseeifsomeoneheard.Thatfeltlikeanawfullyprivatethingtojustsayatfullvolumeinapublicplace.
Iguessthiswaswhatthewholeelbow-grabbingthinghadbeenabout.
“Iwill,”Isaid,steppingcloserandleadingbyexamplebyloweringmyvoice.“I’mjust…processingforaminute.”
“Youdon’tneedtoprocess,”mydadsaid.“Justgetitdone.”
“It’scomplicated,”Isaid.
“No,”mydadsaid.“It’ssimple.”
Myquietvoicehadn’tworked.Instead,mydadwenttheotherwayandusedhisdoctorvoice—whichisevenlouderthanhisusualone—onme:“Dothesurgeryrightaway.Assoonaspossible.”
ThegroundfloorofmybuildinghadareallygreatcoffeeshopcalledBeanStreetthatfrontedtothestreetbutalsoconnectedtoourlobby.“CanI…”Itfeltsoweirdtosaythis:“CanIbuyyouacupofcoffee?”
MydadshovedhishandinhishairandlookedevaluativelyovertowardtheBeanStreetlogo—hand-paintedontheglassdoorsbyahipstersignpainter.
Thenhesaid,“Okay,”andwalkedoverwithoutwaitingforme.
Theplacewasalmostempty.Wesatfacingeachotherinabooth,andIshiftedgears,nowtryingtocounterhisdoctorvoicewithanimprovisedunflappable-professionalvoiceofmyown.“IalreadytoldthesurgeonthatIpreferredtowait,”Isaid.“Ihaveaprojectthatcan’tbepostponed.”
“Lucindatoldme.Yourbigbreak.”
Ofcourseshe’dtoldhim.Whatelsedidshehavetotalkabout?“Oneofthem,”Isaid.“Oneofmany.Igetbigbreaksallthetime.”Thenmaybeonesentencetoofar:“Mywholelifeisbigbreaks.”
Heflaredhisnostrils.“Thepointis,youcan’twait.”
Itiltedmyhead.“Thisisuncharacteristicallybossyofyou,Richard.”
“Don’tcallmeRichard.Dadwilldo.”
“What’stherush,exactly?Thedoctorsaiditwasn’turgent.”
“Youneedtogetittakencareof.”
AsIlookedcloseratmydad,heseemedatypicallyrumpled.Tieaskew.WrinklesinhisOxfordcloth.Healwaystraveledinabusinesssuit.Formalguy.“Aren’tyousupposedtobeinSingapore?”
“Icamehomeearlyfrommyconference.”
“Forthis?”Iasked.Ithadtobeforsomethingelse.
“Thiscouldn’twait,”hesaid.Thatsoundedlikeayes.
Wasthisallittooktogethisattention?“Wow.Ishouldhavegottenacavernomayearsago.”
“You’vealwayshadit.It’scongenital.”
“Iwasjoking.”
Buthewasinnomoodtojoke.Heactuallylooked…worried.
Huh.Worriedabouthisdaughter.Wasthisafirst?
“It’sfine,”Isaidnext.“I’llhandleit.”
Butheshookhishead.“It’sdone.I’vealreadyscheduledyouforWednesday.”
Atthat,Ijustfrowned.“ThisWednesday?”
Henodded,like,Affirmative
Itriedtothinkifmydadhadeverscheduledanythingforme—evenanorthodontistappointment.“Whywouldyouschedulemysurgery?”
Helookedatme,like,Duh.“I’vegotsomeconnections.”
“Nokidding.”
“Otherwise,itwasathree-weekwait.”
“Finewithme.”
“Butyouneedtogetitdone—”
“Rightnow,”Ifinishedforhim.“Yeah.Yousaid.”
Hislattesatuntouched.
Istirredmyown,thenwatchedthebubblescirclearoundinthecup.ThenIsaid,“Look,I’llbehonest.Thisseemslikeawholelotofinterestallofasuddenforaguywhohasliterallynotaskedmeonequestionaboutmyselfinthelastdecade.”
“Iunderstand.”
“Sowhat’sgoingon?”
Henodded,likehe’dbeenwaitingforthisquestion.“Yourmom,”hesaidthen,lookingdownatthedistressedwoodtabletop.
Mymom.Heabsolutelyneverbroughtupthetopicofmymom.
Hehadmyattentionnow.ButthenhepausedsolongIfinallyhadtoask:“Mymom.Okay.Whatabouther?”
“Yourmom,”hesaidagain.“She…”
Anotherpause.Itappedthetableinhislineofvision.“Shewhat?”
Helookedupandmetmyeyes.“Shediedofacavernoma.”
Isatback.
Heckofanadrenalinejoltthere.
“Ithoughtshediedofastroke,”Isaid.
“Shedid.Astrokefromaburstcavernoma.”
“ThatseemslikesomethingIshouldhaveknownsooner.”
“Maybeifyou’dgonetomedicalschoolyou’dhavelearnedallaboutit.”
“Areyougivingmeshitaboutmedicalschoolrightnow?”
Hepursedhislipstogetheratthecurseword—whichseemedliketheleastofourproblems.Nexthetiltedhisheadforwardlikehewasforcinghimselftotakeacalmingmoment.Thenhesaid,“I’mtellingyou,youcan’twait.Youhavetodothisrightnow.”
“Ican’tdoitrightnow.Idon’thavetime.”
Heliftedhiseyestomeetmine.“That’sexactlywhatyourmothersaid.”
Oof.
Then,beforeI’dabsorbedthat,headded,“Andshemightevenhavebeenwearingthatverysamerobewhenshesaidit.”
Ilookeddownandtookabreath.Timetostoparguing.“Soyou’resaying…shehadthissameexactthing?”
“Yes.It’sinherited.”
“Andsheknewshehadit?”
“Yes.”
“Andshewasadvisedtohaveitfixed?”
“Yes.”
“Butshedidn’t?Andthenshedied?”
Henodded.“Precisely.”
“Whydidn’tshehaveitfixed?”
Mydadlookedaway.“Idon’tthinkweneedtogetintothat.”
“Whatelsecouldtherepossiblybetogetinto?”
“Idon’twanttodredgeupthepast.”
Iliftedmyhands,like,Whatthehell?“Toolate.It’sdredged.”
“Thepointis—justgetitdone.”
Tobehonest,Iwasn’tgoingtofighthim.Mydadmightbeacomplicated,difficult,overlyformal,pathologicallyreserved,not-particularly-fond-of-meperson…buthewasn’tstupid.Hewas,asLucindacouldverify,a“veryprominentcardiothoracicsurgeon.”Heknewhisshit.Heunderstood—ifnothingelse—theworkingsofthehumanbody.
Thepointis:WhenDr.RichardMontgomery,MD,FACS,FAHA,andchiefofcardiothoracicsurgeryforUTMB,dragsyoudowntoacoffeeshopinyourmother’sbathrobeandtellsyoutogohavebrainsurgery,youdon’targue.
Youjustgohavebrainsurgery.
“Fine,”Isaid.“I’lldothesurgery.AfteryoutellmewhyMomdidn’thavehers.”
“AndI’lltellyouaboutMom,”mydadshotback,“afteryoudothesurgery.”Four
THEBESTTHING—andpossiblytheonlygoodthing—aboutthedayofthesurgerywasmeetingmynewTrinidadianneuropsychologist,Dr.NicoleThomas-Ramparsad.
Whenshefirstarrived,anursewasbeginningherthirdattemptatstartingmyIV.“Theproblem,”thenursewassaying,“isthatyou’resotense.”Shetappedmyarmsomemorewiththepadsofherfingersasiftosay,See?Nothing.“You’veshrunkyourbloodvessels.”
IpeeredatmyarmlikeImightbeabletohelpherfindone.
“Youneedtorelax,”shetoldme.
“Iagree,”Isaid,tryingtoslowmybreathingdownfromhummingbirdrate.
Sheaddedasecondtourniquet.“Whenwegetscared,ourbodiespullallourbloodintoourcoretoprotectthevitalorgans.”
Relax,Icommandedmyself.Relax.
“Lookattheseveins,”shecalledtoanothernurse,tappingaroundsomemore.
NurseTwocameoverforapeek,givingalittleheadshakeatthesight.“They’relikequiltingthreads.”
Thatdidnotsoundlikeacompliment.
“Shecan’tgetthisoverwithuntilyourelax,”NurseTwosaidtome,alittlescoldy.
“ButIcan’trelaxuntilit’soverwith,”Isaid,awareoftheCatch-22.
“Areyoualwaysadifficultstick?”NurseOneasked.
Iwasn’tlovingthatterminology.Itmademesounduncooperativeatbest.Buttherewasonlyoneanswertothatquestion.“Yes.”
NursesOneandTwoexchangedalook.
Itriedtodefendmyself.“Thisisjusthowneedlesituationsusuallyendforme—withtears.Ordryheaving.Orfainting.”Atthewordsdryheaving,Icouldfeelmyveinsshrinkingalittlesmaller.
Relax,damnit.Relax!
Butthat’swhenmyfuturenewfavoritepersonwalkedin.
Andlet’sjustsayshebroughtatotallydifferentenergytotheroom.
Dr.NicoleThomas-Ramparsaddidn’tjustwalkin,shestrode—greetingmeloudlyasshedid,hervoicewarmandrich.“Hello,”shepracticallysang.“You’reSadieMontgomery,andI’msodelightedtobeworkingwithyoutoday.”Andwiththat,sheputafirm,comforting,totally-in-charge-of-the-momenthandonmyshoulder,andsaid,“PleasejustcallmeDr.Nicole”—pronouncinghernamelikeNi-call.
Let’sjustsayherdoctorvoicesoundednothinglikemydad’s.
Whichwasaverygoodthing.
Becausehervoice—warmandmotherlyandconfident—absolutelytookovertheroom.Shewassuchabigpresencethatsheeclipsedeverythingelse.It’simportanttonotethatshe,inherlightbluescrubsandsurgicalhat,lookedprettymuchlikeeverybodyelsewhoworkedinthathospital.Sheshouldn’thavestoodoutlikeshehadherownpersonalspotlight.
Butshedid.
Maybeitwasherbigfearlesssmile.Orthewarmglowofhertawnyskin.Orthelaughcrinklesathereyes.Orhertallposture,likeshewasthenumberonegrown-upintheroom.Orthefactthatsheseemedabouttheagemymomwouldbenow,ifshehadlived.
Whateveritwas,sheappeared—andthenpositivelyhijackedmyconsciousness,leaninginclose,squeezingmyhand,andtellingmemoreaboutherselfinthefirstfiveminutesthanmostdoctorsrevealedinyears:She’dcometoHoustonfromherhometownofPortofSpain,bywayofMcGillUniversityinCanada—originallytrainingtobeaneurologistbeforegettingfascinatedwithneuropsychologyandswitchingtracks,muchtoherparents’chagrin,sincepsychologywasnota“real”science.Herfavoritetypesofmusicwerecalypso,soca,andsteelpan,becausetheyremindedherofhomeandmadeherfeelpeaceful.Herfavoriteflowerwasthebird-of-paradise,which“growslikeweeds”inTrinidad.Andshemadethebestcoconutbreadintheworld,ifshedidsaysoherself.
“I’llbakeyoualoafsometime,”shetoldme.
“Thankyou,Dr.Thomas-Ramparsad,”Isaid.
“Dr.Nicole,”shecorrected,pattingmeonthearm.
Andthat’swhenIlookeddownandnoticedthatNursesOneandTwoweregone,andtheIVwasalreadytapedhappilyinplaceliketherehadneverbeenanythingdifficultaboutit.
Ohgod,shewasagenius.Blessher.
Anyway,IadoredDr.Nicolefromthatmomenton—instantly,thewayateenagegirlmightloveapopstar.Iwould’vegladlyhungaposterofheronmywall.
AftertheIV,everythinggoteasier—especiallysincetherewasn’tmuchformetodo.Also,sinceprettysoonIstartedfeelinglikemybloodwasmadeofmaplesyrup.
Mydadscrubbedinforthesurgerybytheway—anditwasn’tlostonmethatthiswasthefirstthingwe’ddonetogetherinyears.Alittlefather-daughtertime.
Atlast,somethingaboutmylifehecouldgetinterestedin.
Hospitalshaveanunfortunateneedtoexplaininadvanceexactlywhatthey’regoingtodotoyou,andDr.Estrerawasnoexception.Whentheyhadmegoodandsedated,hegavemewaymoreinformationthanIwantedorneededabouthow—andpleaseprepareyourselfforthesecomingwords—theywoulduseaskullclamptopinmyheadtoprongsonthesurgicalbed,leaningmeforwardandtothesidesotheycouldaccesstherightspot,andthenerectingaplastictentaroundmesothesurgeonscouldseeonlytheareaofmyskulltheyneededandnothingelse.
Hellofato-dolist.Butitmadesense.
Adisembodiedpatchofskullwasprobablyfareasiertodrillaholeintothan,yaknow,aperson.
Next,they’dwashmyhairwithBetadinesolutiontosterilizeeverything,andthenthey’dcombitwithasterilecomb,andthenthey’dshavejustthetiniestbit,andthenthey’dcutandpeelaflapofmyscalpback…andthenthey’ddrillafour-inchholeinmyhead
Liketheyweregoingicefishing.
Nobigdealatall.
ISTAYEDINthehospitalforthefullfourdaysaftersurgery,whichmademefeellikeIwasgettingmymoney’sworth.
Itookalotofnaps.Isleptpartiallysittinguponabolsterpillowtohelpwithdrainage.IatealotofJell-OandwonderedwhyI’dneverappreciateditbefore.
Theincisionsinmyscalpweresoreforseveraldaysafterward.Ihadafewheadachesandsomeshootingpainsfromtimetotimenearthewound.MyeyesgotswollenenoughthatDr.NicolesuggestedIavoidthemirrorforawhile.Allnormalpostsurgicalstuff.
Allinall,Ifeltbacktomyusualselfsurprisinglyfast.Thedoctorswereimpressedwithmyresilience,andtheychalkedituptomy“youthandgoodhealth.”Itookfullcreditforboth.IevencaughtmyselfwonderingifIwasdoingmydadproud.
BySunday,mylastdaythere,Iwasfeelingsogood,IfeltsillyforthewayI’dresistedthesurgery.Infact,Ifeltsogoodsofast,IhadtoremindmyselfIwasaninvalid.
Iwasjustgettingdischargeinstructionsforthenextday—thingslikenoalcohol,nodrivingforthreeweeks,noladderclimbingforthreemonths—whenastrangercametovisitme.
Imean,I’dbeensurroundedbystrangersthatwholeweek—nursesinbubble-gum-pinkscrubscomingandgoing,checkingstitches,vitals,surgicaltape.Thosepinkscrubsreallygavethewholestaffaveryuniformvibe.
Butthisstrangerwasn’tinscrubs,shewasinstreetclothes.Shecamerightinandpulledupachair,andIrememberwonderingifshewasmaybeasocialworkerorevenareporterdoingsomekindofpieceoncavernomas.
Maybeshe’daskmetostarinadocumentary.Iwonderedwhatpeoplegotpaidforthat.
Butthat’swhenshestartedtalking.
Andasthewordsaccumulated,Istartedwonderingifshereallywasastrangerafterall.
“Icamethefirstday,”shesaid,“butyouweresooutofit.AndthenWitt’sgrandmagotsick,sowehadtodrivetoSanAntoniotocheckonher.Butdon’tworry,IboardedPeanutatthatvetclinicaroundthecornerfromyourplace.Whichisprobablybetter,anyway,becauseWitt’sprettyallergic,andhewasbeingagreatsportaboutit,buthiseyeswere,like,wateringanditchingthewholetime.Andthatnewclinicisawesome—thoughIknowyoulikeyouroldplace.They’vebeensendingmephotosfromthepupcam,andIthinkPeanutmighthavestruckupaMay-DecemberromancewithaPomeranian.”
Shepausedforalaugh,butIjustsaid,“What?”
Imean,whywasthispersontalkingaboutPeanut?OrWitt,forthatmatter?
Thestrangerleanedinalittle.“Whataboutwhat?”
“Whataboutallofit?”
Weblinkedateachother.
Andthat’swhensomethingimpossibleoccurredtome.
Thistotalstranger…wastalkinglikeshewasmybestfriend,Sue.
Icannotdescribetheintensecognitivedissonanceofsuddenlyknowingthosetwooppositethingsatonce.Buttherewasnootherexplanation.IwasclearlysittingacrossfromapersonIdidnotknow…andshewasclearlysayingthingsthatonlySuecouldsay.
It’sfairtosaythatgotmyfullattention.
Upuntilthatpoint,alltheotherpeoplewhohadmovedthroughmyroomhadbeenbackgroundnoise.I’dtakenthemallforgrantedasIfocusedonpostsurgicaladventuresliketakingmymeds,healingmyincision,andshufflingbackandforthtothebathroom.
Iguesseverythingatthehospitalhadbeenjust…asexpected.
ButthenincamethispersontalkinglikeSue.Andforcedmetonoticethatshedidn’tlooklikeSue.Whichforcedmetotrytofigureoutwhatshedidlooklike.
Andthat’swhenIrealizedthatIhadnoidea.
Imean,thisladyinfrontofmehadfacialfeatures.IcouldseethemifItried—oneatatime.Eyes.Anose.Eyebrows.Amouth.Theywereallthere.
Ijustcouldn’tsnapthemtogetherintoaface.Anyfaceatall.LeastofallSue’s.
“Sue?”Iasked.
“What?”
“Isityou?”
“It’sme,”shesaid,likeitmightbeatrickquestion.
“Whatdidyoudotoyourface?”
Isawherliftherhandtoit.Afterasecond,shesaid,“Newmoisturizer?”
“No.Imean—”
“DoIlookweird?Iswitchedmultivitamins.”
Didshelookweird?Imean,thecomponentsofherfacewerelikepuzzlepiecesspreadoutonatable.Soyeah.
ButIdidn’texactlyknowhowtosaythat.
Iwasjuststaringatherpieces,tryingtoJedi-mind-trickthemintoclickingintotheirproperspots,whenoneofthosenursesinthepinkscrubswalkedin.
AndIrealizedthatIcouldn’tseeherface,either.
Imean,“couldn’tseeherface”isnotexactlyright.Icouldtelltherewasafacethere.Intheory.Itwasn’tjustablankslate.Icouldzoominoneyebrowsandlaughlinesandlips.
Itwasjustthatthepiecesdidn’tfittogetherright.Theydidn’tmakeaface.ItwasabitlikelookingataPicassopainting.
Icouldseeit,Iguess.Ijustcouldn’tunderstandit.
Itremindedmeofthatgameyouplayaskidswhereyoulieupsidedownandwatchsomeonetalkingwheretheirlipsareflipped,toptobottom.Everythingsuddenlylookedsofunny.Anddisjointed.Andcartoonish.
Ifeltarisingcomprehension.HadIbeenlikethisallweek?
Ascrazyasthissounds,it’strue:ItwasonlyonceIreallystartedtryingtolookthatIrealizedIcouldn’tsee.
“Sue?”Isaidagain,blinking,likemaybeIcouldclearthingsupthatway.
“Youlookfantastic,”shesaid,leaningforwardandclaspingmyhandsinhers.“You’dneverknowtheyjustpoppedasectionofyourskulloutlikethetopofajack-o’-lantern.”
Yep.ThatwasSue,allright.
“Iexpectedyoutobebald,tobehonest,”shewenton.“Iwaspreparedtowalkinhereandsayyoulookedbetterbald.IhadawholeSinéadO’Connor–themedspeechprepared.”
Irubbedmyeyesandtriedtolookatheragain.
Butnochange.
“Howdidtheymanagetokeepyourhair?”Sueasked.
Iknewtheanswertothisquestion.Dr.Estrerahadshownmeindetail.Butitdidn’tseemthatimportantrightnow.
“IthinkIhaveaproblem,”Isaidthen.“Ican’tseeyou.”
Suewavedherhandinfrontofmyface,like,Hello?“Youcan’tseeme?”
“Icanseeyourhand,”Isaid.“Ijustcan’tseeyourface.”
Sueleanedforward,likethatmighthelp,justasthenurseleanedinandsaid,“Areyouhavingtroublewithyoureyes,sweetheart?”
“Idon’tthinkit’smyeyes,”Isaid.“Ithinkit’smybrain.”
WITHINTWOHOURS,I’ddoneanotherMRI,andtheentirefacelessteamofEstrera,Thomas-Ramparsad,Montgomeryhimself,andawholeposseofresidentsandonlookershadgatheredinmyroom.
“Theimagingshowssomeedemaaroundthesurgicalsite,”Dr.Estrerasaid,talkingmoretomydadthantome.
“What’sedema?”Iasked.
“Swelling,”Dr.Nicoleexplained.“Verynormal.Nothingtoworryabout.”
“It’scommontohavesomeswellingafteraprocedurelikethis,”Dr.Estreraconfirmed.
Thenheturnedtome,andashedid,Ilookeddownattheblanketonmybed.
Lookingatfaces—orthemodernartpieceswherefacesusedtobe—washard.Itmademybrainhurtalittle.Fortunately,Dr.Estrerawasn’toffended.Hewenton.“Asanartist,youknowthatthehumanfacehasalotofvariability.”
Notsureyouneededtobeanartisttoknowthat,butokay.
“Penguins,forexample,”hesaid,“don’thavethatsameamountoffacialvariability.Mostpenguinfaceslookprettymuchthesame.”
“Iwonderifthepenguinswoulddisagree,”Isaid.
Hewenton,“Thelocationofyourcavernomawasveryclosetoanareainthebraincalledthefusiformfacegyrus…”
HewaitedtoseeifI’dheardofit.
Ihadn’t.
“It’sadeeptemporalstructure—aspecializedareaofthebrainthatallowspeopletorecognizefaces.”
Inoddedandkeptmyeyesonmyblanket.
Hewenton.“Humanshaveevolvedhighlyspecializedbrainsystemsforrecognizingfaces,andmostofushavenear-photographicmemoriesforthem.Theminuteyouseeanotherhumanface,ittriggersafloodofinstantinformationaboutthatperson:name,profession,biographicaldata,memoriesyouhavetogether…andthefusiformfacegyrusiscrucialtothatprocess.”
Inodded,like,Interesting.Likehewasjusttellingmerandombrainfacts.
Thenhesaid,“YourcavernomawaslocatedclosetotheFFG.Notinitandnottouchingit,butclose.”
“Didyounickitorsomething?That’swhyit’snotworking?”
Dr.EstreraturnedmyMRIscanonthelightboardandcircledonagrayarea.“Webelievethenormalpostsurgicalswellingispressingonthefusiformfacearearightnexttoitandcausingsomemayhem.”
“Causingsomemayhem”seemedlikearathercutesywaytodescribemysituation,butIletitgo.“Whatcanwedoaboutit?”Iasked.“Iceit,maybe?Takesomeibuprofen?Stopdrinkingwaterforawhileanddehydratemyself?”
“There’snotmuchwecandoaboutit,”Dr.Estrerasaid.“Wejusthavetowait.”
“Wait?!”Ididn’thavetimetowait.“Forhowlong?”
“Peoplecanvaryquiteabit,”Dr.Estrerasaidpleasantly,likewewerejustchitchatting.“I’dsayit’slikelytoresolveintwotosixweeks.”
Twotosixweeks?Ilookedup.“I’mlookingatyourightnow,andyou’relikeanupside-downMr.PotatoHead.Areyousayingmybraincouldbedoingthatforsixweeks?”
“I’mhopingit’llresolvebeforethat,”hesaid.“Assumingitdoesresolve.”
Ifeltastingofadrenaline.“Assumingitdoesresolve?”Iechoed.“Areyousayingitmightnotresolve?”
“Ithinkit’sverylikelytoresolve.Mostpostsurgicaledemadoes.Ican’tguaranteeit,ofcourse.ButI’dbesurprisedifitdidn’t.”
Okay,okay.“Butassumingitresolves…whathappensthen?Everythinggoesbacktonormal,right?”
“Then…”Dr.Estrerasaid,“we’llsee.”
Comeon,man!
Hemust’vethoughthewasstrikingabalancebetweenbeingcomfortingandnotmakingpromiseshecouldn’tkeep.Butsincethepossibilitythatitmightnotresolvehadn’tevenoccurredtome,hewasabsolutelydoingthefreakingopposite.
“Ijustdon’tunderstand,”Isaidthen,mypanicmakingmealittlebreathless,“howyoucouldexplaineveryminusculehead-clampdetailtome,andeveryaspectofthehair-sparingtechnique,butsomehowfailtomentionthatthebrainsurgeryIjustelectivelysignedupformightruinmyabilitytoseefaces.”
“Thisisaveryrareoutcome,”Dr.Estrerasaid.
“Ithoughtyousaiditwastotallynormal!”
“Edemaisnormal,”hesaid.“Butyourcavernomajusthappenedtobeveryclosetothisparticularveryspecializedarea.Thechancesofthishappeningwereinfinitesimal.”
“DoyouknowwhatIdoforaliving?”Idemanded.
Thewholeroomwaited.Theydidnot.
Myvoicewasrising,butIdidn’tnotice.“Iamaportraitartist.Ipaintportraits!Offaces!Foraliving!WhatamIsupposedtodonow?Whathappenstomylivelihood?Ineedmyfusiformfacethingytobeworking!”
Inthesilencethatfollowed,Dr.Estreranoddedwithanapologies-for-the-inconveniencevibe.
Isighed.
IlookedoveratDr.Nicole’spuzzle-piecefaceforsomehelp—emotionalorotherwise.
“There’snoreasonthatitshouldn’tresolve,”shesaid,takingmyhand.“We’lljustbepatient.AndIwillworkwithyoutoteachyousomecopingskillsinthemeantime.”
Iletoutalongbreath.“CanIstillgohometomorrow?”
“Ofcourse,”Dr.Estrerasaid.“Yoursiteishealingbeautifully.There’snoreasonforyoutoremainhere.”
Mydadhadbeenworryinglysilent.ItookaminutetonotetheunexpectedhighI’dbeengettingfrombeinganaccidentalbrainsurgeryposterchild—asuddenminorcelebrityinhisworld.
Butthen,whenheshookDr.Estrera’shandandlefttheroomwithoutawordtome,thathighdroppedtotheground.
Lookedlikeitwastimetobeadisappointmentagain.
Ohwell.
THEMOMENTOFtruthcamelater,aftermostofthedoctors,includingmydad,hadleft.
Dr.Nicolestayedtorunmethroughsomefacerecognitiontests.Beforewegotstarted,Ineededtopee.Whichmeantgoingtothebathroom.Which,ofcourse,hadamirrorabovethesink.IavoidedlookingasIwalkedin,butasIheadedout,Ipaused.
WhatwouldhappenifIlookedintothatmirror?
WhatwouldIsee?
Don’tlook,Itoldmyself.
Ididn’twanttoknow,butIalsocouldn’tstandnotknowing…andsoIwoundupstandingwithmyeyesaverted,caughtbetweencuriosityanddread,forsolongDr.NicolefinallyaskedifIwasallright.
Theknockstartledme,andthenIcoastedoffthatenergyandglancedupintothemirrortocheckmyreflection…
AndwhatIsawmademegasp.
Myface,myveryownface,theoneI’dhadandknownandlivedwithallmylife…itwasnothingbutpuzzlepieces,too.
WHENIOPENEDthebathroomdoor,movinginslo-mowiththeshock,Ikeptmyeyespointedtowardthefloor,whichfeltlikethesafestplace.Igotasfarasthethresholdbeforeslowingtoastop.
“Sadie?”Dr.Nicoleasked.
“Ican’tseemyownface,”Isaidthen,alittlebreathless.“Ijustcheckedinthemirror,andit’snotthere.I’mfaceless.”
ButDr.Nicolewasn’tgivingintomydrama.“You’renotfaceless,”shesaid,steeringmegentlybytheshouldersbacktobed,“youjusthaveedema.”
Iwantedtobepracticalaboutit.Matter-of-fact.Iwantedtofullyunderstandthatthiswasjustalittlebrainglitch.
Buttherewasnothingmatter-of-factaboutit.
Iwalkedawayfromthatmirrorfeeling…lonely.
Nomatterhowaloneyoueverareinlife,youalwayshaveyourself,right?Youalwayshavethatgoofy,imperfectfacethatforgetstotakeoffitsmascarabeforebedandwakesupwithraccooneyes.Thatonecrookedlowertooththattheorthodontistnevercouldmanhandleintoplace.Thoseearsthatstickoutalittletoofar.Thoselinesoneithersideofyoursmilethatalwayslooklikeparentheses.Thatslightdimpleatyourchinthat’sjustlikeyourmom’s.
Ofcoursethosearen’ttheonlythingsthatmakeyouyou.
Youarealsoyourwholelifestory.Andyoursenseofhumor.Andyourhomemadedoughnutrecipe.Andyourloveforghoststories.Andthewayyousavoroceanbreezes.Andtheappreciationyouhaveforhowthecolorspinkandorangegotogether.
You’renotjustyourface,iswhatImean.
Butman,itsureisabigpartofyou.
Likeyourshadow.Sofaithfullyandconstantlywithyou,youdon’tevennoticeit.
It’sjustalwaysthere.Butthenonedayit’sgone.
Exceptit’snotjusttheshadowthat’sgone.It’sthepersonmakingtheshadow.
You.You’regone.
Andtheideathatanythingcouldjustdisappearatanymomentissomethingyousuddenlyunderstandinawholenewway.ThewayIdidforalongwhileaftermymotherdied.
“It’slikeI’mnothere,”IsaidtoDr.Nicole,mythroatgettingthick.“It’slikeIdisappeared.”
“You’rerighthere,”shesaid,takingmyhandsandsqueezingthembeforeholdingthemuptoshowme.“Youknowthesehands,right?”
Inodded.
“Hereyouare,”shesaid.“Youhaven’tgoneanywhere.”Thenshegavemeahugandsaid,“Butlet’snotlookinthemirroragainforawhile.”
Shewantedtogetdowntobusiness.Shewasorganizingsometestsformetotakeonherlaptop.WhileIwaited,arandomthoughtoccurredtome:Peanut.
“Thisdoesn’tapplytoanimals,right?”Iasked.
“What?”Dr.Nicoleasked.
“I’msuddenlyworriedthatwhenIgethome,Iwon’tbeabletoseemydog.”
“You’lldefinitelybeabletoseeyourdog.”
“Hisface,Imean,”Isaid.“Ineedthatface.It’smyprimarymood-lifter.”
“Iunderstand,”Dr.Nicolesaid,attentionstillmostlyonherwork.
“Thisfacethingy’sonlyforhumanfaces,right?”
Atthat,shepaused.“Mostly,”shesaid,“yes.”
“Mostly?”Iasked.“Whatdoesmostlymean?”
“There’snotalotofresearchonanimalfaces.Therehasbeensomeresearchoncars,though.”
“Cars?”
“Somepeoplewiththisconditionhavetroublerecognizingtheircars.Theycanalsohavetroublewithdirection.Butithasn’tbeenstudiedenoughtounderstandwhyorhow.”
“So…”Somehowthisfeltliketheworstnewsofall.“Youcan’tguaranteethatI’llbeabletoseemydog’sface?”
Butshewasn’tgoingtoletmedescendintoself-pity.“Guaranteesareoverrated.”
Imusthavebeenspoilingforafight.“Guaranteesareunderrated.”
Butshedidn’ttakethebait.“Let’sjusttakeonequestionatatime.”
DR.NICOLEHADqueuedupsomefacialrecognitiontestsformetotaketoseehowbaditwas.“This’llgiveusabaseline,”shesaid.
Thetests—theGlasgowFaceMatchingTest,theCambridgeFaceMemoryTest,alongwithafewothers—wereallonline.Sherotatedthelaptoptowardme.
Ifoldedmylegsandgeareduptobegin.Iwasusuallyprettygoodattests.ButIwouldnotbeacingthese.
Thesetestswerehard.LikeifyoumadeakindergartnertaketheSAT.
Someofthemaskedyoutolookattwopicturesanddecideiftheywerethesamepersonoradifferentperson.Someofthemaskedyoutostudyasetoffacesandthenfindthosepeoplelateringroups.Someofthemshowedyoufamouspeoplewiththeirhairremoved.Theyspecificallydidnotaskifyoucouldnametheperson—becauserecallingnamesisadifferentbrainsystem.Theyaskedonlyifyoucouldrecognizethem.
CouldIrecognizethem?
Icouldnot.
Itwasall—andImeanthisinthefullestsenseoftheword—nonsense
FromcelebritiestopresidentstopopiconstoOscarwinners,allthefacesinallthetestslookedtotallyindistinguishable.Icouldn’ttellthedifferencebetweenJenniferAnistonandMerylStreep.Icouldn’ttellSandraBullockfromJenniferLopez.Itwaslikelookingatpickup-stickpilesoffacialfeatures.Icouldtellthatthesepeoplehadfaces.Icouldseethepiecesofthefaces.Ijustcouldn’ttellwhatthefaceslookedlikewhenyouputthepiecestogether.
Thatfeelingyougetwhenyourecognizesomebody?Thatlittlepopofrecognition?Ilookedathundredsoffacesthatday,andIneverfeltitonce.
Bytheendofthefifthtest,Iwasintears.
“That’senoughfortoday,choonks,”Dr.Nicolesaid,puttingherarmaroundmeforasidehug.
“Didyoujustcallmechunks?”Iasked.Whatonearthcouldthatmean?
“Choonks,”shecorrected.“ItmeanssweetheartinTrinidad.”
Thatfeltreallygoodforasecond.Ilikedbeingasweetheart.
ButthenIstartedcryingagain.
Shesqueezedmyshoulderstighter.“Iknowit’salot.”
“Thethingis…”Isaid,reallygivingintothecryingnow.“Thethingis…Ijustdon’tknowwhat’sgoingtohappentome.”
“We’renotgoingtoworryaboutthefuture,”shesaid.“We’regoingtofocusonthehereandnow.You’rehealinggreat.You’vetakencareofyourcerebrovascularissue.You’vedonethehardpart.”
Shewaspattingmybacknow.
Mythoughtswerechurninglikeacementmixer.“Whatif,”Isaid,voicingmyworstfear,“Igetstucklikethis?”
That’swhenDr.Nicoleshiftedherpositiontofaceme.Ilookeddownatmyblanket.“WhenIhearyousayunproductivethings,”shesaidthen,“I’mgoingtocallyourattentiontothemandchallengethem.”
“DidIsayanunproductivething?”Iasked.
Shenodded.
“WhatdidIsay?”
“Here’sahypotheticalquestion,”shesaidnext.“Ifthere’safivepercentchancesomethingbadwillhappen,andaninety-fivepercentchancethatthingswillbefine,whichoneismorelikely?”
Wasthisatrickquestion?“Thatthingswillbefine?”
Shenodded.“Iwantyoutoworkonthat.”
“Workonwhat?”
“Onwhichofyourthoughtsyou’regoingtochoosetoindulgein.”
“IsthisaboutmyworryingI’llgetstucklikethis?”
Shenoddedagain.“Ourthoughtscreateouremotions.Soifyoufixateonyourworst-casescenario,you’llmakethingsharderforyourself.”
“Youwantmenottofixateontheworst-casescenario?”
“Iwantyoutostartpracticingtheartofself-encouragement.”
“SowhenIcatchmyselfworrying,Ishouldtrytoconvincemyselfthatthingsaregoingtobefine?”
“That’sonewaytodoit.”
“ButwhatifIdon’tbelieveit?”
“Thenkeeparguing.”
Iwassupposedtoarguemyselfintofeelingoptimistic?“I’veneverbeengreatatoptimism,”Isaid.
“That’swhatthearguingisfor.”
“I’mnotverygoodatarguing,either.”
“Maybethisisachancetogetbetter.”
ButI’dlearnedlongagothatarguingdidn’tgetyouveryfar.“Canyougivemeahint?”
“Trytostepbackandlookatthebigpicture,”Dr.Nicolesaid.“That’swhereyoucanseeitmoreclearly.”
“Seewhat?”
“Thatnomatterwhathappens,youwillfindawaytobeokay—whetheryourprosopagnosiaistemporaryorpermanent.”
“Myproso…”Iasked,givinguponthewordhalfwaythrough.“What’sthat?”
“That’stheconditionyouhaverightnow,”Dr.Nicolesaid,“basedonthesetestscores.”Thenshehandedmeadiagnosis:“Acquiredapperceptiveprosopagnosia.”
Iwaitedforthosesyllablestomakesense.Buttheydidn’t.
Soshesaiditagain.“Acquiredapperceptiveprosopagnosia.”Thensheadded:“Alsoknownasfaceblindness.”Five
ANDAFTERALLthat,toaddmassiveinsulttoonce-in-a-lifetimeinjury,whoshouldIrunintointheelevatorofmybuildingontheverymorningIcamehome?
Youguessedit.
Theone-night-standguy.TheWeasel.
Freshbackfromthehospital,Ihadwalkedinslowmotionthroughthelobbyofmybuilding,holdingmybreathasfacelesspeoplewanderedblithelyaroundme.
Ikeptmyeyestothecarpet,steppedgingerlythroughtheelevatordoors,andpressedthebuttontothetopfloor—myhairsmellingofhospitalshampooandgatheredinacareful,stitches-coveringponytail.Iwastryingwithallmymightnottoaccidentallyknockthatcorkinmyskullloosewhilealsoholdingbackatsunamioflife-alteringrealizationsabouttheweekI’djustbeenthrough…justastheWeaselhimselfcatapultedthroughtheclosingdoorsandtossedhisarmsupinvictoryasheclearedthematthelastsecond.
Let’sjustsayhewasn’tmatchingmyfragileenergy.
Icouldn’trecognizehisfacenow,ofcourse.Oranythingelseabouthisrathernondescriptself.WhatIdidrecognize—otherthanhisterriblepersonality—wasthered-and-whitenon-vintagevintagebowlingjacket.
Therecouldn’tbemorethanoneofthosewalkingaround.
Ohmygod!TheWeasel!I’dforgottenaboutthewomaninhisbed.I’dmeanttogofindhisapartmentthatnightandwakeherupandgetherthehelloutofthere—butinallthehubbubof,yaknow,thebrainsurgery,I’dforgotten.
Hewasn’tstillholdinghercaptiveinthere,washe?
Ithoughtaboutasking.
Butthat’swhenheturnedtome,allfriendlyandbreathless,andsaid,“Madeit!”Thewayanicepersonmighttalktoanotherniceperson.
Ikeptmyeyesdownandedgedaway.
Really,pal?Youthinkyoucanjustwildlybad-mouthyourone-nightstandsandalsogettobeanormalmemberofsociety?
Notonmywatch,buddy.
Iwasn’tgoingtobecomplicitinthisnice-guygaslighting.Also:Whatthehell?Whatadultjustsprintsthroughabuildinglobbywilly-nillylikethat?Whatifhe’dslammedintome?WhatifI’dhitmyheadandthepluginmyskullhadpoppedlikeachampagnecork—andthenitwasrightbacktothehospital?
Iwasn’tusedtofeelingfragile.AndIdefinitelydidn’tlikeit.SoIglaredathim,like,Thanksalotforremindingme
Icoulddeducethathewassmiling,evendespitehispuzzle-pieceface.Thosebigteethwereprettyunmistakable.
Howdarehe?
Itwasfrustratingbeyondmeasuretolookstraightatapersonandhavenoideawhathelookedlike.EspeciallysinceIreallymighthavetopickhimoutofalineupsomeday.
OneofthetipsDr.Nicolehadgivenmeforcopingwiththesuddenlackoffacesintheworldwastonoticeotherthingsaboutpeople.Mostofususedfacesbydefault,she’dexplained,buttherewereplentyofotherdetailstonotice.Height.Bodyshape.Hair.Gait.
“Gait?”I’dsaid,likethatwasastretch.
“Everybody’swalkisalittledifferent,onceyoustartnoticing,”Dr.Nicolesaid,doublingdown.
SoItrieditontheWeasel.Whatdidhehavebesidesaface?
ButIguessIwasn’tverygoodatthisyet.Allthatreallystoodoutwasthebowlingjacket—whichhadthenameJoeembroideredvintagestyleacrossthechest.Therest?Shaggyhairfallingaggressivelyoverhisforehead.Generaltallness.Thick-framedgrayhipsterglasses.
AndIdon’tknowwhatelse.Armsandlegs,Iguess.Shoulders?Feet?
Thiswashard.
Normally,inelevatorsituationswithstrangers,evenifyouaccidentallytalkatthestart,yousettlebackintostandardelevatorbehaviorprettyfast:eyesaverted,quiet,asmuchspaceaspossiblebetweenbodies.
ButIcouldfeeltheWeaselbreakingtherules.Standingtooclose.Tryingtomakeeyecontact.
Ohgod.HadhethoughtIwascheckinghimoutjustnow?
Ifeltastingofhumiliation.Thatwasscientificresearch,damnit!
Idroppedmyeyesstraighttothefloorandedgedevenfartheraway.
Unmistakablewe-don’t-know-each-otherbodylanguage.
Butmaybehedidn’tspeakthatlanguage?Icouldfeelhimstudyingmeaswerosetothenextfloor.“Greatsweatpants,”hesaidthen,hisvoicestillatmaximumfriendliness.
“Thankyou,”Ireplied.Niceandcurt.
“Aretheycomfortable?”
What?Whocared?“Yes.”
Hepaused,andIthoughtmyone-wordanswershaddonetheirjob.Butthenherevvedbackup.“Howareyoudoingtoday?”
HowwasIdoing?Whatkindofquestionwasthat?“I’mfine.”
“Youlookgood,”hesaid,likehewassomehowqualifiedtostatethatopinion.
Amemoryofhissayingthewordsnothingbutblubberpoppedintomyhead,anditwasallIcoulddotopushouttwoclippedsyllables.“Thankyou.”
“How’syourhealth?”
Myhealth?Um.Weweren’tgoingtotalkaboutmyhealth—oranythingatallaboutme.Ididn’tknowanybodywholivedinmybuildingwellenoughforaconversationlikethis.ExceptpossiblyMr.andMrs.Kim,wholivedonthegroundfloor.
Iwentontheoffensive.“Myhealthisfine.Howisyours?”
“Oh,good,youknow.Yeah,Iwasupallnight.Butthat’snothingnew.”
Ohmygod.Whatamonster.HowmanyotherwomenhadhemenacedsincethelasttimeIsawhim?
Whenwereachedthetopfloor,webothstartedforthedoorsatthesametime,andwhenherealizedthebottleneck,hegesturedformetogoaheadwithaShakespeareanbow.
Really?NowhewasruiningShakespeare?
Iwentahead.WalkingalittlefasterthanIreallywantedto,tryingtoleavehimbehind.
Buthefollowedme.“Doyourenttheplaceontherooftop?”heaskedthenasIpausedtoworkthedoorcodetotherooftopstairwell.
Obviously.“Uh-huh,”Isaid.
“We’reneighbors,”hesaid,andgesturedatthenextclosestdoor.“I’mrighthere.Justunderyou.”
Couldhehearhimself?
Inoddedwithoutlookingup.Noeyecontact.
“I’dlovetogetalookatyourplacesometime,”hesaidthen.“I’vealwayswantedtoseewhatit’slikeupthere.”Thenheadded,“Especiallywhenyou’reclompingaroundonmyceiling.”
Nope.Nothanks.Therewasnowaythiswankerwasevergoingto“seewhatit’slikeupthere.”
Iturnedtofacehim,double-checkingthenameonhispocket.
“Look,Joe,”Isaid,pokingmyfinger—hard—intotheembroiderednameonhisjacketsohe’dknowIknewit,“I’mnotgoingtobeinvitingyouuptotherooftop.”TheninatonethatveryunmistakablysaidIknowwhatyoudidtothatone-nightstandandyou’reaterriblepersonandwebothknowit,Iadded,“That’snotgoingtohappen.Okay?”
Thatshockedhimalittle—whichremindedmeofsomethingelseDr.Nicolehadsaid.
Duringourlengthycoping-skillssessionbeforeIleftthehospital,asshetriedtoarguethatfaceblindnesswasnotgoingtobeasdebilitatingasIfeared,shetoldme,amongmanyotherthings,thateventhoughIcouldn’tseefaces,Iwouldstillbeabletoreadtheemotionsonthem.
“Soifsomeoneisshockedorembarrassedorangry,you’llstillbeabletotell,”sheexplained.“Youwon’tseeit,butyou’llknowit.”
“Howisthatpossible?”Iasked.
“It’stwodifferentbrainsystems.”
“ButhowcanIreadfacesifIcan’tseefaces?”
“Youcanstillseefaces,”Dr.Nicolesaid.“There’snothingwrongwithyoureyes.Yourbrainjustdoesn’tknowhowtoputthemtogethertoshowthemtoyourightnow.”
Hertoneofvoicewassoreasonable.
Butnothingaboutthiswasreasonable.
“Thefacesaren’tgone,”Dr.Nicoletriedagain.“Thefacesarestillthere.Andanotherpartofyourbraincanreadtheemotionsonthemjustfine.Justlikealways.”
“I’llhavetotrustyouonthat,”I’dsaid,nottrustingheratall.
Butitturnedout—asitwouldoftenturnoutwithDr.Nicole—shewasright.
BecausewhenIsharplyrejectedtheWeasel’sinvitationformetoinvitehimover,Ishockedhim.Icouldn’tseeit,butIcouldfeelit:thatunintelligiblefaceofhiswassurprised.Andasmidgetakenaback—mostlikelyhavinglivedhiswholelifeasacompletejerkwithoutencounteringnearlyenoughrepercussions.Andhewasnow,atlast,readytowithdrawallthatinappropriatewarmth.
Fine.Great.
Hemighthavefooledthatpoorone-nightstandofhis.Buthewasn’tfoolingme
Iloweredmyeyestohisjacketpocket,lettingthemrestonthatcursiveJoeuntilhelookeddownattheword,too.
Muchtooniceaname.
Imighthavetobehisneighbor.Imighthavetobumpintohimintheelevator.Imighthavetocarrythememoryofhimsayingthewordblubberfortherestofmylife…
ButIdidnothavetoinvitehimuptomyhovel.
JoetheWeaselnoddedandsteppedback.“Gotit.”
Anditsoundedlikehereallydid.Six
RUNNINGINTOTHEWeaselintheelevatorwasnottheworstpartofcominghomefromthehospital.
TheworstpartofcominghomewasLucinda.
Whohaddecidedtotrytohelpme.
Ofallthings.
Startingwithforcingmeintoacceptingaridehome.
Tobehonest,Ihadn’tevennoticedLucindawhenshe’dfirstarrivedthatmorning.ThatPepto-Bismol-pinkcardiganshe’dchosenwasalmosttheexactshadeasthenurses’scrubs,andIjustassumedshewasoneofthem.Shechattedwiththenursesagoodwhile,andIdidn’tcatchonuntilshecameoverandsaid,“Readytogo?”You’dthinkImighthaverecognizedthevoiceofthepersonwhoruinedmylifeprettyeasily…butIdidn’t.
Shecouldhavebeenanybody.
Dr.Nicolehadexplainedaboutvoices,too—thatmybrainwasusedtoallmysensesworkingtogetherinanecosystem.Havingonesenseoutofwhackcouldthrowtheothersoff,too,forawhile.Soitmighttakesometimetolearntorecognizevoiceswithouttheusualvisualcluesoftheface.Overtime,shepromised,I’dgetbetteratvoicesalone.
“Youmightevenwindupbetteratrecognizingvoicesthanyouwerebefore.Eventually.If—”Butshestoppedherself.
“IfIdon’tgetthefacesback?”Ifinished.
Shenodded.“Bepatientwithyourself,”shesaid.“Yourbrainhasalottoadjusttorightnow.Wethinkofthesenseslikethey’reseparate,distinctthings.Butthey’rereallyinterconnected.It’sgoingtobechaosinthereuntilthingssettle.Eveneasythingswillbehardforawhile.”
“Howlong?”Iasked.
ButIknewtheanswer,evenasshesaidit.“Wejustdon’tknow.”
Anyway,thatcouldturnouttobeanupside,inaway.
IwasinnohurrytorecognizeLucinda’svoice.
I’dagreedtotherideonlyafterImadeherswearupanddownthatshewoulddropmeatthedoor—only—andnotcomeup.
“ButIhavetogetyourprescriptions,”sheprotested.
“Icangetmyowndamnprescriptions,”Iinsisted.
Butoneguessforhowthedrop-offwentdown.
That’sright.Shepickedupmyprescriptionswithoutpermissionandthencameuptomyhovelun-frigging-invited.
Ihadn’tbeenhomefifteenminuteswhensheshowedup.
Iwasstillstandingintheentryway,tryingtoadjusttotheunfamiliarsilence.Peanutwasstillbeingboarded.Therewasnojangleoftagsorscuttlingofdogpawsashescrambledtogreetmeatthedoor,wagginghistailsohardhebappedhimselfontheears.Therewasno—hopefullystill-recognizable—lovinglittledogfacetomakemefeellikeeverythingcouldbeokay.
Itwasbad.
Andthen,suddenly,therewasLucinda.Knockingonmyhoveldoor.
Evenworse.
Afteralifetimeoftryingtohidemyextremelackoflifesuccessfrombothherandmydad,herarrivalwaspureinsulttoinjury.
Ithoughtaboutignoringher.ButthenIdecidednottoprolongtheagony.
“Thisiswhereyoulive?”sheasked,steppinginasIopenedthedoor.
“Ithoughtyouwenthome,”Isaid.
“Ipickedupyourprescriptions,”Lucindasaid,likeshe’ddonemeafavor.
“Didn’tItellyounottodothat?”
ButLucindawaslookingaround.“It’svery…bohemian,”shesaid,likethatwasthenicestthingshecouldcomeupwith.
“Howdidyougetuphere?”Idemanded.
“Mr.Kimgavemethecode.”
“YoumetMr.Kim?”
Shenodded,stilllookingaround.“HekeptcallingmeMarthaStewart.”
Atthat,Istifledasmile.Mr.Kimalwayshadeverybody’snumber.Isighed.“That’sactuallyagreatnicknameforyou.”
Sheconsideredthat.Wasshecomplimentedorinsulted?
Eitherway,Ididn’tlikeseeingmyworldscollide.“Don’tbotherMr.Kim,okay?”Mr.Kim,alongwiththewholeKimfamily,belongedtome.
Butshewasn’tlistening.“Youlivehere?”
Icouldhavelied,Iguess.ButmaybeIwastiredoflying.Anditwashopelessanyway.Shewashere.Itwaswhatitwas.“It’stemporary,”Isaid.
Andthen,withhertrademarkdecisiveness,shepulledoutherwallet,scanneddownhercreditcards,andtookoneout.“Takeit,”shesaid.
“Idon’tneedit,”Isaid.
“Justtakeit,”sheinsisted.“Yourdadwillneverknow.”
“I’mfine,”Isaid.
“Thisonegivesyoupoints,”shesaid,wavingitatme.
“So?”
“Soeverytimeyouuseit,we’remakingmoney.”
“Thatisnothowthatworks.”
Butshegavemeawink.“Justuseit.Idoallthebills,anyway.I’llnevertell.”
HowdaresheactlikeIneededher?
Ineverneededanyone.Ever.Foranything.
Andthereasonthatwastrue?ThereasonIneverletmyselfdoaverysimplethinglikeneedotherpeoplethattherestofhumanitygottodoallthetime?Thatreasonwasstandingrighthereinahot-pinksweater.
Itookholdofhershouldersandsteeredhertowardthedoor.“Idon’tneedyourhelp.AndIdon’twantyouuphere.AndI’mchangingthepasscode.Sogohome,okay?Andtakeyourcreditcardwithyou.”
Shedidn’tfightme.Sheleftwithoutprotest.
ButitwasonlyafterI’ddead-boltedthedoorthatIsaw,onthetablebesideit,lookingdefiantlyupatme…hercreditcard.
ITONLYHITme,really,afterI’dgottenridofher.
Myentirelifeupuntilnowhadbeenabefore.AndnowIwasintheafter.
Icouldn’tseefaces.Notevenmyown.
Iwasface-blind.
MaybeI’dstaythatway,andmaybeIwouldn’t.Butonethingwascertain.Iwouldneverbethesame.
Itwaslikesuddenlyfindingmyselfonanalienplanet.Eveninthehospital,wherecaretakingwasliterallythejobofeverypersonIinteractedwith,peoplefeltstrangeandforeignandvaguelyunsafe.EitherIwasthinkingaboutallthemissingfacesandworkingtoavertmyeyes,orIwasstaringatthem,stilldisbelieving,orIwasforgettingaboutmybrainsituation—andthenlookinguponlytobestartledbyyetanotherfacelessface.
Tobeclear,Iknewintellectuallythatthefaceswerestillthere.IfIlookedcarefully,Icouldseetheindividualparts.WhatIcouldn’tdowasglanceatafaceandknowinaninstantexactlywhothatwasandremembereverythingI’deverlearnedaboutthatperson.Orinthecaseofstrangers:knowimmediatelythatIdidn’tknow.
Thisnewwayofbeingwasaconsciousprocessofdeduction.Therewasnothingeffortlessaboutit.
Now,mostofthetime,ratherthantrying,Ijustleteverybodybeablur.
Myconsciousmindunderstoodwhathadhappened.TheFFGwasn’tworking.Gotit.Justalittlebrainsnafu.Notreality.Justaglitchinmysystem.
Butmysubconsciousmind—theonethatwasn’ttoousedtohavingtorethinkreality—wasdeeply,profoundlyfreakedout.
IcouldunderstandintheorythatIwasface-blind.
Butinpractice?Itmadenosenseatall.
Ilearnedprettyquickfromobsessiveresearchontheinternetthattwopercentoftheworld’spopulationhasfaceblindness.SoIdefinitelywasn’talone.Outof8billionpeopleintheworld—andIgotoutthecalculatorforthis—therewere160millionotherpeoplewhowereface-blind.Besidesme.ThatfigurewaslargerthanthepopulationofRussia.WecouldstartourowncountryandcompeteintheOlympics.
Exceptalotofthem,itturnedout,didn’tknowtheywereface-blind.
Ihadakindoffaceblindnessknownasacquired.Thekindpeopleprocuredsomewherealongtheway—strokes,headinjuries,brainsurgery.Mostpeoplewithacquiredfaceblindnessknowtheyhaveit.Ifyou’vealwaysbeenabletorecognizefacesandthensuddenlyyoucan’tanymore…younoticethat.
Butthemuchmorecommontypewasknownasdevelopmental.Thesefolkshadbeenface-blindalltheirlives—andmanyofthemdidn’tevenknowit.Whichmakessense.Becauseifthat’showtheworldhasalwaysbeenforyou,thenthat’showit’salwaysbeen.Nothingaboutthatwouldseemodd.You’dassumethateverybodyelsewasexactlythesameway.
IfoundacoupleofFacebookgroupsandreadeverycommentoneverypost,tryingtogettheskinnyonwhatitwasreallyliketofunctionintheworldlikethis.Mostpeoplehadtipsandtricksforrecognizingpeoplewithoutusingfacesasthemainclue,andsomepeopleseemedverygoodatit.
Asforhoweveryonefeltabouthavingthecondition,Ifoundawidespectrumofopinions.Somepeoplefounditlimitingorfrustratingordepressing…whileothersthoughtitwassonotabigdealthattheydidn’tknowwhyitmeriteddiscussion.Onewomanwantedtoknowthepointofeventalkingaboutitwhentherewere“peoplewithactualproblems”outthere.Anotherhighlylikablewomandescribedherfaceblindnessasa“superpower,”sayingshetreatedeverypersonsheinteractedwithlikeadearfriend—justincasethosepeopleturnedouttoactuallybedearfriends.Whenpeopletalkedtoherinthegrocerystoreasiftheyknewher,shepretendedsheknewthemrightback,andaskedthemquestionafterquestionuntilshecouldsolvethemysteryforherself.Shelearnedalotaboutpeoplethatway,shesaid—butmorethanthat,itmeantthatalmosteveryinteractionshehadwithotherpeoplewasinfusedwithwarmthandaffection.Inaway,therewerenostrangers.
Shelovedherfaceblindness.Shefeltlikeitbroughtheroutofhershell.Shewholeheartedlybelieveditwasagift.
Huh.
Iclosedmyeyesandtriedtoseethismomentinmylifeasagift.
Yeah.No.
Myexperienceofallthissofarwastheoppositeoflivinginaworldwithnostrangers.Forme,rightnow,everyonefeltlikeastranger.Evenme.
Imean,Ijustgenuinelycouldn’timaginewalkingoutintoaworldwhereeveryonelookedlikebowler-hatfiguresinaMagrittepaintingandfeeling…awashinagentleseaofhumankindness.
Maybeitwasmoreabouttheadjustmentthananything.Thebefore-and-afterness.Thefactthattheworld—myworld—waschangedinwaysI’dneverevenimaginedbeforeallthishappened.Thefactthatacentraltoolforrelatingtotherestofhumanity—oneI’dreliedonconstantly,everyday,myentirelife—wassuddenlyjust…gone?
Itwasscary,ifI’mhonest.Iwasneverallthatgreatwithpeopletostartwith.
Alltosay,forthefirstthreedaysIwashome,Icouldn’tseemtomakemyselfleavemyapartment.
Imostlyjustdidwoundcare.Andorderedtakeout.Andwatchedoldmovies.
Andavailedmyself—aftermuchhemmingandhawing—ofLucinda’screditcard.
IhadswornnevertoneedmydadorLucinda’shelp.Butwasusingthatcard“needing”them,really?EspeciallyifIwasbuyingluxuryitemsIdidn’tneed.Thatwassomethingdifferentfromneedingthem.Thatwaspunishingthem.Right?
Ifyouthoughtaboutittherightway,itwasaformofwinning.
AndsoIwentforit.Ienjoyedmyfirstboutofrecreationalshoppinginyears:ahygge-inspiredteakettle,astringoftwinklelightsbrandedas“wishingstars,”aheart-shapedvelveteenpillow…andatotallynuttyhybridcrossbetweenapairoffootedpajamasandafuzzyblanketcalledaPajanket.
ThePajanketcamesame-daydelivery,andafterIzippedmyselfintoit,IsworeIwouldnevertakeitoffeveragain.Itwasbasicallyarectangularhuman-sizedpillowcasewithholesateachcornerforhandsandfeet.Thefoot-holeshadbootiesandthehand-holeshadmittens.Andtheneckhadahoodie.Andtheplush,buttery,nothing-can-ever-hurt-you-againfabricthey’dsewnitoutof?Velvetyonbothsides.
ItwasallIcoulddonottoorderathousand.
AndsoIstayedhome.Iwasonthis.Ihadthis.Iwasfine.
Iwas,asalways,completely,utterly,astonishinglyokay—puttingmylifebackinorderwithouttoomuchfuss.
IshutdownmyEtsyshop.IputanoteonthepageandonmyInstagramthatread:“ATCAPACITY!Thanksforallyourorders!Thisshopistakinganeight-weekhiatus.Notacceptingnewcommissions.”
Thatsoundedprettygood,right?LikeIwasjustatcapacitywithworkbecauseoftheunstoppablethirsttheworldhadformyportraits?
NotlikeIwasatcapacityemotionally.
Orlikemyentirelifewascrumbling.
OrlikeIwasafraidtoleavethehouse.
Notdoinganyportraitswouldmeannomoneycomingin.Buttherewasn’tachoicethere.MaybeI’dchargeallmybillstomydad’screditcard,too.Maybeitwasallaboutattitude.Ifalittlepunishmentwasgood,wouldn’talotofpunishmentbebetter?
IwonderedifMr.Kimwouldletmechargetherent.
WhenIfeltarisingsenseofpanic,Itriedtoseeitasapositive.Afteralltheseyearsofnonstophustling,itmightbenicetounchainmyselffrommyEtsyshopforabit.ThoughI’dstillhavetocheckthecommentseveryday.Mostpeoplesaidnicethingsmostofthetime,butoccasionallyanutterslippedthroughwithacommentlike“Theseportraitslooklikecircusclowns.”
Anyway,thatwaslifeonline.Youhadtokeepaneyeonthecrazies.Blockanddelete.
Kindaliketherestofmyliferightnow.
Ihadgroceriesdelivered.Itookcarefulshowers.
AndItried—andfailed—overandovertomakemyselfgogetPeanutatthevetclinic.
Peanut,whoImissedconstantlyinmyPeanut-lessapartment.
That’showbaditwas:IleftmyonlyfamilyboardedatthevetforthreeextradaysbecauseIcouldn’ttalkmyselfintoleavingmybuilding.Andalso,morethananything,becauseIwasterrifiedthatwhenwewerefinallyreunited,Imightnotbeabletoseehisface.
FINALLY,INAprofoundactofcourage,Ididit.Itookashower,gotdressed,andwalked—ascarefullyasifImightsliponanicysidewalk—twoblocksfilledwithpixelated-facedstrangersuntilIarrivedatavetclinicI’dneverbeentofilledwithpeopleI’dnevermet.
WewereintheWarehouseDistrict,soIwasn’tsurprisedtofindthatthisclinicwasinawarehouse.Iwassurprised,however,bythespeakersystemblastingperkyoldiesintothewaitingarea.
AsIcheckedin,Isaid,“Funmusic.”
“What?”afacelessreceptionistlookedupandasked.
“Themusic!”Isaid,projectingalittlelouder.ThenIgaveathumbs-up.
Shepointedatthespeakers.“We’retryingtomaskallthejackhammeringfromtheconstructionnextdoor.”
“Ah,”Isaid.
“Itstressestheanimalsout,”shesaid,clickingaroundonthecomputertopullupmybill.“ButplayingSamCookeseemstohelp.”
Asthebillcameofftheprinter,shereaditandsaid,“Oh,you’rePeanut’smom!”
Mom?Idon’tknow.Morelikesibling.OrBFF.ButIjustsaid,“Yes.”
“He’sabigfanofthemusic,”shesaid.“Didyouknowhe’saLouisArmstrongguy?”
“Imean,itdoesn’tsurpriseme,”Isaid.“He’saverycultureddog.”
Shegavemeanod,handedoverthebill,andthat’swhenIsawithadalreadybeenpaid.
Lucinda.
Whatamenace.
Thatsaid,itwasalsosixhundreddollarsIdidn’thave,soIwasn’tcomplaining.
CouldLucindajustbuymyaffectionlikethat?
Todayshecould.Iguess.
Next,IwaitedforthemomentoftruthwithPeanut.WhenIsawhimagain,wouldIbeabletoseehim?
Whatfeltlikeahundredyearslater,Ihadmyanswer.
Yes.
AtechbroughthimoutandIsawforsureasthesecondthedooropened:Peanut’slittlemug.Thereitwas.Hisgiantliquid-browneyes.HisyellowfurandLorax-stylemustachethatgotlopsidedafterhe’dbeenrestinghischinonsomething.Hisfeatheryearsthatneverseemedtobothpointup—ordown—atthesametime.
Questionanswered.
I’dknowthatfaceanywhere.
Inasecond,Peanutwasinmyarmsandlickingmeallover.Histailwasgoingfullblast,hisbodywaswriggling,hislittleheartwasjumpingaroundinhischest.Ifhewasmadaboutbeingabandonedforeightdays,hecertainlywasn’tholdingagrudge.
Dogsweresogoodatforgiveness.
Healternatedgreat-to-see-youlickswithdeep,soul-searchinggazes—likehecouldn’tbelievehisluckthatI’dreturned.Andhewasn’ttheonlyonefeelinglucky.BecausetheonlyfaceI’dseensincethesurgeryjusthappenedtobemyveryfavoriteone.
Alltosay,somethingaboutthefeelofhim—thesoftnessofhisfur,hissalty,doggysmell,theunconditionallove—mademestarttocryrightthereinthewaitingroom.
Yeah.Itwasanemotionaltime.
Igotstartedcrying,andthen…Icouldn’tstop.Juststoodtheresmilingandcryingandcradlingmylittlepalwhilehelickedthesaltytearsoffmycheeksoverandover.
“Missedyou,buddy,”Iwhispered,nuzzlinghisfur.
That’swhenIlookeduptoseesomeonewatchingme.Aman.Avet,fromthelooksofit.Atall,white-coated,tie-wearingvetwithanup-and-backIvyLeaguehaircut.Hehadhishandsinhislab-coatpocketsandjuststoodthere,staringrightatPeanutandme,takinginthesight.
Andonceagain,Dr.NicolewasrightbecauseIcouldtellyouwithoutevenputtinghisfacepiecestogetherthatthisguywasseriouslyhandsome.
Thatmustbeitsownbrainsystemrightthere.
Itwasthewayhestoodthere.Thewayheheldhimself.Thathaircut—soprofessionalandcompetent.I’dalwaysthoughthandsomenessmustbeallaboutfacialfeaturesandshapesandmathematicalproportions.Andmaybeitwas.Butthisguyalsojusthadawayabouthim—likehewascommandingtheroomwithoutevendoinganything.Juststandingtheregeneratinghandsomenesslikeasexy,livinglight-upstatue.
Mostpeoplenowadaysmademewanttoavertmyeyes.Theintensityofthosepuzzle-piecefaces—theimpossibilityofitall—wasphysicallyuncomfortable,likeabuzzinginmybody.
Butthisguy?Icouldn’tmakemyselflookaway.Itookinthesightofhim,andhedidthesamerightbacktome,foragoodminute.Finallyheturnedandwalkedoffdownthehallway—handsinpocketsandcoattailtrailingjauntilybehindhimlikeamalemodelonarunway—forcingmetonotethatDr.Nicolewasrightyetagain.
Becausethatmanhadonehellofagait.
Holyshit.
Itwasloveatfirstsight—andIcouldn’tevenseehim.
Okay,Itakeitback.Itwasn’tlove.
Loverequiresactuallyhavingspokentoaperson.Attheminimum.
Maybeitwasinfatuationatfirstsight.Orpreoccupation.Orobsession.
Whateveritwas,Iwasn’tcomplaining.
Allalong,I’dbeenclassifyingleavingmytextbooknarcissistboyfriendEzraandthenrunningoutofmoneyandthenalmostdyinginacrosswalkandthengettingsurprisebrainsurgeryandthenhavingtoboardmydogatanunfamiliarclinicandthengoingface-blind…asbadthings.
Butnow?
Iwasallgood.
Thesightofthatvet—foraminutethere,anyway—seemedtofixeverything.
Istoppedcrying,atleast.
Iturnedtothereceptionisttoseeifherworldhadalsobeenrockedbytheappearanceofthatmysteryveterinarianacrosstheroom.Butnope.ShewascheckingherInstagram.
“Wasthatthevet?”Iaskedher.
Shelookeddownthehallway.“Oh,yeah.Oneofthem.That’sDr.Addison.”Hervoicewasallcasual,likehewasjustaregular,everydayperson.
“Heworkshere?”
Shenodded.“Yeah.He’sthenewestvetonstaff.”
Iwantedtoaskmorequestions—What’shisdeal?What’shelike?IsheashandsomeasIthinkheis?—butIcouldn’tsettleonanythingthatdidn’tsoundbananas.
Instead,Ijustsaid,“IthinkIshouldprobablyschedulePeanutforacheckup.”
PEANUT,OFCOURSE,hadjusthadhischeckuptwomonthsago—withmyoldvet,aladyinhersixtieswhoI’dknownsinceIwasakid—andhewasinperfecthealth.Foracaninegentlemanofhisyears.
Butcouldyoueverhavetoomanycheckups,really?
Preventativepethealthcareissoimportant.
ThoughitturnedoutDr.Addison—Dr.OliverAddison,Inoted,whenIsnaggedhisbusinesscardoffthefrontdesk—didnothaveanyopeningsforamonth.
“Wow,”Isaid.“He’sreallybooked.”
“Yeah,hebooksupfast.”
“I’llbet.”
“Plusheleavesalotofspaceinhisscheduleforemergencies.”
Seethat?Notjusthandsome,butalsoathoughtfulplanner.Leavingspaceforemergenciessonoonewaseverturnedaway.Wasthereanythingaboutthisguythatwasn’tperfect?Moreimportant,ifImarriedhim,wouldIchangemyname?
Iponderedthisonmywalkhome.TryingthesoundoutinmyheadasImouthedthewords:“SadieAddison.”
SadieAddison!Itwasthebestnameever.AllthoseS’sandD’s.
Icouldseemyselfatmyengagementparty—tipsywithjoyasIexplained,“Ineverplannedtochangemylastname,butAddisonjustfeltlikesuchanupgrade.”Icouldseeafutureme,faceblindnessallcured,leaningconfidentlyintomeetnewpeoplewithanassertivelittlehandshake,saying,“Goodtomeetyou.SadieAddison.”Icouldpictureournewlywedholidaygreetingcard:“HappyHolidaysfromOliverandSadieAddison.”Maybewe’dwearmatchingNordicsweaters
Orshouldwehyphenate?“WarmestholidaywishesfromtheMontgomery-Addisons”?
Norushonthat.Somanyoptionstoconsider.
IcouldseemyselfrunningintooldbeausorformerschoolmeangirlsatthegrocerystorewhileDr.AddisonandIheldhandson,say,alate-nightBen&Jerry’srun.We’dbesohappilygoofingaroundinthefreezeraisle—himmaybeticklingmeortryingtopickmeupasIgiggledwildlylikethehappiestin-lovepersoninhistory—thatwedidn’tevennoticewhoeveritwasatfirst.Thenwe’dpausefromourdeliriumforpleasantintroductions.“Oh,hello.Lookhowwellmylifeturnedout.Pleasemeetmyso-gorgeous-he-doesn’t-even-need-a-facehusband,Oliver.I’mSadieAddisonnow,bytheway.”
Yes.Thatworked.
Fine.WasImanufacturingacrushformyselftogivemywoundedbrainsomethingtofocusonthatwasn’tdeeply,hopelesslydepressing?
Sure.Probably.
Wasthereanythingwrongwiththat?
Notintheslightest.
IfIneededalittleoxytocin-filledromanticpick-me-upcourtesyofDr.OliverAddison’sGQ-levelhairdoandOlympicallyhandsomegait,wasthatreallysuchacrime?Whynot,right?
Dr.Nicolesaidourthoughtscreateourfeelings.
Maybeafewgoodthoughtswerejustwhatthedoctorordered.
Ortheveterinarian,asthecasemaybe.
THEWALKHOMEwassurprisinglypleasant.
Itwassunnyandbreezyout,andIcradledPeanuttomychestwhileweheldourchinsupandletthewindcaressbothofourfaces.Meetingmyfuturehusbandhadrenewedmystrengthandmycourage,andIfearlesslyenjoyedmyjourneyback—andletallthefacelesspeopleflickerpastmelikebutterflies.
UntilIgotstoppedbyoneofthem.
“Ohmygod!Sadie?”Itwasawoman’svoice,fromsomedistanceaway.
Iturnedtowardthesound.
Shewastall,dressedinallgraywithapop-of-colorpinkscarf,andhaddyedblondhair…andafacelikeacubistpainting.
Sheranoverandgrabbedmebytheshoulders,pullingmeintoahugthatsqueezedbothmeandPeanuttight.
Itriedtofighttherisingpanic.Ihadabsolutelynoideawhothiswas.WhatwerethetricksI’dreadaboutonlineagain?Smilealot.Askleadingquestions.Bewarmandfriendly.Don’tsayanythingtogiveitaway.Beattheclockandsolvethemysterybeforethepersonfiguresitout.
BeforeIcouldthinkofwhattoask,thisfacelesswomansaid,“Howlonghasitbeen?”
“Gosh,”Isaid,stalling.“Howlonghasitbeen?”
“Youlookamazing,”shesaidnext.
WhatelsecouldIsay?“Youlookamazing.”
“Whatareyouuptothesedays?”
“Oh,”Isaid.“Sameold,sameold.”Then,tryingtoturnthetables.“Whatareyouupto?”
“Same,”shesaid.“Justworkingandworking.Tryingtoconquertheworld.Yougetit.”
“Isuredo.”Inoddedbig.
Thentherewasapause.
I’dneverrealizedbeforehowmuchpersonalquestionsneededalittlesomethingtogoon.
ButItriedtoencouragemyself.Iwasdoingokay!Iwaspassing!
“Well,”shesaidthen.“It’sbeensogreattoseeyou.”
“Youtoo,”Isaidwithmaximumwarmth,likeitreally,reallyhadbeen.
Shestartedtowalkaway,butthensheturnedback.“Oh—andSadie?”
“Yeah?”Iasked,smilingbig.
“Iknowyoudon’tknowwhoIam.”
Mysmiledropped.
Shetookastepcloser.“You’dneverbethisniceifyouhadanyidea.”
“Whoareyou?”Iasked.
“Momtoldmeallaboutit—but,Idon’tknow…itwaskindoftoogoodtobetrue.Ihadtoseeformyself.”
“Mom”?Toldher“allaboutit”?
AndthenIknew.Justassheleanedcloseandspokeintomyear,Iknew.
Itwasmyevilstepsister.Parker.
Itwasn’tuntilIrealizedwhoshewasthatInoticedhersignatureperfumeaswell.Shealwayswears—andIswearthisistrue—aperfumebyDiorcalledPoison.
Soonthenose.
“Hey,Sis,”shewhispered,andthenshepattedmeonthebuttandstruttedaway.
Andthat,rightthere,settledit.Optimismcanceled.
I’dfindadog-sizedPajanketforPeanutandneverleavemyapartmentagain.Seven
WHENIGOTbackhome,therewasanemailwaitingformefromtheNorthAmericanPortraitSociety,whichremindedmeI’dforgottenallaboutit.Ithadabiglongto-dolistofactionitemsbeforethejuriedshow,andanothercopyoftherulesandguidelines,including:
Portraitsmustbeon30inch×40inchcanvas.
Portraitsmustfeatureonlyonesubject.
Portraitsmustbeofalivemodel—noworkdonefromphotographs.
Portraitsmaybeeitheroiloracrylic,butnomixedmedia.
Portraitsmustbenewwork—paintedwithinsixweeksofthedeadline.
AlsotherewasawholeattachmentaboutacomponentoftheeveningI’devidentlymissedintheoriginalemail.Notonlywastheshowacompetitionthatwouldbejudgedinrealtime,itwasalsoasilentauction.Ourportraitswouldbebidonoverthecourseoftheeveningandsoldtothehighestbidder—withtheproceedsgoingtofundclassesandeducation.
MyfirstthoughtwasThatsoundsnice.
EclipsedimmediatelybyOhgod.Whatifnoonebidsonmyportrait?
Itwas,shallwesay,aprettygoodremindertogetmyassingear.
Icountedbackthroughmycalendar,andI’dfritteredawayfourteendayssincelearningIwasafinalist.True,I’dhadalotgoingon.ButtheNorthAmericanPortraitSocietywouldn’tbeleftwaiting.Theportraitsubmissionsforfinalistswereduethreedaysbeforetheactualshow,andeventhoughotherpeoplehadtocrateandshiptheirs,andIcouldjustUbermineovertothegallery,Istillhadjustoverthreeweekslefttogetthisdone.
Threeweeks.
Notnearlyenoughtimeformyold,fullyfunctioningfusiformfacegyrus—nottomentionthatIhadn’tevenstartedpainting.Orevenreallythoughtaboutit.
Timetopullittogether.IfIwaswellenoughtomarryPeanut’sveterinarian,Iwaswellenoughtopaintoneportrait.
But…how?
TheportraitsIdidwereclassic,traditionalones.Oneofmyartteachersincollegehadcalledme“amulticulturaltwenty-first-centuryNormanRockwell.”ItookalldifferentkindsofsubjectsandgavethemaSaturdayEveningPosttreatment—realistic,simple,easy-to-understandimageswithlotsofwarmrosylightandplentyofcharm.Thosewerethestyleofportraitsmymotherhadpainted,too—and,infact,I’dtaughtmyselftopaintbycopyingherportfolio.That’swhatIdidinhighschoolinsteadofdrinking:stayedintheartstudiotwentyhoursadayandcopiedmymother’sbrushstrokes.
I’dsay,atthispoint,youcouldbarelytellmyworkapartfromhers,andthatnotonlymademefeelproud—itmademefeellikeI’dfoundawaytoholdontoher.
Buthere’sthetruthaboutportraitslikethese:Theyareallabouttheface.
Everythinginaportraitlikethatisdirectingtheviewertowardtheface—thelines,theangles,theframing,thecolors.Thefaceiswheretheemotionsare,andwherethestorylies,andwheretheheartofthewholethinghappens.
Youcan’tfudgeit,iswhatImean.Youcan’tputthesubjectinsunglasses.Orhavethatpersonfacingawayfromyouorhangingupsidedownorhidingunderahat.Notifyouwantedtobegood.Notifyouwantedtowintenthousanddollars.Youneededaperfectlyrendered,so-detailed-it-feels-aliveface—frontandcenter.
I’ddoneitathousandtimes.I’dcrusheditathousandtimes.
Facesweremyspecialty.
Butnow?
Ihadnoideawhattodo.
AndIhadonlythreeweekslefttofigureitout.
ATSOMEPOINT,inthewakeofwhatSuecalledmy“facepocalypse,”shehadkindlyagreedtobemylivemodel.Ihadabettershotwithherface,shereasoned,sinceIknewitsowell.
Andplus,asever,she’dbewillingtodocrazystuff.
Icalledheraftergettingthereminderemail,andIsaid,“We’restillonfortomorrow,right?”
“Ofcourse,”Suesaid.
“Don’tflakeout,okay?Ireallyneedyou.”
“Ineverflakeout,”Suesaid.
Shesometimesflakedout,tobehonest.Butwhodidn’t?
Sueworkedasanartteacherataprimaryschool,andtheplanwasforhertocomeoverafterworkeverydayforaweek.We’dsplitsomekindoftakeoutdinner,andherboyfriendWittsworehedidn’tmindher“workinglate.”
“You’renotreallyworking,though,”Isaid.“Areyou?”
“Laboroflove,”shesaid,lettingusbothberight.
ImadeSuebringherredpolka-dotdresswiththerufflesleeves.Ifthefacewasgoingtobeweakerthanusualinthisportrait,theneverythingelsehadtobestronger.I’dneedtorenderthesilkinessofthoserufflesinawaythatmadeyoufeelthemrustlingagainstyourownskin.Also,theredneededtobejustright—richandeye-catchingwithoutbeingoverwhelming.I’dhaveSuesitonthefloorandframetheperspectivefromupabovesoIcouldfillasmuchofitaspossiblewiththatgorgeousfabric.
Noquestion:thatpolka-dotdresshadalotofworktodo.
Sue,Ishouldmention,hasastunninglybeautifulface.Shehasperfectlydefinedlips,anelegantnose,blackhairsoshinyshecouldsellshampoo,andmonolideyeswithdeepbrownirises.I’dpaintedhertwentytimes,atleast,andshewasoneofmyfavoritesubjects.
Inordinarytimes,we’dalreadyhavethisthinglockedup.
Butnow,ofcourse,thingsweredifferent.MaybeIknewherfacesowell,Ididn’thavetoseeittopaintit?MaybeI’dpaintedhersomanyothertimes,myhandswouldknowwhattodobymusclememory?
IclosedmyeyesandtriedtopictureSue’sface.
Butnoluck.
Icouldseeherhair.IfIzoomedin,Icouldrememberthebowshapeofhermouth.Therichbrownofhereyes.Butallthepiecesputtogether?
Mymind’seyedrewablank.
Theoldmewouldhavehadthisthinginthebag.ButIkeptpushingthatthoughtaside.Ourthoughtscreateouremotions.Iwasn’tgoingtomakethisharderonmyself—itwashardenough.Iwasn’tgoingtofreakmyselfout.Iwouldpracticetheartofself-encouragementifitkilledme.
Sueshowedupdutifullyeveryday,likeachamp.
AfterMonday,Ihadthebasicframing.ThenTuesdayandWednesday,Iworkedonthedetailsandthedrapeofthefabric.Thursday,Inaileddownherarmsandhands.
AndthensuddenlyitwasFriday.Timetoruinitallwiththeface.
Idreadeditalldaylong,staringatthecanvas’semptywhitefacehole.BythetimeSuearrived,Iwasreadytoquit.
“Idon’twanttofindoutforsurethatIcan’tdothis,youknow?”Isaid.“I’dratheronlysuspectthatIcan’tdoit.Doesn’tthatsoundbetter?”
“No.Thatdoesn’tsoundbetter.Becausethenyou’renotpainting.Andyoualwaysgetreallycrabbywhenyou’renotpainting.”
Shewasn’twrong.
“Evenpaintingsomethingbad,”Suesaid,“isbetterthannotpaintinganythingatall.”
“Isit?”Iasked.Guesswewereabouttofindout.
“Maybeyou’llsurpriseyourself,”Suesaid.“Maybeportraitpaintingisanotherbrainsystemlikereadingemotionsis.Ormaybeyou’resogoodatthis,youdon’tevenneedyourfaceareathingy.Wouldn’tthatbeamazing?”
Inodded.
“Justjumpin,”shesaid.“Ireallysuspectthattheworstpossiblechoiceistonoteventry.”
Isuspectedthat,too.
AndsoItried.
Istoodinfrontofthecanvas,lookingdownatthedearfaceofmydearfriendwhoI’dknownsolong,whoI’dpaintedsomanytimes…andIsawnothingbutunintelligiblenonsense.
ButIpushedon.
Mybeststrategywastodividethefacecircleonthecanvasintomathematicalsections,andmark,ingeneral,wheretheeyesandnoseandmouthshouldbe,andthenfocusononepuzzlepieceatatime,pluggingtheminwhereeachoneoughttogo.
Itwasagoodplan.
Butitdidn’twork.
WhenIfinallyfinishedthepencilsketch,Isteppedbackandrealizedthatnowit,too,lookedlikepuzzlepieces.
Ihadjustdrawnthatpicture.ButnowIcouldn’tseeit.
IaskedSuetocheckitandseeifIwasontherighttrack.Shegotupalleager,butthenslowedwaydownontheapproach.
Icouldn’tseeherexpression,butIcoulddefinitelyreadheremotion.Andthatemotionwas“Huh.”
“Tellme,”Isaid.
“Doyouwantmetobehonest?”
“No.Yes.Idon’tknow.”
“It’salittlefunky,”Suesaidatlast.
“Whatdoesthatmean?”
Shepaused.“It’snotphotorealism.”
“Weknewthatalready.Whatareyousaying?”
“It’salittlebitlikeaSalvadorDalípainting.”
“Ohmygod,isyourfacemelting?LikeaDalíclock?”
“No…thepiecesarealltechnicallykindofintherightplace.Ish.It’snotsurrealism,exactly.It’sjust…”
“Howbadisitthatyoucan’tevenfindthewords?”
“It’salittleghoulish.”
“Ghoulish!”Ihadmyanswer.“Ghoulishissuperbad.Ghoulishisacatastrophe.”
Butshecameoverandhuggedme.
“It’scertainlyeye-catching,”shesaid,tryingtoaccentuatethepositive.“Nobody’sgoingtobeboredlookingatthisthing.”
Buteye-catchingwasn’tgoingtocutit.Notboredwasn’twhatthejudgeswanted.Anddon’tgetmestartedonghoulish.Thiswasapuppies-and-kittenstypeoforganization.
TheseNorthAmericanPortraitSocietyfolkswereaboutfollowingtherules—notbreakingthem.
IstaredatthepaintingandtriedtoseewhatSuewastalkingabout—oranyfaceatall.ButIjustcouldn’t.Isquintedandconcentratedandtriedtomakethepiecesclickforsolongthatfrustrationfinallyburstupoutofmybodylikeageyser.Islammedmyfistdownonthepainttable,accidentallyhittingabook…thathitaglassjarofbrushes…thatwentflyingandshatteredontheconcretefloor.
“Shit,”Isaid,deflating.
Imovedtostartpickinguptheshards,butSuestoppedme.“Gositdown.I’llgetthis.Takesomebreaths.”
IdidasIwastold.
Suefoundabroomandapan.“WhataboutChuckClose?”shesuggested.“Hewasaportraitartistwithfaceblindness.Howdidhedoit?”
I’dbeenreadinguponhim.Hewasaface-blindartistwhopaintedenormousphotorealisticfaces.ButIshookmyhead.“Hesuperimposedagridoveraphotograph.Butforthiscompetition,ithastobealivemodel.Nophotosallowed.It’sintherules.”
“Whatdootherface-blindportraitartistsdo?”
“Shockingly,asearchof‘techniquesofface-blindportraitartists’doesnotturnupahugenumberofresults.”
“You’vetriedit?”
“Manytimes.”
“Well,then,”Suesaid,frowningagainatthepainting.“We’lljusthavetogetcreative.”
IASKEDDR.Nicoleaboutitwhenwehadourfirstmeetingoutsidethehospital.
I’dbeensupposedtostarttwice-a-weeksessionswithherthedayafterIcamehome.ButinmyPajanketstupor,I’dmissedthatfirstappointment.Andthenthenexttwo.AndIwasseriouslyconsideringjustnevergoingatallwhenshestartedcallingme—stalkingme,really—untilIfinallygavein.
IUberedtoheroffice.
Whichwasn’tanofficeatall.Itwasa1920sbungalowintheMuseumDistrict.
It’snotastretchtosaythatIfan-girledDr.NicolewiththesameintensitythatIwasnowmadlyinlovewithPeanut’snewveterinarian.Thiswholebrainsurgerythingseemedtohavereallyturnedupthevolumeonmyemotions.
Inthehospital,shehadseemedtoglowwithcomfortandcompassion.Now,hereintherealworld,assheopenedthedoorinabeltedmaxidress,danglygoldearrings,andopen-toedflats…shewasevenbetter.Hershort,naturallygrayinghairseemedtoringherheadlikeahalo.
“Hello,Sadie,”shesaid,takingmyhandandgivingithersignaturesqueeze.“Comein.”
Whatwasitabouther?Shewassodamnedtogether.Hervoice.Hercalm.Sobalancedandsolidandlikeshehaditallundercontrol
Theoppositeofme,basically.
Especiallynow.
“I’msorryImissedallthoseappointments,”Isaid,nowthatIwasfinallyhere.“Ididn’twanttoleavemyapartment.”
“Iunderstand,”Dr.Nicolesaid.
I’mnotgoingtolie.Mylifelatelyhadmequestioningeverything.AndDr.NicoleThomas-Ramparsad,Ph.D.,justfeltlikeapersonwhohadalltheanswers.
“Nobodyhasalltheanswers,”shesaidwhenItoldherthat.“I’mjustheretohelpyouasktherightquestions.”
Exactlywhatsomeonewhohadalltheanswerswouldsay.
Herofficewasbrightandbreezy.IthadalittlebitofanOldHollywoodvibetoit,withplasterwallsandawrought-ironstaircaserail.Bigwindows.Alazilyspinningceilingfanwithbasket-weaveblades.Pottedpalmsandrubbertreesallaround—and,outsidethewindow,positivelybaskinginthesunlight,acheeryforestofbirds-of-paradiseeverywhere.
Dr.Nicolemadeusteaandbroughtmeasliceofcoconutbread—warmwithmeltingbutter.Didneuropsychologistsbakebreadfortheirpatients?Wasthisathing?
Nomatter.Dr.Nicoleclearlymadeherownrules.
Plus,Iwassostarvedforcomfort,Ididn’tcare.Myeyesfilledwithtearsatmyfirstbite.
“Howisthefacialperception?”sheasked.“Anychanges?”
Ishookmyhead.Nochangeatall.
“Itmaytakesometime,”shesaid.Then,“Howareyoucoping?”
“Idon’tthinkI’mgoingtowinanycopingtrophiesanytimesoon,”Isaid.
ItoldheraboutfeelinglikeIwasonanalienplanet.Itoldheraboutnotfeelinglikemyself.Itoldheraboutbeingsoterrifiedofnotrecognizingpeople—andthenrunningintoParker.ItoldherthatIwantedtobethekindofpersonwhocouldthinkofprosopagnosiaasasuperpower—butIjustdidn’tknowhowtogetthere.
“Well,”shesaid,“gettingthereisthefunpart.”
Fromanyoneelse,thatwould’vebeeninsulting.
ItoldherabouttryingtopaintSue’sportrait,andwhatatotaldisasterithadbeen,andhowthethoughtthatI’dworkedsohardforsolongonlytofinallygetmybigbreakandthentotallyblowitwaskeepingmeupatnight.
“Whydoyouwanttowinthecompetitionsobadly?”Dr.Nicoleasked.
“Becauseit’stenthousanddollars—andI’mbroke.”
Shenodded,like,Fairenough.“Anyotherreasons?”
“Becauseitcouldchangemylife,”Isaid.
Dr.Nicolewaited,likesheknewthere’dbemore.
“BecauseIcouldusesomeencouragement,”Isaid.“BecauseI’mreadytogetsomethingright.BecauseI’mjustsotiredoffailing.”
Thatfeltlikeaprettybigconfession,rightthere.
ButDr.Nicolejustwaited,liketherewasmore.
“IguessIshouldmention,”Isaidthen,“thatmymotherwasalsoaportraitartist.Andshealsoplacedinthissamecompetitionthirteenyearsago.Butshe,um…”Itookasipoftea.“Shediedsuddenlytheweekbeforetheshow.”
Dr.Nicolesatbackinherchair.
Now,atlast,I’dsaidsomethingreal.
“Weshouldprobablytalkaboutthat.”
Iwrinkledmynoseandshookmyhead.
Dr.Nicolegavealittlehave-it-your-wayshrug.“What’syourdream?”sheaskedthen.“Whatdoyouwantfromyourcareer?”
“Mydream?”Iasked.Thisfeltlikeatrickquestion.
“Whatdoesthelifeyouwantlooklike?”
Ishrugged.“I’dliketobesuccessful.”Itfeltweirdtosaythatoutloud,inaway.LikeIwasbeinggreedy.ButwhatonearthhadIbeenhustlingforalltheseyearsifnottobesuccessful?Didanyoneevertrylikehellforyearstonotbesuccessful?“I’dliketomakealiving.Agoodliving.Maybesomejobstability.Andtojustwakeupeverydayandpaint.Idon’tneedtotakeovertheworld.Idon’tneeddiamondsandyachtsandfurs.ButI’dliketogetmycarback.Or—okay,maybeabettercar.Idon’twanttowanttoomuch.IthinkIcouldbesatisfiedwithjust,like,afunctioningcarandenoughmoneytopaymybills.”
Dr.Nicolewaited,likeIwasn’ttryinghardenough.
Iwenton.“Butifyou’reaskingwhatIwant?Deepdown,whatIlongfor?Iwantmypaintingstoselllikehotcakes.Iwanttobeadmiredbymypeers.Iwanttoreally,trulybeokay,andnotjustpretending.Iwanttobekickingass.Iwanttobethriving.IwanttoprovethatIwasawesomeallalong.”
“Provethattowhom?”
Whoa.Thisladycouldusewhominconversation.Andmakeitsoundright.Shewasliterallythecoolest.ButIdidn’tknowhowtoanswerthatquestion.“Idon’tknow.People.”
“Whichpeople?”
ButIjustshrugged.
Dr.Nicolechangedherapproach.“Whatwouldyougetifyouweresuccessful?”
“WhatwouldIget?”
Dr.Nicolenodded.“Emotionally.”
Ah.Emotionally.SuddenlyIknewwhatshewasasking.“Youknow,”Isaid,“Idon’treallythinkthatweneedtodoawholelotofdeepemotionsinhere.I’mreallyjustherefortheneuropsychologytips.Youknow?Tosnagafewcopingtechniques.Idon’tneedto,like,delveintomydarkpastoranything.”
Shelookedatme—and,again,Icouldfeelthiswithoutseeingit—verykindlysaid,“Youknowit’sallthesame,right?”
“Whatis?”
“Emotions.Copingtips.Yourdarkpast.”
Ugh.
“You’reveryinyourhead,”shesaid.“I’dliketoseeyoudipintoyourheart.”
“Ilikeitinmyhead.”
“Butthat’snotreallywherewelive.”
“AreyoutryingtotellmeI’memotionallyclosedoff?”Isaid.“BecauseIhavelotsofemotions.I’mgreatatemotions!I’mahugefanofyou,forexample.Ijustfellmadlyinlovewithmybrand-newveterinarian.Icryatlifeinsurancecommercials.”
“Realemotions,Imean.”
“Areyoutellingmethatloveisn’treal?”
ButDr.Nicolepulledrankonmethen.Pausingagoodwhilebeforesaying,“Isthataquestiondesignedtogetusclosertothetruthortosteerusaway?”
God,shewasgood.
“Thethingis,”Isaid,“Idon’ttalkaboutit.Mydarkpast.Notevenwithmydog.”
“Wedon’tneedtotalkaboutit,”shesaid.Thensheadded,“today.”
Thensheshiftedtopics.“Whatareyourstrategiesforinteractingwithpeople?”
“I’mjustgoingtohideinmyapartmentuntiltheedemagoesdown.”
“Whydon’tyouwanttoseepeople?”
“Itstressesmeout.I’membarrassed.”
“Embarrassedthatyoucan’trecognizethem?”
“Yes.”EmbarrassedIcouldn’trecognizethem.EmbarrassedIcouldn’tseethem.Afraidofhurtingtheirfeelingsorsnubbingthembyaccidentorseeminglikeabitch.Humiliatedtonotbemyself.Disappointedtonolongerbeabrainsurgeryposterchild.Mortified,ultimately,tonotbesonotokaythatIcouldn’tevenhideit.
“Whatifyoujusttoldpeople?”
Thatquestiondidn’tevenmakeanysense.“Toldpeoplewhat?”
“Aboutwhatyou’redealingwithrightnow.Aboutwhatyou’regoingthrough.”
“What?Like,wearaT-shirtthatsays,‘Ican’tseeyou’?”
“That’soneoption,Iguess.”
“Never,”Isaid.
“Never?”
“Iwillnevertellanyoneaboutthisfacething.Notvoluntarily.”
Dr.NicoleleanedforwardlikethatwasthemostinterestingthingI’dsaidallday.“Whynot?”
“Becausethat’sneed-to-knowinformation.”
“Itmighthelpyoufeelmorecomfortable.”
“Thewholeworlddoesn’tneedtoknowthatI’mmalfunctioning,”Isaid,likethatsettledit.ButDr.Nicoledidn’tseemsatisfied.SoIadded,“Ijustwanttobemynormalself.”
“Butyouaren’tyournormalselfrightnow.”Shemercifullydidnotadd,Andmightneverbeagain.
“I’mjustgoingtotakeafake-it-til-ya-make-itapproach.”That’swhatI’dbeendoingmywholelife.“IfIcan’tbeokay,I’llseemokay.”
“Seemingokayandbeingokayarenotthesamething.”
“Closeenough.”
“Infact,”shesaid,leaninginalittle,“theymightcanceleachotherout.”
“AreyousayingIshouldjustwalkaroundwailingandweeping?”
“I’msaying,”shesaid,“thatit’sbettertoberealthanfake.”
Icouldhavearguedwithher.ButIhadafeelingI’dlose.
Dr.Nicolewenton.“Itmighthelppeopletoknowwhat’sgoingonwithyou.Itmighthelpthemhelpyou.”
“Haveyoumetpeople?”Iasked.“Peopledon’thelpotherpeople.”
Dr.Nicoleletthatlandforasecond.Thenshesaid,“Icanthinkofafewteachers,firefighters,nurses,lovingparents,andGoodSamaritanswhomightdisagreewithyou.”
TheGoodSamaritan.
AndjustasIrememberedhim,Dr.Nicolesaid,“Didn’tsomeonesaveyourliferecently?”
Ugh.Sothiswasgotchatherapy.“Yes.”
“Wasthatnot‘helpingotherpeople’?”
“Thatwasanemergency,”Isaid.
“Ah,”shesaid.Butitwassarcastic.
Itookabiteofcoconutbreadandcontemplatedthat.
Thenathoughtlitupmyheadlikesunlightbreakingthroughclouds.“Dr.Nicole?”Iasked,tryingnottosoundsuspicious.“Whenyouwerearguingwithmejustnow,wereyou…teachingmehowtoarguewithmyself?”
AndthenIcouldseeherteeth—butalsofeelherbigsmile—asshesaid,“You’resmarterthanyoulook,choonks.”Eight
WHATWEREMYcopingstrategies?
Afulllistonthatwasyettobegoogled,butfornow,IdecidedontheridehomefromDr.Nicole’sbungalow,copingstrategynumberonewouldbeart.
Imean,objectively,Ihadagiantdeadline.SoIneededtobedoingart,anyway.AndthetruestthingIknewaboutmyselfwasthis:IwasalwayshappywhenIwasmakingthings.
Igrabbedmyfavorite,mostbrightanddelightfulboxofwatercolors…butthen,insteadofjustdoingsomethingfun,Istartedworking.Onfaces.Insteadofjustpickingsomething,anything,colorfulandpleasanttopaint—afruitbasket,say,orsomeflowers—Iboredownonmyselflikesomekindofruler-totingschoolmarm.Hell-bentonforcingmyfusiformfacegyrusintosubmission,IspentanentireSaturdaypaintingfaceafterfaceafterfacelikeamadwomanchasingherownpuzzle-piece-shapedshadow.
Howdiditgo?
I’mguessingnotwell.
Butofcourseoncetheyweredone,Icouldn’tseethem.
Fine.Didn’tmatter.MaybeifIdidenoughofthem,thingswouldstarttoshift
Ornot.
Eitherway,itwassomethingtodo.
Sowhatifthegrimdeterminationofmyattitudesuckedthejoyoutofitall?
IhadlessthanthreeweekstofixmyFFG.
Bytheendofthenight,whenmyfingerswerestainedturquoiseandplumandtangerine,andmyeyesfeltlikesandpaper,Ihadastackofscribbled,unintelligiblefacesafoothighandawholetableofotherslaidouttodry.
Myplanwastogetupthenextdayanddoitagain.
Butthen,thenextmorning,Peanutgotsick.
THANKGODTHISface-blindnessthingappliedonlytohumans.
Peanut’sbig,brown,perfectlyround,saturated-with-affectionpuppyeyeshadbeenlikeabalmformywearysoul.AfterI’dbroughthimhomefrombeingboarded,itwasthetwoofusagainsttheworld.Ilookedatthatlittlemugofhisahundredtimesaday—positivelysavoringhisjauntyyellowmustacheandthatperkybuttonnoseandthoseearsthatnevercouldseemtobothflopforwardatthesametime.
“You’renotfaceless,Peanut,”I’dtellhim,pressingmynoseintohisfur.
Iftherewereadoghalloffame,Peanutwouldbeonalltheirmerchandise.Hewascuteashellwithoutbeingfullofhimself.Hewasendlesslycheery.Hewasagoodeaterwithoutbeingaglutton.Hewasjustashappytogoonawalkashewastospendtheentiredaynapping.Helovedagoodsqueakytoy,buthelostinterestatexactlythesamerateIdid.Helovedmemadly—leapingincircleswheneverIcamebackhomefromanywhere—butwithouttakingittoofar.Without,say,sufferingfromseparationanxietyandeatingmyshoes.Hisself-esteemwassolid.Hisfashionsensewaslegendary.Hissenseofhumorwastotallydeadpan.
Ipreferredhimtomostpeopleeveninnormaltimes,iswhatI’msaying.
Butofcourse,evenmoresonow,when“mostpeople”werethelastthingonearthIwantedtosee.
AndsowhenIwokeupwaytooearlyonSundaymorningandsetouthisfavoritebreakfastdish—tornpiecesofcroissantfromhisfavoriteFrenchbakery—buthesatstillandstaredatme…myheartdroppedinmychest.
Ijustknew,youknow?Isensedinaninstantsomethingwaswrong.
Itriedcoaxinghimover,holdingupapieceandtakinganibblemyself,hopinghe’dcometakeit.(Hedidn’t.)Itriedpickinghimupandsettinghiminfrontofthedish,likethatmightinspirehimtodivein.(Itdidn’t.)Itriedgivingthedishtensecondsinthemicrowave,likethatmightmakeitseemfresh-bakedandmoreappealing.(Kindoftheopposite.)
Butnothing.
AllPeanutwantedtodowasholdhimselfstilllikeastatue.
Isqueakedhissqueakysquirrel,buthejuststaredatme,like,Really?Itosseditacrosstheroomandranafteritlikewewereracing,buthejustblinkedatme,like,Please.AndwhenIfinallypickeduphisleashandjangleditathimandwatchedhimfullynotrespond,that’swhenIcalledthevet.
Thenewvet—becauseitwasclosest.Theyweren’tevenopenyet,butItoldtheansweringserviceitwasanemergency.
Theysaidthey’dpageoneofthevetstomeetmeattheclinic.
Andhere’showworriedaboutPeanutIwas:Ididn’teventhinktorequestDr.Addison.
ITWASAsmallclinic,notsomebig24-hourplace.Buttheydidhaveweekendhours.
TheywereopenonlyfromeighttonoononSundays,butIwrappedPeanutupinhisfavoritevelourblanket,cradledhiminmyarms,powerwalkedtheentiretwoblocksoverbecauseIstillwasn’tallowedtorunforskull-relatedreasons,andwassittingonthebenchbytheclinicdoorsat7:45.
Myheartwaswheezing.Idon’teventhinkitwaspumpingbloodatthatpoint—juststraightadrenalineandadarkfeelingofdreadthatPeanutwasdying.
Whichwasunacceptable.Eventhoughhewasfourteenyearsold.
Thiswasnojoke.I’ddoneaprettyimpressivesetofmathematicalcalculationsinvolvingthelifespansofallthedifferentdogbreedshewasamixof,andbyeveryanalysis,Iwasguaranteedatleasttwomoreyears.
Somedogsinhisgeneralcategorymadeittoeighteen,even.
That’sallIcouldthinkasIsatonthebenchwithtearspositivelyshellackingmyface.Iwasnotlettingthisdogdie.Iwasnotlosingtheonlypersonwholovedme.Nottoday.Anytreatment.Anything.I’dcallLucindaifIhadto.I’dbegmydad.Nobillwastoohigh.Nohumiliationwastoogreat.
Afewminuteslater,Dr.OliverAddisonhimselfshowedup,andIheardhisleatherdressshoestappingthepavementoftheparkinglotbeforeIsawthemanhimself.
WhenIlookedup,Iswearhewaswalkinginslo-molikeasuperhero.That’showIrememberit:backlitwithalensflare,thegooddoctoralreadywearinghiswhitelabcoat,whichwasunbuttonedandflappingbehindhim,cape-like,inthewind.Thiswasnocasual-Sundayensemble:themanwasbringinghisprofessionalAgame,wearingatie,suitslacks,andthatepic,slicked-backClarkKenthair.
Andlet’snotforgethisgait:thatconfident,badass,I’m-going-to-save-your-poochstride.
HowhadInevernoticedgaitsbefore?
Theywerepracticallyalovelanguagealltothemselves.
Inanothersituation,Iwouldhavemeltedatthesight—drippedthroughthebenchslatsandpuddledonthesidewalk.
ButIstayedfocused.ForPeanut.
IstoodupasDr.Addisongotcloser,totallyunawarethatIwasrockingtheoppositeofhisGQcovershootvibe:Iwasstillinthecottoncalicobaby-dollpajamasI’dsleptin.AndIshould’vepoppedonmysneakersasIheadedoutthedoor,butIsomehowtraveledtwoblockstothevetclinicinmyfuzzyslippersshapedlikebunnyrabbits,instead.
Butthemortificationofthatwouldhitmelater.Rightnow,therewereonlytwothingsintheworld:thelittlefuzzballdogburritoinmyarmsandthemanwhoneededtosavehim.
Dr.Addisonslowedashegotclose,takinginthesightofus.
“There’ssomethingwrong,”Isaid,myvoicetremblyfromcrying.“Hewon’teat.Hewon’tmove.”Andnow,webothnoticed,hewaspanting.
Dr.Addisonnoddedlikeanunflappableheroandsaid,“Let’sgethiminside.”
Heledusstraightpastalltheexamrooms,backtotheback,wheretherealveterinarymedicinetookplace.Alltheboardeddogsintheirkennelswokeupaswecameinandstartedbarkingandwhiningandrattlingaround.
Dr.Addisondidn’tevennotice.
Whenwegottoanexamtable,hesaid,“Remindmeofhisage?”
“Fourteen,”Isaid—thenadded,“Averyyouthfulfourteen,”likethatmightmatter.
Dr.AddisonreachedforPeanut,andIhandedhimoverlikeaswaddledbabe.Thenheunwrappedhim,saying,“Hey,buddy.Let’sgetalookatyou.”
Peanutmusthavereallybeenfeelingbad,becauseeventhoughhedidn’tlikemeningeneral,hetoleratedDr.Addison—holdingstillandcrouchingonthestainless-steelexamtable.
Dr.Addisonranhishandsallaround,feelingforlumpsandbumps.Palpatingthings.Checkinghisgums,whichwere,apparently,toowhite.
“That’sbad?”Iasked.
“Theyshouldbepinker,”Dr.Addisonanswered,buthewasalreadyontocheckingotherthings.
Whentherestofthestaffarrived,theygentlyledmebackouttothewaitingarea,sayingtheycouldworkfasterthatway.ThefacelesstechI’dmetthefirstdaysaidthey’dberunningbloodworkandchemistries,checkingredandwhitecellsandplateletsandkidneyandliverfunction.“We’llknowalotmoreinafewhours,”shesaid.“Youcangohome.We’llcallyouwhenwegettheresults.”
“I’llstayhere,ifthat’sallright.”
Thefacelesstechnodded.“Sure.”Thensheheldoutafoldedlabcoattome.“Dr.Addisonsaidyoumightsaythat.Andhethoughtyoumightbe…cold.”
AndsoIputitonandstayed.IthinkIwashungry,butIdidn’tnotice.Ihadn’thadanycoffeethatmorning,andIdidnoticethecaffeineheadachecreepingupthebackofmyneck.Ididn’thaveanythingtodo—hadn’tevenbroughtmyphone—soIjustsqueezedoverandoveronthatlittlespotbetweenyourthumbandforefingerthat’ssupposedtobeapressurepointforrelievingtension.Pressingononehand,thentheother…waitingforittowork.
Itdidn’treallywork.
Ikeptexpecting—anyminute—forDr.AddisontocomestridingoutlikeaTVdoctorandtellmethateverythingwasfixed.
Instead,atnoon,hecameoutandtoldmetheywantedtogivePeanutabloodtransfusion.
Thatdidn’tsoundgood.
Iworkedmypressurepointsevenharder.
“Thelabscameback,”hesaid,“andwe’vediagnosedhimwithIMHA,whichstandsforimmune-mediatedhemolyticanemia.”
Ohgod.Moremedicalterms.Ishookmyhead.“Whatisthat?”
“Hisimmunesystemisattackinghisownredbloodcells.Hishematocritwasattwelvewhenitshouldbeclosertofifty.That’swhyhe’spanting.Hecan’tgetenoughoxygen.”
AllIcouldaskwas,“Whyisthishappening?”
Itwasprobablymoreofarhetorical,big-picture,why-is-my-whole-life-falling-apart-all-at-oncequestionthanamedicalone.ButDr.Addisonanswereditanyway,allearnest:“Wedon’tknowwhatcausesit,”hesaid.“It’sidiopathic.Allofasudden,theimmunesystemjustgoeshaywireandstartsattackingitself.”
“Isitcurable?”Iasked.
“It’slife-threatening,”hesaid,“butitcanbecured.Thesurvivalrateisthirtytoseventypercent.”
Thirtytoseventypercent?Whatauselesspieceofinformation.“Ireallywashopingforjustaflatyes.”
“We’regoingtogivehimeverythingwe’vegot,”Dr.Addisonpromised.“Helookslikeafighter.”
Atthat,Ifelttearsfloodingupinmychest.“Thethingis…”Isaidthen,tryingtopushmyvoicetosoundnormalthroughthetightnessinmythroat.“Thethingis…Ican’tlosehim.DoyouknowwhatImean?Ican’t.”
Dr.Addisonnodded,andIcouldsenseanewtendernessabouthim.“Thebloodtransfusionshouldhelpalot,”hesaidnext.“Givehimtheenergyheneedstofight.”
Inodded,myfacewetagain.“Iknoweverybodythinkstheirdogisthebestdog,butthethingismydogreallyisactually,literally,thebest.”WhatwasIsaying?
“Latertoday,”Dr.Addisonwenton,stayingfocused,“we’llwanttogethimeating.Canyoutellmehisfavoritefoods?”
Isatupstraighterandpawedatmyeyes,determinedtopullittogether.“Yes.Helovestortillas,doughnuts,andrigatoniBolognese.He’sabigfanofsaagpaneer.HegoescrazyforCaliforniarolls.Healsolovescrepes—butonlylikethekindyougetinParis.Ifthey’retoopancakey,that’sano.”
Dr.Addisontiltedhishead.“Iwasthinkingmorelike…dogfood.”
“He’snotreallyadogfoodguy,”Isaid.
“Yourdogdoesn’teatdogfood?”
“Imean,it’lldoinapinch.Butifyou’reaskingmewhathelikes…”
“Allthosecarbscan’tbehealthyforhim.”
I’dheardthisbefore,andI’ddefendedmylittleguybefore,too.
“He’safoodie,”Isaid.“Hehasaveryrefinedpalate.”
Dr.Addisontookthatin.
AndthenalittlejokeI’dmademanytimespoppedintomyhead,andIjustsaiditnowwithoutreallystoppingtowonderif,inourcurrentsituation,itwasstilltrue:“Youknowthoseoldguyswhosmokeapackadaybutlivetobeahundred?”
“Yeah?”
“He’skindoflikethat,butwithcroissants.”
IWANTEDTOjuststayinthewaitingroomofthevetclinicalldayandallnight,forever—buthungerandexhaustionforcedme,notlongbeforedinnertime,toleavePeanutinDr.Addison’ssexybutcapablehandsandgohome.
Ialsowantedtotakethatlabcoatwithme,butIleftit—walkinghomeinsteadinmybaby-dollpj’sandbunnyslippers,feelingextranakedandalone,andfullyexpectingtorunintosomehumiliatingstranger.Aformerboss.Apremedprofessor.Mydad.
ButthepersonIranintowasMr.Kim.
Iknewhim,ofcourse,becausehealwaysworedressshoes,suitpants,abutton-downOxfordshirt,andsuspenders.He’dbeendressinglikethatSue’sentirelife.Nomatterwhathewasdoing.
AndIwassogladitwashim,ofallpeople.He’dseenSueandme—lotsoftimes—inmuchcraziergetupsthanbunnyslippers.
Thisevening,hewastinkeringwiththemechanicsoftheelevatordoors,butwhenhesawme,heabandonedthatproject.“Comeseeme,”hesaid,gesturingmetowardhim.
“Whatabouttheelevator?”Iasked.
Buthewavedmeoff.“We’vegotstairs.”
Heledmearoundtoaquietcorner,andthenhecutrighttothechase.“Ihearthatyou’renotjustusingtherooftopasastudio—you’relivingthere.”
Mr.Kimsmiledalot.Maybehewasn’talwayssmiling—buthewasoftensmiling.
ButIcouldn’tsensehimsmilingnow.
Myheartdropped.WasIgettingkickedout?
WasIreally—righthere,inmypj’sandbunnyslippers,withPeanutintheICU,atthebrokestandsickestandmostdisorientedI’deverbeeninmylife—gettingkickedoutofmyapartmentbytheclosestthingtoafatherfigureIhad?
Hisvoicewasprettyserious.“Thatwon’twork,”hesaid,shakinghisheadwithavibelikehewastrulysorry.
Inodded.Ofcourse.InevershouldhavesnuckaroundbehindtheKims’backtobeginwith.
“It’snotanapartment,”hesaidnext.“Rentingitasastudioisonething.Butit’snotfittolivein.Ireally”—andhereheshookhishead—“can’trentthatplaceaslivingquarters.”
Inoddedharder.“Igetit.You’reright.I’msosorry.”
Ohgod,Iwassoscrewed.
ButthenMr.Kimletoutachucklethathecouldn’tsuppressanylonger.“SoIguess,”hesaid,clappinghishandonmyshoulder,“you’lljusthavetostaythereforfree.”Nine
SUEWASSUPPOSEDtocomeoverthenextdayforweektwoofourdoomedportraitsessions.ButIcalledherwhenIgotbackfromtheclinicandpostponed.
“I’mnotinagoodplace,”ItoldheraftergivingthelowdownonPeanut.
“Butpaintingmakesyoufeelbetter.”
“Notanymore.”
“Irefusetobelievethat.”
“Ipaintedahundredfacestheothernight,anditwaspuretorture.”
Suetookthatin.“Okay.Ifthat’showitisrightnow.”
“That’showitisrightnow.”
“Takesomeyoutime,then.Binge-watchsomething.”
“Ican’twatchTVanymore,”Isaid.
Suewasaghast.“Whynot?”
“Becauseofthefaceblindness.”
“Ikeepforgettingaboutthat.”
“Ican’ttellthecharactersapart.”
“Wow,”Suesaid,“whatanightmare.”
“It’sbeenanightmarethiswholetime!”
“ButnowIreallygetit.”
“That’swhatmadeyougetit?”
“That,”Sueconceded,“andthoseimagesyoutextedmeofupside-downfaces.I,like,couldn’trecognizeanyofthosepeople.Notone.Andthenyousenttheright-side-upversion,andIwaslike,‘Oh!There’sMichelleObama!AndJulieAndrews!AndLiamHemsworth!’”
“Areyoutellingme,”Isaid,“thatifLiamHemsworthwalkedpastyouwithhisfaceupsidedown,youwouldn’tevenknow?”
“I’dhavenoidea.”
“Welcometomylife.IpassahundredLiamHemsworthsaday.”
Suesighedlikeshewasreallygettingit.Thenshesaid,“It’shisloss,though.Neverforgetthat.”
SOTHAT’SHOWIspentmymetimeforthenextfewdays:tryingtoshrinktheedemainmyfusiformfacegyrusthroughsheerforceofwillanddeliveringmealsofinternationaldelicaciestomybeloveddogseveraltimesadayashefoughtforhislifeintheICU.
Iconfessthat,afterthatfirstday,Ialwaysgotalittlegussiedupbeforeheadingtothevetclinic.“It’sforPeanut,”ItoldSueonthephone.“Hewouldn’twanttoseemelookingdowdy.”
But,intruth,Ihadtoredeemthosebaby-dollpajamas.
Ingeneral,Imadeitaruletonevernotbeokayinfrontofanyone.Especiallynotfuturehusbands.AllIcoulddowashopethatDr.AddisonhadbeenfartoofixatedonPeanutthatfirstmorningtoreallynoticethefalling-apartme.
Imean,heprobablyhadn’tmissedthecopioussobbing.Butmaybehesawthatallthetimeanyway.
Thepointwas,somethingscouldn’tbehelped.Butfromnowon,Iwouldnotburstintoanymoretearsatthatclinic.Iwouldshowuplookingahundredpercent“Fine,thankyou,andyourself?”Asapointofpride.
WhichwastheonlysavinggraceontheeveningofPeanut’sthirdovernightstaythere,whenthepadThaiI’dorderedfromhisfavoritespotgotheldupintrafficduringdelivery—and,desperatelytryingtomovefastwhenIwasstillforbiddentorun,Irace-walkedthetwoblocksinaridiculouspairofheels—onlytoarrivejustasDr.Addisonwaslockingup.
Iknewitwashimwithcertainty.Becausealltheothervetsinthepracticewerefemale.
Alsobecauseofhisgodlikeglow.
“I’msosorry,”Isaid,outofbreath.“Thedeliverywaslate.”
Iheldupthetakeoutbag.
“IsthatforPeanut?”
Inodded.“PadThai.”
Dr.Addisonsighedatmethen,likeIwasareallunatic.ButatleastIwaswearingmyfavoritesundress.AndI’dtaughtmyselfhowtodoacrownbraidaroundmyheadthatperfectlyhidmysurgicalscars.AndI’dgonetothetroubleoffindingmyraspberrylipstickafteritrolledunderthebed.
Withaheadshakelikehecouldn’tbelievehewasanaccomplicetothemoralatrocityoffeedingnoodlestoasickdog,heunlockedthedoor.
“Heneedsmeat,”hesaid,steppingoverthethreshold.
Ifollowed,andwewereonceagainsurroundedbypopoldiesonthesoundsystem.
“ThisischickenpadThai,”Isaid,raisingmyvoiceabit.
“Can’tyougethimhookedonbarbecueorsomething?ThisisTexas.”
“Helikesbarbecue,”Isaid.“HejustlikespadThaibetter.”
Threenightsin,Peanutwasdoingmuchbetter.He’dhadhissecondtransfusionbynow,andhe’dsoonbegettingathird.ThatplustheIVfluidsandtheappetitestimulantshadhimlookingmuchmorelikehisusualself.
Alltosay,tonightPeanutgreetedmewithafull-bodywagforthefirsttimesincethisallstarted.
Whichmademetearup.Again.
ButIblinkedthetearsaway.Nomorecryingatthevetclinic.
“Lookslikehe’sfeelingbetter,”Dr.Addisonsaid.
“Definitely.”
“Soon,Ithink,he’llbestrongenoughtostarthismeds.”
“Whatarethey?”Iasked.
“Prednisone,cyclosporine,andazathioprine,”Dr.Addisonsaid,beforerealizingmaybethatwasoverlyspecificandbackingupabittoexplain:“Steroidsandimmunesuppressors.”
“Gotit,”Isaid.
“I’mhopefulabouthim,”Dr.Addisonsaidthen.
“Thankyou,”Isaid,takingasecondtopressmyfaceagainstPeanut’sfur.“Thankyouforbeinghopeful.”
Iwastryingtomovefast,butDr.Addison,watchingme,said,“Takeaminute.It’sokay.”
“Aren’tyoutryingtolockup?Idon’twanttokeepyoufrom—whateveryou’vegotgoingon.”
“Idon’thaveanythinggoingon,”hesaid.“I’mgladtostay.”Thenheadded,“He’lleatmoreifyou’renotrushing.”
NextIgotdownonthefloor,crisscrossedmylegs,cradledPeanutinmylap,andstartedfeedinglong,floppypinchesofpadThainoodlestohimbyhand.
IthoughtDr.Addisonwouldgiveusaminutethen,maybegobacktohisofficeanddo—Idon’tknow…doctorlythings?Whatdidmedicalprofessionalsdowhennoonewaslooking?Examinecharts?Studytextbooks?Wearglassesandlookimportant?
Ofcourse,Dr.Addisondidn’twearglasses.
ButI’msurehewouldn’tletthatholdhimback.
Anyway,hedidn’tgoofftobedoctorly.Helingeredthere.WatchingPeanutdevourthatentireStyrofoamboxofpadThai,slurpbyslurp,likeachampion.
“HereallydoeslikepadThai.”
“I’mtellingyou.He’saveryworldlydog.Gastronomically.”
“Ibelieveyou.”
IwantedtothinkIcouldtakethechowing-downasencouragementthatPeanutmustbedoingbetter.ButIcouldn’tdiscounttheappetitestimulant.
“Thisisagoodsign,right?”IaskedasPeanutlickedtheemptycontainer.
“It’snotabadsign,”Dr.Addisonsaid.
“I’msogladhe’sdoingbetter.”
AlittlepauseandthenDr.Addisonsaid,“Areyoudoingbetter?”
Ilookedup.Blessthatman—he’djustgivenmetheperfectopportunitytosayit:“I’mgreat,”Isaid,withalltheconvincing,perky,don’t-even-know-why-you’re-askingenergyIcouldmuster.MentallyIadded:Iamnotfallingapart.Iamnotstandingslack-jawedandhelplessatthesightofmylifecollapsinglikeasheetofthepolaricecaps.Iamabsolutely,undeniably,categoricallyokay.
“Good,”Dr.Addisonsaid,seemingunconvinced.Thenheadded,“Great.”
Fine.Allright.Maybemytwo-wordstatementwouldn’tbeenough.“We’rejust…veryclose,”Iaddedthen.Imean,evenperfectlyfinepeoplecouldgetweepyiftheirdogswereonthebrinkofdeath!Thatwasn’tevidenceofemotionalpathology,wasit?
“YouandPeanut?”Dr.Addisonasked.
Inodded.“Practicallylittermates.MymomgavehimtomewhenIwasakid.”Wereyoustillakidatfourteen?Closeenough.
Dr.Addisonnodded.“Theyreallycurlupinyourheart,don’tthey?”
Thatseemedlikeaverytruewayofputtingit.
“Doyouhaveanypets?”Iaskedthen.
Dr.Addisonshifted.“I’mbetweenpetsatthemoment.”
“Iguessyouseeenoughanimalsatwork.”
“That’sonewaytospinit.”
Therewasastorythere,forsure.
Butitwasgettinglate.“I’msureyouneedtogethome,”Isaid.
Hethoughtaboutit.“I’mofftocheckonanotherpatientafterthis,anyway.AGreatDane.She’stoosicktostayovernighthereunsupervised,soshe’satatwenty-four-hourclinic.”
“Ishouldletyougettothat,”Isaid,givingPeanutonemoresqueeze.
Dr.AddisonwatchedmecleanupandthenputmynoserightinfrontofPeanut’sforonelastnourishingdrinkofthesightofhislittlefuzzyface.“Youbegoodfortheseguys,gotit?”IsaidtoPeanut.“Iftheytellyoutogetwell,yougetwell.”
Peanutlickedmeonthecheekinreplywithhisflappypinktongue.
Iputhimbackinthekennel,tuckedhiminwithhissqueakysquirrel,foughtbackanyandallnot-okayfeelings,andlatchedthelatch.Iwasfine.Iwasgreat.Iwasnotapersonwhocouldbetoppledbyarun-of-the-millgoodbye.
WhenIturnedaround,Dr.Addisonwaswaitingtowalkmebacktothefront.
“Thanksagainsomuch,”Isaid,smilinglikeajust-fineperson.
“Ihaveaquestionforyou,”Dr.Addisonsaidoncewewereoutside.
“What’sthat?”Iasked.
Hefinishedturningthelockandturnedtofaceme.“Wouldyouliketogoonadatewithmesometime?”Ten
WELL,THATWASsudden.
Inthewaythatsomethingthatshould’vealreadyhappenedcanalsobesudden.
Imean,sure—I’dalreadydecidedthatwewerefatedtowinduptogether.Butevenforfate,thiswasprettyfast.
“Canyoudatepatients?”Iasked,inlieuofshoutingYes!Let’sgetmarried!
“Imean,Ican’tdatePeanut,”hesaid.“Butyou’renotapatient.”
Ah.“Goodpoint.”
“Whatdoyouthink?”heasked.
WhatdidIthink?Hello!Iwasreadytoplanthehoneymoon.
Thatsaid…Ihesitated.
Itwasonethingtochargeboldlyforthtowardmyhappilyeverafterwithmydashingveterinarianintheory.Itwasawholeotherthingtomakeanattemptlikethatinreality.
Inmycurrentreality,especially.
Imean,comeon.Iwasamess.Ihadsurgicalscarsinmyhair.Iwasburstingintotearsatrandomintervalsfornoreason.Thewholeworldwasafacelessblur.Andeverysinglethingthatmatteredinmylifewasdisintegratingaroundme.Wouldthisstorybookperfectmanwanttodate—orbeanywherenear—atotaldisasterlikethat?
Definitelynot.
Imean,Ididn’tevenwanttohangoutwithmethesedays.
SohowonearthcouldIexpectthisdreamy,perfect,animal-rescuingmantobeanydifferent?WasI,inthismoment,inanywaysomeonewhowouldbeattractiveorappealingorfuntodate?
No.No,thiswouldneverwork.
CouldIhavejustbeenhonestwithhim?CouldIhavejusttoldhimwhatwasgoingon?Hewasascientist,afterall.Hemighthavefounditmedicallyfascinating.I’msurehesawweird,crazystuffallthetimeinhislineofwork.
But…hedidn’tdatethatweird,crazystuff.
Dr.Addisonshiftedhisweight.
Myanswerwastakingtoolong.
SoIgavethebestreplyIcouldthinkof:“Iwouldlovetogoonadatewithyou,”Itoldhim.AndthenIadded,“Inthreeweeks.”
Ifelthisfrown.“Inthreeweeks?”
Inoddedlikethiswasatotallyreasonablerequest.“Iamaportraitartist,”Itoldhim,cherry-pickingselectivefactsaboutmylifetonotblowmycover.“AndI’matop-tenfinalistinahugelyprestigiousjuriedportraitshowthreeweeksfromnow—andsoI’mreallydirectingallmytimeandenergyintocompletingmysubmission.”
Howdidthatsound?
Dr.Addisongavememyanswer.“You’reafinalistinabigcompetition?”
Inodded,like,Yep.“Toptenoutoftwothousandentries.”
“Thatmeansyoubeatoutonethousandninehundredandninetyotherpeople.”
Toldyahewasperfect.“That’sexactlywhatmybestfriendsaid.”
“Nice,”hesaid,andIcouldfeelhimadmiringme.
“ButnowIhavetowin,”Isaid.“SoIjustcan’thaveanydistractionsrightnow.”
Dr.Addisonnoddedlikethatmadeperfect,logicalsense.
IthoughtIwasintheclear.
Butthenhesaid,“Ofcourseifwejusthappenedtorunintoeachotheratthesametimeinacoffeeshop,thatwouldn’tbeadate.Thatwouldjustbebothofusself-caffeinatingincloseproximity.”
Ah.Hewasn’tgoingtomakethiseasy.
WhenIhesitated,headded,“Onlyifyouwantto,ofcourse.”
Wasitatest?TogaugeifIwantedto?
Iwasn’twaitingtofindout.“Iwantto,”Isaid.
Icouldfeelasmiletakeoverhisface.
SoIadded,“Youhavetocaffeinate,right?”
Andthereitwas.IfIhadtogoonacoffeedatewiththeworld’sdreamiestveterinarian,thenIguessIjusthadto.
ONCEI’DGIVENin,Iplannedourweddingthewholewayhome.
Wehadanappointmentforsimultaneouscoffeenow.And,somehow,notcallingitadatemadeitfeelevenmorelikeadate.Didthatmeanweweredating?
Prettydamnclose!Right?
And,ofcourse,onceyoustarteddatingsomeone,youinevitablygotmarried.
Sowewereessentiallyengaged.
Wheretohavethewedding?MaybeonthecoastalrocksofMaine,nearalighthouse?OronthegentlesandofaHawaiianbeach?Or—hell,aslongasIwasfantasizing—insomequaint,timelessEnglishvillage?I’dhavetogoogletimelessEnglishvillages.MaybetheCotswolds?
Thiswasperfect,right?Thiswasperfect.
I’dgetthisfacethingsolved,getPeanuthealthy,winthiscompetition,disproveeverybodywhoeverthoughtIwasworthless—andthengoonadatewithDr.OliverFriggingAddison.AndstartlivingthevictoriouslifeI’dalwayswanted.
Thatworked.
IwasfeelingsofoolishlyoptimisticforaminutethereasIbaskedinthatfantasythatIdecidedtostopbyBeanStreetCoffeetograbadecaflatteonmywaytotheelevators.Lifewasgoodtoday.Goodenoughforacelebratorylatte.
HazelOnewasworkingtheretonight.ThiswashowhipBeanStreetCoffeewas:ithadtwodifferentbaristasnamedHazel.
Iorderedmylatteandthenwaitedbythepickupcounter,asfullyafloatasiftheseweddingfantasieswereanemotionalinnertube.
Butthat’swhenIheard,“SadieMontgomery?”
This—beingrecognized—hadhappenedafewtimessinceI’dbeentrickedbymyevilstepsister,andI’dsay,allinall,Imanagedokay.Thebiggoalwasalwaystosussoutwhowastalkingtome,butIwasalsohappytosettleforjusthavingapleasantinteractionandnotgettingcaught.
“Heythere!”Ianswered,moreconfidentwithmystrategynow.Therearenostrangers.“Howareyou?”
“Great!Howareyou?”
Clues:Blondhairinaponytail.Tall-ish.Bluejeans.Janglybracelet.Also:Thispersonknewmyfirstandlastname.Hertoneofvoicesoundedasifshewasgladtoseeme.Shewasinthecoffeeshopofmybuildingatthishourofnight,andshewasholding—getthis—ahairlessSphynxcatwitharhinestonecollar.Imean,couldshedothat?Werecatsevenallowedincoffeeshops?Wassheaneighbor?DidIknowherfromtheelevator?Thelast-namethingwasaconfoundingvariable,because,again,Ireallydidn’tknowanybodyinthisbuildingwellenoughtohavehandedoutmylastname.
Damnit.Whocoulditbe?
“Loveyoursundress,”shesaidthen.“Itremindsmeofoneyouhadinhighschool.”
Wekneweachotherfromhighschool?Ididn’tkeepintouchwithanyonefromhighschool.
“Wasn’tityellow?”shesaidthen,thinkingback.“Youworeittotheninth-gradepicnic?”
Okay,nowthiswasgettingcreepy.
“AndthenI’mprettysureyoustoleitfrommeafteryougotkickedoutandsenttoboardingschool.”
Fuck.
ItwasParker.
How,how,howhadInotrecognizedhervoice—again?Dr.Nicolehadsaidnoteverybodywasgreatwithvoices,thatitmighttakesometimetotuneintothembetter…butParker?Ishouldknowthatvoiceanywhere.
Itwasthevoiceofdoom.
And,yes.Ihadstolenthatyellowsundressfromher.
Butshe’dstolenmyentirefamilyfromme,sowewerehardlyeven.
“Areyoukiddingmerightnow?”Isaid.
“What?”Parkersaid,puttingonabaffled,innocentvoice.
“Whyareyoumessingwithme—andwhyareyouevenhere?”
“I’mmessingwithyoubecauseitisnevernotfun,andI’mherebecause:Hello!Ijustmovedin.”
Thatdidn’tcompute.“Movedintowhat?”
“Thebuilding.”
“Thebuilding?Thisbuilding?”Idemanded,pointingatthefloor.ThenIpointedatmyself.“Mybuilding?”
“Topfloor,baby!”Sheliftedherhandforahighfive.
Iignoredthehand.“Youcan’tmoveinhere.”
“PrettysureIjustdid.Acuteguyhelpedmecarrymyscratchingpost.”
“Thisismyapartmentbuilding.Ilivehere.”
“It’snotonlyyourapartmentbuilding,”shesaid.“Lotsofpeoplelivehere.Includingme.Asoftoday.”Thenshewavedherstill-raisedhandinmyface.“Youcanseethis,can’tyou?I’mhigh-fivingyou!”
Ismackedherhandoutoftheway.“I’mnotfuckinghigh-fivingyou,Parker.Getout.You’renotwelcomehere.”
“Ithinktheguywhocarriedmyscratchingpostmightdisagree.Igotadefinitevibe.”
OfallthepetsI’dhavepickedforParker,Iwouldn’thavechosenacat.Atarantula,maybe.Atankofpiranhas.Ahiveofwasps.
Justthen,HazelOnecalledmyname.Mylattewasready.
“Didyoucomehereonpurpose?”Idemanded.
NowParkerdroppedhervoicealittle.“DoyouthinkI’mhuntingyoudownorsomething?”
“Whatelsecouldpossiblybehappening?”
“Wait,”shesaidthen,hervoicestartingtooozewithdelight.“AmIsensingthatyoustillhaven’tmovedonfromhighschool?”
Werewetalkingaboutthis?Iguessweweretalkingaboutthis.
“That’sahellofaquestionfromyou,”Isaid.Whenshedidn’tstopme,Ikeptgoing.“AhellofaquestionfromthepersonwhoframedmeforstealingMadameStein’sFrenchexam.ThepersonwhostartedtherumorthatIsleptwithKacy’sboyfriend.Thepersonwhostartedafireoutbythefieldhouseandthenputacanoflighterfluidinmylocker.Andlet’snotforgetthepersonwhobulliedAugustaRosstothebrinkofsuicideandthenpinneditallonme.”
Shewrinkledhernoseinfauxsympathy.“Notoverit,then.”
“Ofcoursenot,”Isaid.“Youmethodicallyandviciouslydismantledmylife.AugustaRosshadbeenmybestfriendsincesecondgrade,butsixmonthsafteryoushowedup,herparentswerehaulingherofftoSeattle,nevertoreturn.Yougotmekickedoutofschool.Youturnedmyownfatheragainstme.Andallforwhat—soyoucouldhaveourbedroomtoyourself?”
Ithoughtmaybeholdingheractionsuptoherinthemirrormightevoke…something.Remorse,maybe.Regret?
Instead,Parkerjustsaid,“Youforgot‘stoleyourboyfriend.’WhichwaswhyIneededthebedroomtomyself.”
Whoa.ShewasworsethanIremembered.
Parkerwaslovingthis,though.Sheleanedin.“Isitallstillhauntingyouthismuch?Imean,IknewIwon.ButIdidn’tknowIwonthisepically.Sweetie,intwoyears,we’llbethirty!Letitgo.”
“Don’tcallmesweetie”wasallIcouldthinkoftosay.
RememberwhenDr.NicolethoughtitwassoperplexingthatIwouldthinkthatpeoplewouldwanttouseyourweaknessesagainstyou?Thattherewassomecompellingreasontoendlesslyhideyourvulnerabilitiesfromtheworld?
Well,meettheentirereasonIbelievedthat—righthere,intheflesh.Holdingacatinacoffeeshop.
HazelOnecalledmynameagain.
Iignoredit.Screwthelatte.
“Youcan’tlivehere,”Isaid.
“I’mnolandlord,”Parkersaid,“butIdon’tthinkyoucanstopme.”
“Why?”Iaskedthen.
Shepretendedthequestionmadenosense.“Whywhat?”
Itriedtobendhertomywillwithadon’t-mess-with-metoneofvoice.“Whyareyoudoingthis,Parker?”
Shegaveabigshrug,andthenshedidn’tfightme—andIsuddenlyrealizedshe’dwantedmetoaskthisquestionallalong.“Iheardaboutyouandmymomhangingout,”shesaid,andthenhervoicegottheatricallypouty,“andIthought,Aretheyhavingfunwithoutme?”
“Wewerenothavingfun,”Isaid.“Idon’t‘havefun’withLucinda.”
“Shepaidyouavisit,though,”Parkersaid.“Atyourroof-hovel.”
Hey.OnlyIgottocallmyhovelahovel.
“Nowwecanallhavefuntogether,”Parkerwenton—hervoiceshiftingtomenacinglyperky.
“Idon’twantyouhere,”Isaid,startingtofeelapanicofhelplessness.
“Aww,Iknow,”shesaidnow—lacinghervoicewithfakesympathy.“Thisiskindofyourworstnightmare,isn’tit?”
Shewaited,likeImightconfirmit.
Iheldstill.
“Butdon’tworry,”Parkeraddedthen,raisingherhandforanotherhigh-fiveattempt.“Givenyourwholebrain-damagesituation…youwillliterallyneverknowI’mhere.”Eleven
PERFECT.BETWEENJOEtheWeaselandParker,Iprettymuchhadtodreadeverysingleelevatorride.
Anotherreasontoneverleavetherooftop.
AndyetParkerwasn’twrong.Ireallydidn’tnoticeshewasthere.Otherthanthatourtop-floorhallwaysuddenlystartedsmellinglikecatpee,whichhadtobethatcreepySphynxcat’sfault.Maybesheworkedallthetime—whatkindofterriblejobwouldapersonlikeParkerevenhave?
Ormaybeshewasmovingaroundmeallthetime,unseen,likeaghost.
Eitherway,shewassurprisinglyforgettable.
TheWeasel,however,wastheopposite.
Thatred-and-whitebowlingjacketwasashardtomissasastopsign.Andheworeitallthetime.Otherpeoplechangedtheirclothes,theirshoes,theirhair.Sometimestheyworeworkoutgear.Sometimesasuitforwork.Sometimesjeans.ItwasnormalhumanbehaviortoweardifferentclothesfordifferentoccasionsandIapplaudedit.Ofcourse,itmadeitalmostimpossibleformetoknowwhowaswho,butatleasttheworldwasstilllumberingalongmuchasitalwayshad.
Anyway.Notthisguy.
Hereallymusthavelovedthatjacket.
Isawhiminitalmosteveryevening.GettingcoffeeatBeanStreetfromHazelOneorTwo.LockinghisVespaatthebikerack.CrossingthatsamecrosswalkwhereI’dalmostbeenflattenedbyaVWBeetle.Doingnormalthings,mostly.Butwithaspotlightonhimbecauseofthatjacket.
Justmyluck.
EverybodylookedthesameexceptforthelastguyIwantedtosee.
Noticinghimlikethatdid,however,confirmmyinitialdiagnosis:hewasdefinitelysomekindofepicplayer.
MyfirstconfirmationcamewhenIsawhimstumblingdrunkdownthehallwaywiththesexiestwomaninourbuilding.Iwaswaitingtostepintotheelevatorastheylumberedout,armspretzeledaroundeachother,afterwhathadclearlybeenawildnightofdrinking.Shelookedworsethanhedid,forsure,andastheylurchedpastme,Iwonderedifshemightbeindanger.
Hadheroofiedher?Thatwasthefirstquestionthatcametomind.Justhowterriblewasthisguy?Washejustadouche,orwasheamonster?
Iwantedtoaskherifshewasokay,butIdidn’tknowhername.
SueandIalwaysjustcalledherBustyMcGee.Whichsoundsterrible,nowthatIthinkaboutit.ButI’mtellingyou,mostofheroutfitswerevery…cleavage-forward.Weweren’tnoticingsomethingshedidn’twantustonotice.Actually,she’dmakeagreatfriendformenow,becauseshewashighlyrecognizable,evenwithoutaface.I’dknowthatchestanywhere.
AndIverymuchadmiredherconfidence.I,whohadn’tboughtnewbrasinsolongIcouldn’teventellyouhowlongithadbeen.
Butlook,asidentifierswent,thosewerehers.Ifyouneededtomentionhertoanyoneinthisbuilding,allyouhadtosaywas“theladywiththeboobs,”andyou’dbeset.
Notthatyouwouldsaythat.Butyoucould
Anyway,Ihesitatedonhername—andthenImadedowith“Hey.”
“Hey!”Icalled,catchinguptothem.“Areyouokay?”
LeaningagainsttheWeasel,shestopped,turnedinmydirection,andsaid,“He’sgotme.”
Atthat,Joeun-pausedthemandtheycontinuedontowardherapartmentdoor.ShouldIstopthem?ShouldIcallthepolice?WhatwouldIevensay?Afat-shamingjerkistakingaverysexyneighborofminebacktoherapartment—andhemightbeuptonogood?
Thatwasn’ta911call.Peoplegotuptonogoodallthetime.
Intheend,allIcouldthinktodowasshoutafterthem:“Makegoodchoices!”
Theykeptgoing—noacknowledgment.
“Besuretorespecteachother’shumanity!”
Notevenaglancebackward.
Then,“Don’tmakemehearaboutthisintheelevatorinthemorning!”Astheydisappearedintoherapartmentandleftmestandingthere.
Afterthat,IstartednoticingJoecomingoutofMs.McGee’sapartmentmoreoften.Whichmademethinkthey’dstarteddating.Butgetthis:Thereweretwoothersinglewomenonourfloor—notcountingParker,whoIwouldnevercount,onprinciple—andIsawhimcomingoutoftheirapartments,too,oftenlateatnight.Theglasses,thefloppyhair—andalwaysthatbowlingjacket.Unmistakable.
Whatwashedoinginallthesewomen’sapartments?
Somethingaboutitjustbotheredme.
HereIwas,chastelyfacingallkindsofrecoveryandobstaclesandtimepressures…andtherehewas,justhavinghiswaywiththeentirebuilding.
Iwasfranticallytryingtorelearnhowtopaint.Iwasstayinguplateandgettingupearlyandpaintingbackovercanvases.Iwasfallingasleepatmyownworktable,leavingpaintandbrushesouttodryandgetruined.
Iwashustlinglikecrazyallthedamntime—andthisguyJoewasjust…gettinglucky?
Ididn’thavetimetoobsessoverwhatthisdudewasupto.AndyetIwasdoingitanyway.
“Ithinkhe’sagigolo,”IsaidtoSueonenight,FaceTimingwhilewebothdidourdishes.“Iseehimgoinginandoutofwomen’sapartmentsallthetime.”
“Multiplewomen?”Sueasked.
“Multiplewomen,”Iconfirmed.
“Thenhe’snotagigolo,”Suedeclared.“Gigolosaretypicallykeptbyoneolderwomanforeyecandyandsexualfavors.”
Ipaused,like,Huh.“Whydoyouknowthat?”
“Ifit’smultiplewomen,”Suewenton,proudtobehelpful,“he’smorelikelyamaleprostitute.”
Iconsideredit.“Well,hemustbeverygood.Thepenthouseapartmentsinthisbuildingaren’tcheap.”
“Maybethat’swhatthevideosarefor.Maybehe’sextortingthemsohecanliveinluxury.”
Isighed.Maybe.“Anything’spossible.Peoplearesoterrible.”
“It’sashame,though.He’ssocute.”
“Ishecute?”Iasked.
“Youdon’tthinkhe’scute?”
“Sue,Ican’tseehisface.”
Suesmackedherforehead.“Forgotagain.”
“Whycan’tyourememberthis?”
“Letmebeyoureyesforyou.He’ssuperhandsome.Thatfloppyhair.Thehipsterglasses.Plumplips.Stellarjawline.Andhe’sverysymmetrical.”
Sheknewthatwouldgetme.Ialwaysgaveextrapointsforsymmetrical.Toomanyyearsofartclasses.
“And,”Suewenton,“he’sgotmyfavoritekindofteeth.Perfectbutnotperfect.”
“Likearabbit.”
“Hedoesn’tlooklikearabbit.I’mtellingyou,he’sattractive.Andhe’sgotakindofbad-boyenergy.Youknow—’causeheridesthatVespa.”
“I’mnotsureaVespacreatesbad-boyenergy.”
“Vespa…HarleyHog…whatever.Thepointis,he’sgoodlooking.”
“Iguesshe’dhavetobe—ifhe’sthrivingasahigh-classprostitute.”
“Hecouldjustbeaplayboy,though,”Suesaidnext,thinkingaboutit.
ThiswashighpraisefromSue.“Youthinkhe’saplayboy?”
“Imean,whoknows?I’mjustsayinghecouldjustbehandsomeasahobby.”
Thatwastrue.“Joetheman-whore,”Isaid,tryingontheideaforsize.
“Idon’tlikethatword,”Suesaid,pickingupherphonetopauseourFaceTimeandresearchit.Shelovedlookingthingsupmidconversation.“There’sgottobeabetterword.”
“Joethelibertine?”Ioffered.
Butshe’dfoundagoodwebsitenow.“Howaboutseducer?”
“Notharshenough.”
“Player?”
“Toocomplimentary.”
“IfwewereinEngland,wecouldcallhimashagbandit.”
Ithoughtaboutthat.
“Ooh,here’sanarchaicone,”Suesaid.“Muttonmonger.”
ButIshookmyheadwithashiver.“That’stheworstonesofar.”
“Howaboutjustkeepitsimpleandgowithaclassic?Womanizer.”
Inodded.Don’toverthinkit.“JoetheWomanizer.”
“Ilikeit,”Suesaid.
Andwiththat,itwassettled.Joeofthebowlingjacketwassleepingwithhalfthewomeninmybuilding,mockingtheminelevatorsthenextday,andpossiblyextortingthemformoney.
Whatotherexplanationcouldtherebe?
DR.NICOLE,HOWEVER,didnotagree.“Pleasedon’tcallthecopsonthatpoorman,”sherespondedafterIspentawholesessiontellingherallaboutit.
“Theevidenceisprettydamning,”Isaid.
“Whatevidence?There’snoevidence.You’retalkingaboutoneoverheardphonecallandafewsightingsinthehallway—sightingswhereyoumostlydartedintotheshadowssohewouldn’tseeyouwatchinghim.”
Ishrugged.“IknowwhatIknow.Alotofthingsdon’taddup.”
“Yes.Butthat’snothim.That’syou.”
“I’mnotthepersonwhofilmedasleepingwomaninmybedandthenmadefunofher.”
“Butyouarethepersonwhojusthadbrainsurgery.”
“AreyousayingI’mmentallydefective?”
“I’msayingyou’reinanadjustmentperiod.”
“Whatdoesthatevenmean?”
“GoeasyonpoorJoe.Andgoeasyonyourself.Youcan’tentirelytrustyourselfrightnow.Yoursensesareoutofwhack.Yourbrainhasalotgoingon.”
“Noargumentthere.”
“You’regoingtomakemistakesforawhileuntilyouadjust.”
“Whatkindsofmistakes?”
“Thingslikenotrecognizingyoursister—”
“Stepsister,”Icorrected.
“Andnotknowingfamiliarvoices.Andfallinginloveatfirstsightwithyourveterinarian.”
“Idon’tthinkwecancallmeetingtheloveofmylifeamistake,butokay.”
ButIwondered.
WasDr.Nicoleright?CouldInottrustmyself?
Itwasastrangethought.Whoonearthcouldyoutrustifnotyourself?
“Bepatientwithyourself,”shekeptsaying.
Whatdidthatevenmean?
Everybodykepttellingmetowait,lettheedemaresolve,getsomerest,seewhathappened.ButIdidn’thavethatkindoftime.Ihadtogetmyportraitpaintedfortheshow.Icouldn’tjustwatchmywholelifefallapartandnottrytodosomethingaboutit.
Thensheglancedatherwatch,soIglancedatmyphone.Wehadtwominutesleftinthesession.Timetowrapitup.“Thepointis,”Dr.Nicolesaid,“you’restilladjusting.Youhavetoallowforconfirmationbias.”
“What’sconfirmationbias?”
Dr.Nicolepausedforagooddefinition.“Itmeansthatwetendtothinkwhatwethinkwe’regoingtothink.”
Iaddedallthosewordsup.“So…ifyouexpecttothinkathingistrue,you’remorelikelytothinkit’strue?”
“Exactly,”shesaid,lookingpleased.“Basicallywetendtodecideonwhattheworldisandwhopeopleareandhowthingsare—andthenwelookforevidencethatsupportswhatwe’vealreadydecided.Andweignoreeverythingthatdoesn’tfit.”
“Thatdoesn’tsoundlikeme,”Isaid.
“Everybodydoesit,”Dr.Nicolesaidwithashrug.“It’sanormalhumanfoible.Butyou’redoingitalittleextrarightnow.”
“Iam?”
Shenodded.“Becauseyoursensesareoff.It’sharderforyoutocollectsolidinformationabouttheworldaroundyou.Andbecauseyou’veexperiencedtrauma,you’reonhighalertfordanger.”
Noargumentthere.
“So,”Isaid.“IfIthinkeverythingisterrible,theneverythingwillbeterrible?”
Shenodded,like,Bingo.
“ButIdothinkeverythingisterrible.”
“Inthewakeofadifficulttime,”Dr.Nicolesaidthen,soundingmorethaneverlikethecalmvoiceofreason,“asyoutrytoreadjusttoanewnormal—”
“Idon’twantanewnormal!”Iinterrupted.“Iwanttheoldnormal.”
“Thetrick,”Dr.Nicolecontinued,notlettingmethrowheroff,“istolookforthegoodstuff.”
“Fine,”Isaid,thinkingaboutit.“I’lltry.”ThenIadded,“AndIwon’tcallthecopsontheWeasel.Yet.”
“AndmaybestopcallinghimtheWeasel.”
“Butheisaweasel.”
“You’lldefinitelykeepthinkingthatifyoukeepthinkingthat.”
Isighed.Anothergotchamoment.“Confirmationbias?”Iasked,alreadyknowingtheanswer.
“That’smygirl,”shesaid.Twelve
DIDTHEGREATDr.OliverAddison,veterinariansexgod,workamiracleandrestoremygeriatricbestietoperfectcaninehealth?
Kindof.Mostly.
ThoughhedidwarnmethatPeanutwouldbe“alittletired”foraweekortwo.
Sureenough,onthedayPeanutcamehomefromtheclinic,allhewantedwastocurlupunderthebedandnap.
ButIwantedtohangout.I’dmissedhim.
I’dmissedhimsomuch,apparently,thatallIwantedtodowaslieonmytummy,halfunderthebedmyself,watchinghimsleepandreassuringmyselfhewasokay.
Lookforgoodthings,Dr.Nicolehadsaid.
Peanutbeinghomeisdefinitelyagoodthing,IthoughtasIwatchedhim.
Buttherewasanothergoodthingunderthatbed—oneI’dforgottenaboutuntilIpusheditasidetogetabetterviewofPeanut.
AboxI’dkeptforyears,withmymother’srollerskatesinside.
Ihadn’tseentheminages,butIdecidedtopulltheboxoutandopenitup.
Mymomlovedtoroller-skate.Thetwoofususedtoskateupanddownourblock,listeningtoTop40onherlittleportableradio,andsingingalong,andwavingtotheneighbors.Mymomcouldskatebackward,dothemoonwalk,spinaroundononefoot,anddothegrapevine.Plusamillionotherthings.Sheusedtopullmewitharopebehindherandcallitwaterskiing.Itwasourfavoritethingtodoonweekends.
Shehadherownskates—whiteleatherwithpinkpom-pomsonthetoes.Andshe’dboughtmeamatchingpairwhenIwaslittle.Thiswasthenineties,andmostoftheworldhadshiftedtoRollerblades.Butnotmymom.
Aftershedied,Iinheritedthem.
Byinherited,Imean,ItookthemoutofherclosetbeforeLucindadonatedeverythingtoGoodwill.
Ineverworethem.AfterIlosther,Ineverroller-skatedagain.Andmykid-sizedskatesgotlostsomewherealongtheway,likethingsdo.
WhereverIwent,though,Ikeptmymom’sskatesclose—inthatboxundermybed.Nottowear.Justtohave.Justbecauseholdingontothemfeltlikeholdingontoapieceofher.Justbecause,eventhoughIneverevenlookedatthem,ifIcouldsaveonethinginafire—besidesPeanut,ofcourse—Iwouldn’teventhinkaboutit.
Onehundredpercentthoseskates.
Iwonderediftheywouldfitmenow.Whatsizehadmymom’sfeetbeen?ItbuggedmethatIdidn’tknow.
AndIdidn’thaveanyonetoask.Icouldalmosthearmyfathersaying,Whatthehellkindofquestionisthat?
Andthen,assoonasthatthoughtpoppedintomyhead,Iwasonmywaytofindout.
Wasrollerskatingonmylistofapprovedpostsurgicalactivities?
Hardno.
Buttobefair:itwasn’tonmylistofforbiddenones,either.
Moreimportant:Didtheskatesfit?
Theydid.
AndnowIknewsomethingnewabouther.Wewerebotheightandahalfs.
Igrabbedapairoftubesocks—fromSueonmybirthdaylastyear—satonakitchenchair,andslidmyfootintotheleatherbootoftheskatewithasatisfyingshoonkasmyheellandedinplace.Aperfectfit.Itfeltlikeasign.Ileanedforwardandtightenedthelacesandmadedoubleknots.AndthenwithastubbornoptimismthatIstillmarvelattothisday,Ithought,It’sperfectlysafeifIjustgoslow,andthenIstoodandrosetomyfeet.
MymomlovedDianaRossandDonnaSummerandGloriaGaynor.Shewasinherteensinthelateseventiesandimprintedfullyondiscomusicandallitsperkyoptimism.IhadawholediscoplaylistIlistenedtowhenIwantedtofeelclosetoher:KCandtheSunshineBand,theBeeGees,ABBA.IgrabbedmyearbudsandturnedontheplaylistI’dmadeofherfavorites.AndthenImademywaytothedoor,openedit,andfelttherooftopbreezecrossmyfacelikesilkjustas“ILovetheNightlife”startedup.
WasIalittlebitshakyatfirst?
Forsure.
Buttherearethingsyouknowinyourbodythatyoujustneverforget.
Here’sthegreatnews:Theroofofthewarehousewassmoothconcrete.Andsootherthanafewseamstowatchoutfor,itwasaperfect,buttery-smooth,breezy,sunshinyspaceforrollerskating.Iswear,itfeltlikefate.Likethiswaswheremyentirelifehadbeenleading—tothisglorious,windyrooftopmoment.
WasIgoingtobotherthetenantsbelow?Unknown.Maybetheroofwasthickenoughtomaskthesound.Ormaybeitwouldjustamplifyit.
Eitherway,Igotstarted—pushedoffwithonefootandrolledforwardontheother.
Forawhile,Ijustpushedalongjerkily,myarmsoutwidelikeatightropewalker,feelinglikeI’dreallyleftmyyouthsomewherebackinthemistsoftime.
Buttheviewfromtherooftopwasgorgeous—andalsosomethingIdidn’tstoptoappreciateoftenenough.Totheeastwerehistoricbuildingsandmoreoldbrickwarehouses.TothewestwasthegreenscapeofBuffaloBayou—anditswalkingtrailsandkayakers.
Iwasgladtheycouldn’tseeme,squeakingalonglikeatinmanwhoneededoiling.
ButthenIcouldfeelthingsstarttoshiftasthemusclememorykickedin.ThemoreIdidit,themoreIcoulddoit.
Imadebigcircles,sinkingintothecomfortingrhythmofright,thenleft,thenright,thenleft.Then,withoutoverthinkingit,Ispuninacircle.Thejerkymotionfadedaway.Ifoundasmoothrhythm.Therooftopwasawideopenspacewithnothingtoruninto.
Minutebyminute,mychildhoodknow-howdriftedback.
AndthenIrememberedwhatIalreadyknew:Icoulddothis.
Iletmyselfrelax.ThenIdidahalf-spinandstartedskatingbackward.ThenIdidafigureeight.ThenIsquatteddown,rollerderbystyle.ThenIstartedgrapeviningandspinningandjustgenerallygroovinglikeapersonwhohadjustbeenremindedwhatfunfeltlike.
Whichisaboutright.
Howmuchtimewentby?Ihavenoidea.Iwasutterlylost—inthebestway.ItwastheexactoppositeofthegruelinghoursI’dspenttryingtopaintbefore.Thathadbeenwork,andthiswasjustplay.Whoneededartwhenyouhadrollerskating?
Diditmakememissmymom?
Youbet.
Butthedelightofit—theabsolute,blissful,embodiedpleasureofit—madeitokaysomehow.Ifeltthatfamiliaracheoflonging,butnowmixedwithsomethingnew.Joy,maybe.Thesunshineandthebreezeandthemusicandthemotionandtherhythm.Anawarenessoftheglorious,impossiblemiracleofbeingalive.
Huh.
Soweirdtothinkthatthisfeelinghadbeenthereallalong—hibernatinginaboxundermybed,justwaitingformetowakeitup.
MaybeIshouldhavetriedtheseskatesonsooner.
Iswear,atonepoint,IdecidedIcouldjustkeepskatingthere,roundandround,lostinbliss,alldayandnight.
Butofcoursethat’snotwhathappened.
Infact,notlongafterIhadthatthought,whileIwasskatingbackwardinaslalom,thesoundofsomeoneshoutingmynamepiercedmydiscoplaylist—andIspunaroundtoseeJoejustafewfeetaway,callingtome.
Hewasn’twearinghisvintagejackettoday—justaT-shirt—butbynowIknewthoseglasses.Andthatfloppyhairblowingintherooftopwind.Also—processofelimination.Whoelsewouldhehavebeen?
Hewasn’tMr.Kim,andthatwasjustabouttheonlyotheroption.
Recognizinghimwassurprising,butseeinghimatallwasevenmoresurprising—especiallysincethedoortotherooftopstairswasself-lockingandnobodyhadthecodebutme.
Suddenlyfindinganuninvitedmanstandingonyourroofwatchingyourroller-skatingjamcanadduptoaheckofasurprise—andIguessImusthavefrozenstillforasecondwhilestillglidingforwardonmywheelsbecause,next,IhitoneofthoseseamsintheroofconcreteI’dbeensocarefultoavoid,whichpitchedmeforward—andrightintoJoe’sarmsashetriedtocatchme,eventhoughIhadfartoomuchmomentumforthattowork.HewoundupfallingbackasIlandedrightontopofhim…andwewentskiddingalongtheconcrete.
Afterwecametoastop,timeseemedtopause.
Ishouldhavescrambledupandskatedaway.Butmybraintookaminutetoputthewholesituationtogether.Andwhilewewaitedforthemomenttomakesense,Iwascaughtinsuspendedanimation,mybodyfullypinninghisflattotheground,mynosealmosttouchinghis,ourgazeslockedtogetherinincomprehension.
Whatthehelljusthappened?
ThefirstheadIworriedaboutwashis—becauseIsawithittheconcrete.
“Ohgod,”Isaid,talkingloudoverthediscoinmyearsbeforeyankingtheearbudsoutbythewires.“Areyou—”
“I’mokay.”
Andthentherewasapause,asInotedthatI,too,hadjustfallendown—andsothenextheadIhadtoworryaboutwasmyown.
Ihadonejobthesedays:nottofall.
AndhereIwas.Fallen.
Oh,shit.DidIjustbreakmybrain?
ThethoughtpinnedmethereasIdidaquickassessment.HadIhitmyhead?No.Wasmyheadbleeding?NotthatIcouldtell.Didmyheadhurt?No.Nothinghurtbesidesmyscrapedkneesandpalms.HowmuchhadJoe’sbodycushionedmyimpact?Enough?
Ididaquickscanoftherooftop,halfcheckingforapossiblecork-shapedpieceofskull,stillskitteringacrosstheconcreteonitssidelikeahockeypuck.
Nothing.Coastwasclear.
AsfarasIcouldtell,Iwasokay.
Butthat’swhenIrealizedI’dbeenlyingontopofJoe—drapedoverhimlikeahumanweightedblanket—forfarlongerthanwasproper.Icouldfeelmythighsmashedupagainsthis.Icouldfeelmyselfrisingandfallingonhischestaswebothtriedtocatchourbreath.Icouldfeelmyheartbeating—orwasithis?—againstmyribcage.
Ifeltalittledizzyforasecondthere,butwhetheritwasthefallormywonkybrainorjustthefactthatIhadn’tbeenthisclosetoamaninaverylongtime…Icouldn’tsay.
Timetopullmyselftogether.
Ishiftedbackward,peelingmyselfoffhim,andstoodupslowly.
OnceIwasvertical,Igotalittlemad.“Whatareyoudoinghere?Youshockedthehelloutofme!”Idemanded.“Howdidyouevengetuphere?”
Joedidn’tanswerme.Stilllyingontheconcrete,helifteduponhiselbowsbutpausedthere,lookingatmeinawaythatfeltmorelikehewasgazing
Maybehisheadwasinjured,afterall.
Icrossedmyarmsovermychest.“Nobodyevercomesuponthisroof.Nobodyhasthepasscodetothatdoorbutme!”
Joeshookhisheadalittle,likehewastryingtoshifthisthoughtsbackintoplace.
“Thisisaprivatespace!”Isaid.“Thisrooftopispartofmy—”ButIdidn’tknowhowtodescribeit.“Myarea.Youcan’tjustcomeuphere!”
WhenJoefinallyclimbedtohisfeetandstartedtuckinghisshirtin,hisvoicewasalittlehoarse.“Thedoordownstairswasopen.”
“Soyouthoughtthatwasaninvitationtojustcomeonuphere?”
“Ithinkthelock’sbroken,”Joewenton.“Thedeadbolt’sfrozenintheoutposition.”
“That’saMr.Kimproblem,”Isaid.“Unlessyou’realocksmith.”
Heputhishandsinhispockets.“Iwasjustworriedaboutyou.”
Hewas?Huh.“Well,Iwasfine.”
“Isawthat.”
Oh,god.He’dseenmeskating.Toheadphonedisco.“Youclearlydid.”
“Youcanreallyskate,”hesaid.
“Fine,”Isaid,refusingtotakethecompliment.“SoyoucameuphereandsawIwasfine.Whydidn’tyouturnaroundandleave?”
“Iwaskindofmesmerized,tobehonest.”
“That’snotfunny.”
“I’mnotjoking.”
Mesmerized?Mesmerizedbywhat?Myskatingprowess?Theridiculousnessofmyoutfit?Thecomedythatalwaysensueswhenapersonwearingheadphonescan’tresistdoingdancemovesoutloud,likeamime?IdecidedIdidn’twanttoknow.“I’mallowedtodowhatIwantonmyownrooftop,Joe.”
“I’mnotsayingyou’renot.”
“Andyou’renotallowedtosneakuphereandwatchme.”
“Ididn’tsneakup.Ithoughtyoushouldknow.”
“Aboutwhat?”
“Aboutthebrokendoorlock.”
Okay,thatwasn’ttotallyunreasonable.
“OnceIde-mesmerizedmyself,Iwastryingtotellyou.Soyoucouldgetitfixed.ButwhenIcalledyourname,youdidn’thearme.”
“Yeah.Well.Iwaslisteningtomusic.”
“Whatwereyoulisteningto?”
Notrelevant!“Whydoyouwanttoknow?”
Joeshrugged.“Youlookedhappy.”
“That’snoneofyourbusiness.”
“Fairenough,”hesaid,liftinghishandsindefeat.
Incaseit’snotalreadyclear,Ifeltirrationallyangryathim.I’mnotsureIcouldevenhavepinneddownareason.Becausehecameupwithoutasking.Becausethelockwasbroken.Becauseheinterruptedme.BecausebeforeIsawhim,I’dbeenfreakishly,genuinelyhappy,forthefirsttimeinsolongandnow,thankstohim,Ihadtobe…whateverthiswas.
Annoyed.
Ormaybejustplainoldembarrassed.Becausethereisliterallynowaytoskate-danceinsilencewithoutlookinglikeaseriousgoofball.
“Anyway,”Joesaid,takingacoupleofbackwardsteps.“Sorryaboutinterruptingyou.Definitelycallaboutthatlock.”
Andthenheturnedandstartedwalkingbacktowardthespiralstairs—andthat’swhenallthatangerI’djustbeenfullofdisappearedinapuff.BecausethebackofhisT-shirt?Itwasstreakedwithblood.
“Wait!”Icalled,skatingafterhim.“Areyouokay?”
Heturnedback.“I’mfine.”
“You’rebleeding,”Isaid,skatingaroundtogetabetterlook.
“AmI?”heasked,tryingtopeekoverhisshoulder.
“Doesn’tithurt?”
“Imean,itstingsalittle,”hesaid.
Iskatedbackaroundtohisfront.“Takeitoff,”Isaid,allbusiness,gesturingathisshirt.
Hethoughtforasecond,andthenhenodded,andthenhecrossedhisarms,grabbedthehemofhisT-shirt,andpeeleditoff.
Friends,Romans,countrymen—Imightnothavebeenabletoseehisface,butletmetellyou…Icoulddefinitelyseethatshirtlesstorso.Imean,Ihadaphysicalreactiontobeholdingthatthing—anditwasn’tbecausehewaschiseledorextraordinaryorsomeairbrushedfantasyyou’dseeinamagazine.Itwasjust…strongandsolidandnice.So…appealing,somehow.
Itjustlookedlikeabodythatwouldfeelgoodunderyourhands.
IpushedthatthoughtawaythesecondInoticedit.
ButcanIjustadd?Anabsolutelystellarshoulder-to-hipratio.Asaprofessionalartist:thumbs-up.
Whatwasthatwordhe’djustused?Mesmerized?
Anyway,thatwasn’twhatwewereherefor.Ishookitoffandskatedbackaroundtocheckoutthedamageonhisback.“Oh,youreallygotscraped,”Isaid.
“Yeah,”hesaid.“Weskiddedafewfeet.”
“I’msosorry,”Isaid,thevolumeon“annoyed”turningitselfwaydownas“apologetic”rampedup.
Ilookeddownatmyscratched-uppalms.Hisbackmadethemlookpaltry.
“Comeon,”Isaid,readytoremedymyguiltwithstellarfirstaid,startingtoskatebacktowardmydoor.“Let’sgetyoucleanedup.”
ButwhenIlookedback,hewasn’tfollowing.
Iskatedbacktohim.“Let’sgo.”
“It’sokay,”hesaid.“I’vegotit.”
“It’syourback,”Isaid.“Howareyougoingtoreachit?”
“I’llmanage.”
Wasithisfaultthathestartledmeandmademetrip?
Absolutely.Sortof.
ButwasItheonewholandedonhimanddraggedhimacrossaroof?
Alsoyes.
“Letmehelpyou,”Isaid,myvoicemuchsofternow.“Youwouldn’tbescrapeduplikethisifIhadn’tlandedonyou.”
“Youwouldn’thavelandedonmeifIhadn’tcomeuphere.”
“Youwouldn’thavecomeuphereifthelockhadbeenworkingproperly.”
Joenodded.“SothisisallMr.Kim’sfault.”
“OnehundredpercentMr.Kim,”Iagreed,takingJoe’shandandpullinghimtowardmyplacelikeatugboat.“ButI’mallyou’vegot.”
INSIDE,JOECOULDN’Tstoplookingaroundatallmypaintings,andIcouldn’tstoplookingatJoe.
Hewastakinginmypaintingsupplies,andmydecor,andmyhovelingeneral—buthisexpressionwassodifferentfromwhatLucinda’shadbeen.She’dbeenjudgingme,andhewas,too—but,fromhisbodylanguage,hewasjudgingmepositively
Likehelikedit.
Whichwasalittlebitspellbinding.
Orwasitthetorso?Toughcall.
Imean…allthistimeI’dbeendislikinghim,he’dbeenwalkingaroundwiththatendlesslyappealingsituationunderhisshirt?IwonderedifImighthaveassessedhimdifferentlyifI’dknown.
God.WasIthatshallow?
Anhourago,I’dhavesaidno—butnowIwasn’tsosure.
ButwhatchoicedidIhave—asanartist—toletavisualsituationlikethatgounadmired?Itwaspracticallymyprofessionalduty.
Evennow,thethoughtofitmakesmewanttoletoutalowwhistle.Imean,thatchestmightevenhavebeenbetterthanaface.IfIhadtochoose.
ImadeJoeleanshirtlesslyovermykitchensinkwhileIpouredhydrogenperoxideoverthescrapes.Hesuckedintightbreathsasthecoldbubblyliquidrandownhisflanks.
“Ticklish?”Iasked,watchinghismusclescontract.
Heshookhishead.“Onlymyears.”
Idriedtheuninjuredpartsofhisbackwithapapertowel,andthenIofferedtowashhisshirtforhim.
Heshookhishead.“Igotit.I’lljustheadhome.”
Butatthewords,Isuddenlypicturedhimwalkingdownthetop-floorhallwayallshirtlessandsomeoneelsehappeninguponhim—andIgottheweirdest,mostindescribablefeeling.
IfIdidn’tknowbetter,I’dhavecalleditjealousy.
“Letmeputsomeointmentonyou,”Isaid.
“I’mreallyokay.”
“Thatroof,”Isaid,givinghimatrustmelook,“issuperfilthy.Birdspooponitallthetime.Nottomentionacidrain,nuclearwaste—”
“Nuclearwaste?”
“Thepointis,youdon’twantaninfection.”
Joeconsideredthat,andthennoddedandsatbackwardononeofthekitchenchairs.
IpulledupachairbehindhimandusedaQ-tiptodabhimwithointment.Thescratchesweren’tdeep,buttheycoveredalotofterritory.
Withanyluck,we’dbehereawhile.
Hehadabrightpinkscaronhisshoulderthatlookedlikehe’dgottenstitches.“Where’dyougetthescar?”Iasked.“Itlooksprettyrecent.”
“Icrashedintoalamppost,”Joesaid,notseemingtoointerested.
Hecrashedintoalamppost?Wasthatthedrinking-and-carousinglifestylehelived?
Somanyredflagswiththisguy.
ButImusthavebeenmuchmorelonesomethanIrealized.HerewasamanwhoIdidn’tevenlike—butthenearnessofhisnakedtorsowasputtingmeintosomekindofatrance.Whatwasgoingonwithme?Iwasdabbingatthescrapes,butIkeptlosingmyconcentrationanddabbingthewrongspots.Myeyeskeptwanderingawayfromthetask,travelinguphisspine,outalonghisshoulder,downhisarms.Hisskinwaskindofbuttery-tan,andhehadfrecklesonhisshoulders,likehe’dworkedoutsidealotwiththatshirtoff.
Ipicturedhimrakingleavesshirtless.Andwashingthecarshirtless.Maybetendingtoavegetablegardenshirtless?Thenharvestingthevegetablesandbringingtheminsidetomakeashirtlessmealfromscratch?
Hey!Icouldsuddenlyhearmyownvoicesayinginsidemyhead.Pullittogether!StopfantasizingabouttheWeasel!
Buttheacousticsinmyheadweren’tgreat.ThevoicesoundedtinnyandechoeylikeIwasatthebottomofawell.WhereasJoe’svoice—andeverythingelseabouthim—wascominginloudandclear.
Honestly,Dr.Nicolewouldbeveryproudofmerightnow.
“YouknowwhatIloveaboutthismoment?”Joeaskedthen,soundingsleepyasherestedhisheadonhisarms.
Ileanedforwardtotakeaguess.“ThefactthatIfeelgenuinelysorryaboutdoingthistoyou,eventhoughitwasentirelyyourfault?”
“Idefinitelylikethat.ButI’mtalkingaboutsomethingIlove.”
Byaccident,rightthen,IcaughtthewayhisplumpbottomlippressedagainsthisteethwhenhemadetheVinthewordlove
“Whatdoyoulove?”Iasked,nowsuddenlyawareofmyownlipdoingthesamething.
Heglancedbackwithavibethatfeltpositivelyaffectionate.Thenhesaid,“You’vestillgotyourrollerskateson.”Thirteen
THENEXTNIGHTwasFriday.ThenightofmysynchronizedcaffeinationeventwithDr.Addison.
Alsoknownasmyfirstdatewithmyfuturehusband.
Hewasn’tcallingitadate.AndneitherwasI—outloud.
Butthatwasallfortheloophole.
He’dbeatBeanStreetCoffee—justashortwalkforhimfromhiswork—atsixo’clock.AndIwouldbethere,too.Itwasabadidea,forsure.Butmoreimportant:WhatshouldIwear?Jeansandatop?Sneakers?Sandals?Orgodforbid—heels?
ItriedmanyoutfitoptionsandmodeledthemallforPeanut.Wedon’tneedtogetmathematicalaboutit.Let’sjustsayIwasverythorough.
Intheend,Isettledonablackwrapdresswithwhitepolkadotsandaruffledhem—withthementalcaveatthatifitwastoofancy,Icouldalwayspopbackuptomyplaceandchange.
OtherthanthehistoricnatureoftheFirstDate,therewasoneothernotablethingabouttoday.ButIwasn’tsureifIwasgoingtoshareitwithDr.Addison.
Today—Marchfourth—wasmymother’sbirthday.
AndIalwayscelebratedmymom’sbirthday.Justthetwoofus.I’dtuckaflowerbehindmyear,thewayshealwaysusedto,andI’dbakeacakefromscratch,andI’dbuycandles,andI’dsinghappybirthdaytoher.AndthenI’dtalktoherlikeshecouldhearme.Justoutloud—aloneinaroombymyself.Asifthebirthdaysofthedeadweretheonedayoftheyearwhentheycouldtuneintothevoicesoftheirlovedonesleftbehindlikearadiofrequency.
I’dtellheraboutmylife—catchheruponallthenonsenseandgoings-on.GiveherthePeanutupdate.Reminisceabitaboutfunthingswe’ddonetogetherwhenshewasalive.AndthenI’dalways,alwaysthankherforbeingmymother,andforbeingsuchasourceofloveandjoythatIcouldstillfeelitalltheseyearslater,solongaftershewasgone.
Thatwasnosmallfeatonherpart.
Butitwasalsoachoiceonmypart.
Itwassotempting—evenstill—tofeelbitterthatI’dlosthersosoon.Ihadtoworktoturntheotherway:toremembertofeelgratefulthatI’dhadheratall.
I’dthankher,andthen—yes—I’dcry…becausehappinessandsadnessarealwayssotangledup.AndthenI’dputonaCaryGrantmovie—andusuallyeatthebirthdaycake,sometimesdiggingstraightinwithaforkwithoutevenslicingit,untilIconkedoutonthesofa.
Itwasquitetheritual.
I’dstartedouttryingtofeelhappy.Butintheend,I’dsettledforgrateful
Whichmightbethebetteremotion,ifIhadtochoose.
Anyway,thechancesI’dbetellingOliverAddison,DVM,aboutanyofthiswereprettyclosetozero.Hedidn’tneedtodoabellyflopintomysadpastonourfirstdate.
I’dbecheeryandpositiveandfunnyandcharming—asbestIcould.I’dsetallmybittersweetemotionsaboutmylostmotheronamentalshelf.AndthenI’dshuttheconversationdownbeforeIcouldaccidentallyrevealanypersonalimperfections…andgostopbythegrocerystorefortheingredientsforthecake.
Yellowcakewithchocolateicing.Mymom’sfavorite.Andmine,too.
Thiswouldwork.Icouldhaveitall.
AslongasIkepttotheschedule.
IWENTDOWNtoBeanStreetatsixo’clockonthedot.Ifoundatablethatfacedtheexteriordoor,couldn’tresistdabbingjustonemorespotofalipstickcolorcalledPassionfruitontothepoutiestpartofmylowerlip,gavemyselfalittlepeptalkabouthowdoingscarythingsisgoodforyou,andwaited.
Andwaited.
AndthenIwaitedsomemore.
AndwhileIwaited,Icouldfeeltheconfidenceleakingoutofmelikeapuncturedtire.Wasitcoldinhere?MaybeIshould’vebroughtasweater.ShouldItakemyhairbackdown?Wasmylipsticktooorangy?AndofallthebrasIowned,howhadImanagedtograbtheonethatalwaysslidoffmyshoulder?
Iyankedtheshoulderstrapupandpresseditinplacesternly,like,Stay
Maybethiswasabadidea.MaybeIcouldn’tpullthisoff.TheentirefutureI’djustmappedoutformyselfasMrs.OliverAddison,DVM,wasridingonnotscrewingupthismoment.
Thewordsdon’tscrewitupkeptcirclingaroundinmyheadliketheywereonanairplanebanner.Greattip—buttheproblemwas,thereweresomanywaystoscrewitup.
Whatif,tojusttakethebiggest,scariest,mostlikelyexample,Ididn’trecognizehim?
Whatif—andthislikelihoodwasreallyonlyoccurringtomenow,asIsatthere—withouthislabcoatonandoutofthecontextoftheclinic,Itrulycouldn’ttellhimapartfromanyoneelse?Itwasmorethanpossible.
Howmortifyingwouldthatbe?
IthoughtaboutthewomanonFacebookwho’dcalledherfaceblindness“asuperpower.”Whatwouldshebedoingrightnow?Shewouldn’tbesittingherenervouslyrippingupapapernapkin,herstomachcoldwithdreadasshequestionedhervalueasahumanbeing.Hell,no!Shewouldputhershouldersback,embracetheuncertainty,surfthattsunamiofself-doubtlikeabadass,andfindawaytomakeitfun.
Attheveryleast,shewouldn’tgiveuponherselfbeforeshe’deventried.
You’vegotthis,Ipep-talkedmyselfasIstartedmutilatinganewnapkin.Youknowwhattodo
Andwiththat,Ididknowwhattodo:Justsmile—andpositivelyradiatewarmthandavailability—ateverysinglemanwhowalkedinthroughtheBeanStreetdoorsasifheweremyfuturehusband.
Notmyusualstrategyinlife.
Butnotthathardtodo,either.
Imean,Dr.Addisonhadajobtodohere,too—right?Hewouldrecognizeme.Sure,Ilookedalittledifferentwithmyhairupandmypassionfruitlips.ButIcouldrelyonhimtoknowmewhenhesawme.
Anyway,I’djusthavetoputmyfaithindestiny.
Whatwasmeanttobewasmeanttobe.
Exceptmaybeitwasn’tmeanttobe…becauseanhour—anactualhour—wentby,andDr.Addisondidn’tshowup.
There’saveryspecificslow-burnheartbreaktogettingstoodupastherealizationslowlycomesintofocus:Noone’scoming.Inthatoneinterminablehouroflookingupeachtimethedoorsopenedandwatchingeverysingleoneofthemsweeponpastmelikeweweretotalstrangers—whichwemusthavebeen—Ifeltmyselfwiltinglikeatime-lapseversionofaneglectedhouseplant.
Itwasthelethalcombinationofthehopewiththedisappointment,Idecided.
I’dwalkedin,allfreshandbrightwithmygreenleavesliftedhightowardthesun…andittookonlyanhourtorendermefloppedsideways,limpandmeltedovertheedgeofmypot.
Emotionally,Imean.
Thepointis,untoldnumbersofinnocentnapkinsgavetheirlivesduringthathourofwaiting.Allfornothing.
Attheone-hourmark,withnotextfromhim,Icalledit.
Iwasdonehere.
Istoodup,feelinglikethewholeroomofpeoplemustbewatchingmeandshakingtheirheads,andstartedpickingupallthenapkinshreddingsoffthetable—deliberately,self-consciously.Carefulnottoscrewthisup,too.
Butthat’swhentheoutsidedooropenedagain,andthistimeabreezeburstinwithit,andthatbreezesentthenapkinpiecesscatteringoffthetableontothefloor—allmyeffortsdestroyed,assooftenhappened,bysometotallyunrelatedoutsideforce.Anddespiteeverything,Ismiledlikeamoviestaratwhoeverwascomingin,justincase.
ItwasPavlovianatthispoint.
Butitwasn’tDr.Addisoncominginthedoor.Itwasalady.
SoIturnedmyattentionnowtothefloorandthetragicheartbreakconfettinowcoveringmysectionofit,squattingtostartpickingitallbackup.
That’swhenapairofshoesappearedinmyfieldofvision.
AndfromthefumesofevilradiatingoffthemandthesuddenwaftofDior’sPoison,Icouldtakeaprettygoodguess:Parker.
Istoodup.
“Youlooklikeagirlwhojustgotstoodup,”shesaid.
Itwasn’tthevoiceIrecognized.Itwastheviciousness.
DefinitelyParker.
Nobodyelseonearthcouldmakemefeelthatshittythatfast.
“Hello,Parker.”
“Howdidyouknowitwasme?”sheasked,soundingoverlydelighted—almostsarcasticallyso—toberecognized.
Isighed.“Bythecruelty.Ithasadistinctfrequency.”
“Isawyouhereanhouragoonmywayout,”Parkersaidthen,enjoyingachancetosavormymisery.“NowI’mback,andhereyoustillare—wearinglipstickandeverything—butstilljustutterly,completelyalone.”Icouldfeelhergleefulpout.“It’ssoheartbreaking.”
“Whatdoyouwant,Parker?”
“Iwanttoaskyouaboutthatsuper-cuteguyonourfloor.”
“Whatguyonourfloor?”
“Theonewhostaresatyouintheelevator.”
Therewasaguywhostaredatmeintheelevator?
“Theonewiththebowlingjacket,”shesaid,like,Hurryup.
“Joe?”Iasked.Joestaredatmeintheelevator?Somethingaboutknowingthatfeltreally…nice.
Parkerhadnoideashe’djustmademefeelnice.Shesnappedherfingersatme.“Ineedhisnumber.”
AllIcouldthinktosaywas“Why?”
“BecauseI’vedecidedhe’smyfuturehusband.”
Hey.Thatwasmything.Iwasthepersonwithafuturehusband.
“Futurehusband?”Mybodywassuddenlyfilledwithtinyfirecrackers:aflashofjealousy;aflashofprotectiveness;andthenafinalflashofHell,no.
Now,Ididn’tknowJoeallthatwell.Andit’sfairtosayI’dhadalotofconflictingfeelingsabouthimsincethatred-and-whitebowlingjacketofhiscameontomyradar.Andmyjurywasstilloutonwhetherhewasagoodguyorthefullopposite.
ButIwouldneverinamillionyearssicParkeronhim.
Thatwasjustbasichumandecency.
“Ithinkhe’sdatingsomeone,”Isaid.
“So?”
“So,Ithinkhe’staken.”
“So?”
“So…”ThefactthatIhadtoexplainthiswastheexactreasonwhyshewasnevergettinghisinfo.“Itwouldbemorallywrongofyoutopursueamanwho’salreadyseeingsomeoneelse.”
Parkerdidnottakekindlytomyobstructionism.“Areyouthecheatingpolice?”
“I’mjustnotgoingtohelpyouwithanything,Parker.Ever.Foranyreason.”
IcouldfeelmorethanseeParkernarrowingherfaceinsuspicion.“Youlikehim,don’tyou?”
What?“No.”
“Thewayyousaynoisaclearyes.”
“IamprotectingthatguyfromyouthewayIwouldprotectanyrandomstrangeroffthestreet.”
“Anyrandomstrangeryouhadathingfor.”
“No.”
“Ohmygod!”shesaidthenwithathrilledgasp.“Ishetheonewhostoodyouup?”
“Noonestoodmeup,”Isaid.
“You’reahilariouslybadliar.”
WhywasIeventalkingtoher?IshouldhaveleftthesecondIsensedwhoshewas.“Just—fuckoff,Parker.Okay?Canyoudothat?”
“Notuntilyougivemehisnumber.”
Andthat’swhenwebothheardadingcomingfrommylittlepurse,whichhadbeenhangingmutelyfrommyshoulderthisentiretime,withthezipperunzippedandmycellphonestickingpartlyout.Andthescreennowlitupforusalltosee.
Therewasatextonthescreen:ThisisthefrontdeskatPetopiaVetClinic.
Thenanotherquickding:AnemergencycasecameinjustasDr.Addisonwasleaving.
Thenafinal:Heaskedustoletyouknow.
ThiswasthetextI’dbeenwaitingfortheentireeternityofthelasthour—butIdidn’tevenhavetimetorespondbeforeParkerreachedouttotrytosnatchmyphone.LikeitmightbeamessagefromJoe.
JustasIrealizedwhatshewasdoing,Ispunaway.
Withoutevenskippingabeat,asifshewereperhapsapersonwhostoleotherpeople’scellphonesallthetime,Parkerlungedagaininaone-two—thistimearoundmyotherside,andwithalotmoreforce.
Itmightevenhaveworked—howhardisittooverpowersomeoneinacoffeeshop,afterall?—butintheend,itdidn’t.Becausejustatthatmoment,awomanwithveryunfortunatetimingwaswalkingtowardus,andwhenParkerlungedtomyside,sheslammedrightintoherhardenoughtoknockhertotheground.
Irememberitinslo-mo.Theoofthewomanmadeasherbottomhitthefloor.Theslooshofhercoldbrewspilling.Thetintinnabulationoficecubeshittingthetile.Hershocked,shallowbreathsatthecoldshowerofitall.
Intheaftermath,webothstaredatthewoman,herwhitelinenoutfitnowsaturatedbrownwithicedcoffeelikeasopped-uppapertowel—andthenParkerdidthemostParker-esquethingapersoncouldpossiblydo.
“Hey!”Parkersaid,checkingherclothesforcoffeesplatters,likeshe’dbeenthevictimallalong.“Watchit!”
Andthen,donewithbothofus,shesailedout.
Anyway,that’swhenthewomaninthewhitelinendressstartedtocry.
Ibentdownbesideher.“Hey.Areyouokay?Betthatwascold.”
“I’mokay,”shesaid.
“I’msosorryaboutthat,”Isaidthen,helpingherup.IglancedatthedoorwayParkerhadjustblownthrough.“Sheistheactualdevil.”
Onceshewasvertical,thewomanlookeddowntosurveythedamage—andstartedcryingharder.
“CanIrunupandgrabyousomesweatpantsorsomething?”Iasked.“Ijustliveupstairs.”
Butthewomansaid,“Idon’thavetime.Ihavetogettotheairport.”
Ishookmyhead.“Youcan’tgolikethat.”
Webothstaredathercoffee-drenchedclothes.“Ihavetogo,”shesaid.“I’mlatetopickupmyboyfriend.”
“Youcan’tpickupaboyfriendlikethat,either,”Isaid.
Shestartedcryingharder.“Iknow.”
“Okay,”Isaid.“Twominutes.Let’sgetthissolved,”andIpulledherbythehandbehindmetowardthebathroom.
ThereItoweledheroffwhileshejuststoodtherelikealittlekid.AndIthought—asIoftendid—abouthowmymomwouldhandlethissituation.“Let’sswitchoutfits,”Isaid.“We’reaboutthesamesize.”
ShehesitatedlikeIwasnuts.
“It’sfine,”Isaid.“Iliverightupstairs.I’lljustpopupandchange.”
Shewasn’tsure,buttherewasnotimetoargue,andbeforeshefullyknewit,wewereinourunderwearinside-by-sidestalls,floppingourclothesoverthedivider.
“Areyousure?”sheaskedasIwatchedmydressslitherawayanddisappearontheotherside.
“I’msure,”Isaid,wincingabitasIslidmyarmintohercoldbrownlinensleeve.“And,anyway,there’snotimetoargue.”
“But…youlookedsoprettyinthis.”
“Ha!”Isaid,thewaywomendo,likeshecouldn’tpossiblymeanit,justashercomplimenttookitsplaceasthebestmomentofmyentirenight.ThenIwenton,tryingtostresshowtotallyokayitwasforhertowalkoutoftheBeanStreetbathroominmyfavoritedress.“ThatdresswastwentydollarsatTarget,”Isaid.“Itwasonsuperclearance.”
“Thatjustmakesitmorevaluable,”sheprotested.
Goodpoint,infact.Shewasn’twrong.
Whenwesteppedout,IcoveredhowwetandcoldInowfeltwithmassiveenthusiasmforthesightofherinmydress.“Youlookphenomenal!”Ipracticallysang.“Youwereborntowearthatdress!”
“I’llreturnittoyou,”shesaid.“I’llhaveitdry-cleanedandbringitback.”
ButnowI’dbeensweptawaybythegeneraljoyofgenerosity—andthespecifichighofchannelingmymother’swisdomandkindness.“Keepit,”Isaid.“Itreallydoeslookamazing.”
Imean,anybodywouldlookamazinginmyfavoritedress.Butstill.
“Areyousure?”
“Absolutely,”Isaid,missingitalready,evenasInodded.
Webothturnedtogiveherafinalonce-overinthemirror.
“IlookbetterthanIdidbefore,”shesaid,lookingherselfover.Thensheturnedtome.“Thankyou.”
“You’rewelcome,”Isaid.
“Youweren’teventheonewhoknockedmedown,”shesaid.
Butthensomethingoccurredtome.“It’sreallyokay,”Isaid.“It’snicetohaveareasontodosomethingnice.”
AndImeantit.Fourteen
ANYWAY,THAT’SHOWIwoundupwalkingoutoftheBeanStreetCoffee’sladies’roominawet,coffee-stained,clingy-in-all-the-wrong-placesoutfit—andrunningsmackintoJoe.
ExceptforasecondIwasn’tsureitwasJoe.
Becausehewasn’twearinghisbowlingjacket.
SoallIknewforasecondwasthataman—somekindofman—walkeduptomeandsaid,“Whatthehellhappenedtoyou?”
IsmiledlikeIknewhimandsaid,“Coffeetastrophe,”andthenImadechitchatwarmlyandenthusiasticallywhilequietlydeducingwhohewas.
Itdidn’ttakethatlong.Justafewseconds.Thehipsterglassesandthefloppyhairwerekindofadeadgiveaway,onceIgotmybearings.
“Where’syourbowlingjacket?”Iaskedthenasconfirmation—awareoftheonepercentchancehe’dhavenoideawhatIwastalkingabout.
“Gaveitthenightoff,”Joesaid.
“How’syourback?”Iasked,fortwo-factorauthentication.
“Magicallyhealed.”
Mysterysolved.OfficiallyJoe.
“Shouldwegetsomedinner?”Joeaskednext.
Inodded.Thatsoundedlikeaperfectthingtodo.
Gettingstoodupcouldreallymakeapersonhungry.
“Wouldyouliketochangefirst?”Joeaskednext.
Inoddedagain.
Andsuddenlythingsjustfelt…better.
Ifyou’daskedmeattheapexofmygetting-stood-upmiseryhowthisdaywasgoingtoend,I’dhaveansweredwithacuss-word-ladenversionof“notgood.”
Butdoingsomethingniceforastrangermademefeelbetter.RunningintoJoe—andrecognizinghimsansbowlingjacket—mademefeelbetter.Theprospectofeatinganicedinnermademefeelbetter.Even,ifI’mhonest,thememoryofhavingtoldParkertofuckoffmademefeelbetter.
Huh.Icouldfeelbetter.Thatfeltlikenews.
Dr.Nicolehadbeeninsistingitcouldhappenallalong.ButI’dneverbelievedher.
Hadshebeenright?
Maybelifewasfullofsurprises.Maybedisappointmentscouldturnouttobeblessings.Maybetonightwouldendupbeingfun,afterall.
ORMAYBENOT.
BecausewhenwemadeituptotherooftopsoIcouldchange,Sue,whoseheartwasabsolutelyintherightplacebutwhocouldnotseemtocomprehendeventhetiniestaspectofwhatthisface-blindnesssituationwaslikeforme…wasthrowingmeasurpriseparty.
“Surprise!”SueshoutedwhenshesawJoeandmecrestingthespiralstairs.Thenhershouldersdroppedatthesightofmycoffee-drenchedclothes,andsheasked,justlikeJoehad,“Whatthehellhappenedtoyou?”
Ifeltmywholebodygotense.Therewerefiftypeopleonmyrooftop,atleast.Bulblights.Music.Beer.“What’sgoingon?”
“It’saparty,”Suesaid.“Duh.”
“You’rehostingaparty?Here?”
“It’sthepartywenevergottohave.Youknow.Whenyouhadyourbrainthingy.”
IglancedatJoe,whowasstandingattentivelybesideme.Ihadn’ttoldhimaboutmybrainthingy.
“We’recelebrating,”SuesaidwhenIcouldn’tfindanywords.“Youremembercelebrating?”
“Imean,Irememberit,”Isaid.Thewayyourememberthestoneage.Orthedinosaurs.Theyexisted.Once.“But,Imean…”Itriedtofigureouthowtoprotestsomethingthatwasclearlyalreadyhappening.“Asurpriseparty?”
“Itwasn’tmeanttobeasurprise,exactly.Youjustweren’therewhenwearrived.Itneverevenoccurredtomethatyoumightleavethehouse.”
“Ileavethehouse,”Isaid.
“Notvoluntarily.”
“Sue…”Isaid,astonishedattheGrandCanyon–sizedistancebetweenhowshethoughtI’dfeelaboutthisforcedpartyandhowIactuallyfelt.
“Wherewereyou,anyway?”sheasked.
“Ihadadate,”Isaid,glancingoveratJoe.Butdancinghadbrokenoutacrosstheroof,andhewaswatchingoneofSue’sfriendsdotheworm.
That’swhenSuewhisperedintomyear,“Withthevet?”
Inodded.
Sothenshewhispered,“How’ditgo?”
Ishookmyhead.Andthenflaredmynostrils.Andthengaveherathumbs-down.
“Okay,”Suesaid,swingingaroundtosteermebytheshoulderstowardthebeercoolers.“Let’stablethat.You’vegotarooftopfullofpeopleheretocelebratewithyou.”
“Whatarewecelebrating,again?”Iasked.
“Hello?TheNorthAmericanPortraitSociety?Toptenfinalist?Youhaven’tforgotten,haveyou?”
Ihadn’tforgotten.Ofcourse.ButIsuddenlynoticedhowimportanttimingwaswhenitcametothingslikecelebrating.Yes,we’dbeenabouttocelebratethefinalistthingathousandyearsago,beforemylifefellapart.
Butthen…mylifefellapart.
WasitfairtosayIjustdidn’tfeelmuchlikecelebratinganythingthesedays?IlovedSuesomuch,myextrovertedfriend.AndIlovedthatshewastrying.Butwhatonearthaboutnonconsensuallybringingfiftypeopleintothevicinityofapersonwithsuddenface-blindnessfeltlikeagoodidea?
Nottomention,mymom’sbirthday.ButIhadn’ttoldSueaboutthat.
“Youlikeparties!”Suesaid.
“Ilikeparties,”Icorrected,“whenIknowthepeopleatthem.Idonotlikepartiesfullofstrangers.”
“Literallynoonehereisastranger,”Suesaid.Thenshepointedatagroupoffacelessguysstandingaroundthebeercoolers.“That’sStephan,”shesaid,runningdowntheline.“Andthat’sColin.Andthat’sRyan.Andthat’sZachandAndré,andoh—”
“‘Oh’what?”
“Oh,”Suesaid.“ItlookslikeEzrashowedup.”
“YouinvitedEzra?”
Suecoughedinindignation.“Ofcoursenot.Somebodymust’vebroughthim.”
Great.Oneofthepeopleherewasmyex-boyfriend.ButIhadnoideawhichone.
“Atleastyoushowedupwithsomeeyecandyonyourarm.”
“Eyecandy?”Iasked.DidJoequalifyaseyecandy?
“Youknow,”Suesaid,noddinginJoe’sdirection.“Yourmaleprostitute.”
Guessso.
“Imighthavebeenwrongaboutthat,”Isaid.
Suelethergazelinger.“Maybeheshouldbe,”shesaidwithappreciation.“Hecouldmakeakilling.”
“Sue,”Isaid.“Let’sfocus.Thisisaproblem.”
“What?”
“Theparty!Thepeople!Myexroamingloose!”
“Why?”shesaid.“Everybodyherelovesyou.”
“ButIcan’trecognizeanyone.”
“Theywon’tcare.”
“Theywillcare,Sue.Theywillthinkit’ssuperweirdwhenthey’retalkingtomeandIhavenoideawhotheyare.”
“Thenlet’sjusttellthemwhat’sgoingonwithyou.”
“NO!”Ichokedout.
“Youdon’twanttotellthem?”
Ileanedcloser.“Never.Ineverwanttotellanyone.”
“Whynot?”Sueasked.
“It’shumiliating.”
“Why?It’snotyourfault.”
“Trustme.Havingyourbrainmalfunctionishumiliating.”
“Ifyousayso.”
ButSuewasrealizingnowthatshehadn’texactlythoughtthisthrough.
“Look,”Isaid.“TheonlypeopleintheentireworldwhoknowaboutthisareyouandmydadandLucinda…andParker.”
“Parkerknows?”
“Lucindatoldher.”
“Thenit’snotasecretanymore.She’lltelleveryone.”
“Notyet.Ithinkshe’senjoyinglordingitoverme.”
“Butshewill.”
“Maybeit’llfixitselfbeforethen.”
Suesighed.“Okay,”shesaidthen.“Here’stheplan.First,you’regoingtochangeoutofthosewetclothes.”
“Noargumentthere.”
“Andthenjuststickclosetome.Wheneveranyonetalkstous,I’llsaytheirnamerightaway,soyou’vegotit.”
Thatwasn’tabadidea.“Thatcouldwork,”Isaid.
“It’lltotallywork.”
“Justpromiseme,”Isaidthen,holdingoutmyhandsowecouldshakeonit,“thatyouwon’tleavemyside.”
“Ipromise,”Suesaid,pumpingmyhandupanddown,“thatIwillnevereverleaveyourside.”
GUESSWHAT?
Sheleftmyside.
Notonpurpose.Shejustgotdraggedaway.
Iwentintothebathroomtochange,andIneversawheragain.
Iwasleftalone,asPicasso-facedpersonafterPicasso-facedpersoncameuptomeandforcedmetoSherlockHolmesonetheoryafteranotheraboutwhoIwastalkingto.
Lookingback,Icouldhavejustleft.
IcouldhavefoundJoe’sfloppyhairandhipsterglassesandsteeredhimofftofeedmethatmealhe’dpromised.Buthewaslostinthefacelesscrowd,too—andallattemptstosearchforhimgotinterceptedbyfacelesspeoplehuggingme,untilIwoundupmakingway-too-friendlychitchatwithmyex-boyfriendforfivesolidminutesbeforerealizingwhohewas.
Alltosay,thesituationsnowballed.
BeforeIevenreallysawitcoming,Iwashavingapanicattackoutbehindtheutilityroom.
AtleastIthinkitwasapanicattack.
Isitapanicattackwhenyourentirebodyisutterlyhijackedby…panic?
Andyougetdizzy?Andyousweatandhavethechillsatthesametime?Andyourheartpoundsandyourchesthurtsandyourhandsgocold?Andyoucan’tcatchyourbreath?Andyoufeellikeyou’redying?Andyoucollapsetoyourkneesinadarkcornerandpressyourforeheadtotheconcretetotrytomaketheworldstopspinning?
Isthatapanicattack?
’Causethatwasme.
AndIsureashellwasn’tcelebrating.
IhavenoideahowlongI’dbeenthere,tryingnottopassout,whenIheardavoicesay,“Areyouhavingapanicattack?”
SoofcourseIsaid,“No.”
“Youlooklikeyou’re…notokay.”
Notokay?Thatwasjustinsulting.Okaywasmywholething.“Iamalwaysokay,”Isaid,tosettherecordstraight.Andthen,whenthepersondidn’tacceptthatandleave,Isaid,“I’mfine.”Then,myvoicemuffledagainsttheconcrete,Iadded,“I’mgood.”
“Youdon’tlookgood.”
Thiswasn’tParker,wasit?Shenevermissedachanceforaninsult.Butno—ofcoursenot.Itwasaman’svoice.One,asusual,Icouldn’trecognize.
“Identifyyourself,please,”Isaidintotheroof.
Arustlingbesidemeaswhoeveritwassatdown.“It’syourpal,Joe,”thevoicesaid,closerandsofternow.
“Hi,Joe.”Forasecond,knowingitwashimmademefeelpalpablybetter.Butthenitoccurredtometowonderifhemightbefilmingthismomentforlaterblackmail,andIfeltworseagain.
“I’mnopsychiatrist,”Joesaidthen,“butI’veseenalotofpanicattacks.Andthiskindoflookslikethat.”
“I’mfine,”Iinsisted.Iwasalwaysfine—whetherIwasfineornot.
“Okay,”Joesaid.“Afriendofmine—whoclearlyhadatotallydifferentthingfromyou—usedtofindithelpfulformetopatherbackinmomentsthatwerenothingatalllikethis.”
“I’mnothavingapanicattack,”Isaid.
“Great,”Joesaid.“NeitheramI.”
“SoIdon’tneedyoutopatmyback.”
“Cool.Youdon’tneedit.”Alongpausewhileheletthatsettle.“Butwecouldjustdoitforfun.”
“Fine,”Isaid,toobusydyingtofight.
Andthenhereallydidit.Ifeltahandsettlebetweenmyshoulders,andthenIfeltitslidedownmyspinetillitreachedmylowerback,thenliftupasecond,andappearagainbackupattheshoulders.
HewasbasicallypettingmelikeIwasadog.
But,ugh.Okay.Itfeltnice.
IfIweren’tfeelingsonauseous,ImightbestrugglingwithallmycognitivedissonanceaboutJoe.Myfirstimpressionhadbeensounbelievablybad.Butmanyoftheimpressionsthatfollowedhadbeengood.Hadthatfirstimpressionbeenwrong?Orwashejusthidingallthebadstuffreallywelltomyface?
IguessI’djusthavetotakeitonepanicattackatatime.
“Thefactthatyoudon’twantmetohelpyou,”Joesaid,“reallymakesmewanttohelpyou.”
“Thatsoundslikeayouproblem.”
“Ittotallyis.It’sthereasonmywifeleftme.”Thenhecorrected:“Oneofthem.”
Iadmitthatgotme.“Yourwifeleftyoubecauseyouwerehelpful?”
“Yep.”
“I’mnowife,butthatdoesn’tseemlikeathingwivesnormallycomplainabout.”
“Iam,apparently,toohelpful.Problematicallyhelpful.Tosumupourmanyarguments:Ihelpeverybodyallthetimewithoutdiscretion.Oldladies.CubScouts.Mangycats.Ihavenohelpingfilter.”
“Butisn’tthatagoodthing?”
“ShealsothoughtIwasabadtipper.”
“Why?”
“BecauseIgaveeverybodytwenties.Hotelmaids.Valets.Everybody.”
“Okay,DaddyWarbucks.I’mwiththewifeonthatone.”
“Shefeltitwasacompulsion.Beingtoonice.”
Iguessshe’dneverheardhimsaythewordblubber.
“Anditimpactedherqualityoflife.Negatively.”
“I’mtryingtoimagineexactlyhowhelpfulyou’dhavetobeforanon-insanewomantodivorceyouoverit.”
“Therewereafewotherreasons,”Joesaid.
“Areyoupathologicallyhelpful?Didyougivesomeoneyourcar?Or,like,avitalorgan?”
“Notyet,”Joesaid.
“Mylastboyfriendwastheoppositeofhelpful,”Isaid.“Yourwayisbetter.”
“That’scomforting.”
“I’mprobablyagoodfriendforyou,”Isaid.“BecauseIneverneedhelp.”
“That’sarelief,”Joesaid,continuingtostrokemybackinahypnotizingrhythmandkindlyallowingmetoignoretheirony.
Iadmit:Itwasrelaxing.
Afterawhile,hesaid,“MyfriendwhohadacompletelydifferentthingfromyouusedtobreathewhileIdidthis,andithelpedheralot.”
“Idon’tneedtobreathe,thankyou,”Isaid.
“Suityourself,”Joesaid.Butthenheadded,“Deepbreathsaresuperhealthyforyou,though—evenifyou’retotallyfine.Imighttakeafewmyself.Justtoimprovemyalreadystellarhealth.”
Andwiththat,Joesuckedinabig,loudbreath,helditforaboutthreeseconds,andthenblewitbackout.“Sorefreshing,”hesaidthen.“Mygrandmadoesthiseveryday,andshejustturnedahundred.”
Hekeptbreathinglikethat,andwhatcanIsay?Peerpressure.Ijoinedhim.
Wedidabouttenrounds,andthen,I’mnotgoingtolie:Ididfeelbetter.
Lessdizzy.Lessnauseated.Lesssweaty.
“Myfriend’stotallydifferentthingusedtopassafterabouttwentyminutes,”Joesaidthen.
“Idon’tthinkmythingisgoingtopassuntilthispartyends,”Isaid.
“Ah,”Joesaid.Then,asecondlater,likehe’dhadanidea,hesaid,“Areyouokayhereonyourownforaminute?”
“Iamnow—andwillcontinuetoalwaysbe—onehundredpercentokay,”Iinsisted,foreheadstillpressedtotheconcrete.
“Berightbackthen,”Joesaid.
Afewminuteslater,Iheardachunknoise—justasthemusiccutoutanditseemedlikemydarkcornergotdarker.ThenIheardtheambientsoundofapuzzledcrowd.ThenIheardJoe’svoice.“Poweroutage,guys.Looksliketheparty’sover.”
Ohgod,hewasmyhero.
Justknowingtheywereleavingdrainedthestressfrommybody.
BythetimeJoecameback,Iwassittingup,leaningagainstthebrickwall,breathing.Likeapro.
“Didyoujustflipthebreakerandpretendtherewasapoweroutage?”Iasked.
“Yep,”Joesaid.
“Andeverybodywenthome?”Iasked.
“Yep.”
“Andthenyoucamebacktocheckonme?”
Joeshrugged,like,Obviously
“Didyouworryatallthatthedarknessmightfreakmeout?”
“Nah,”Joesaid.“We’vegotthemoon.”
Ilookedupandsawitforthefirsttime.ItwasbrighterthanI’drealized.“Iguesswedo.”
ItoccurredtomethenthatImighthavetostartalteringsomeofmyopinionsaboutJoe.NextIasked,“Andoncethecoastisclear,areyougoingtotakemeoutforthatdinneryoupromised?”
ButJoejustshookhishead.“No.”
Ifeltaflashofdisappointment.“You’renot?”
“Nope,”Joeconfirmedthen,turningbacktothemoon.“BecauseIalreadyorderedusapizza.”Fifteen
WEATEPIZZAontheroof,cross-legged,watchingthecityskyline.
Idon’tknowifitwasthebreezeplayingwithmyhair,ortherecedingadrenalinefromthepanicattack,orthelayeruponlayerofcompassionJoehadofferedtome,butIfoundmyselfbizarrelyrelaxed.Scarfingdownthatpizzawithgusto,talkingwithmymouthfull,sayingthingsIwouldnever—ever—normallysay.
Like,forexample:Itoldhimitwasmymother’sbirthday.
Didheneedtoknowthatinformation?
Absolutelynot.
ButIwantedtotellhim.Iwasn’tgoingtobeabletodomyusualthing—itwasfartoolatetogogetcake-bakingingredientsnow,andIwasmuchtooexhausted,anyway—butIguessIjustwantedtomarkthemomentofit,eveninatinyway.
“It’smymother’sbirthdaytoday,”Isaid.
“Weshouldcallher,”Joesaid,checkinghisphoneforthetime.
“Can’t,”Isaid.“Shedied.”
Joe’sshouldersfellalittleatthat,andhispizzaslicewentaskewinhishand.
“It’sokay,”Isaid.“Itwasalongtimeago.”
“Butyoustillmissher,”hesaid,readingmyexpression.
“Ido,”Isaid.
JoewaitedtoseeifI’dsaymore.Butwhatwastheretosay,really?
FinallyIwentwith,“Everyyear,onherbirthday,Ibakeheracake.Andlightcandles.AndwatchCaryGrantmovies.Itellmyselfthat’stheonedaywhenshecanhearmefromheaven—andIdon’tevencareifit’strue.Italktoher,outloud,likeshe’sthere.Ijustletmyselfhavethat.AndItryreallyhardtobehappythatIhadherinmylifeatall.”
Hewasgoodatlistening,itturnedout.Itpromptedmetokeepgoing.
OrmaybethiswasjustsomethingIreallyneededtosay.
“Shediedverysuddenly,”Isaid.“Andwhenitwasallover—weekslater—Ifoundavoicemailfromherthatshe’dleftmethedaybeforeshedied.Itwasthemostordinaryvoicemailintheworld.ButIlistenedtoitandrelistenedtoitsomanytimesthatImemorizedit.Imemorizedthewords,butalsothepausesandthetempoandthemusicalnotesinhervoice.Icanstilldoittothisday.WhenIwasreally,reallylonelyatboardingschool,Iusedtogoonlongwalksandreciteitoverandover,likeapoem.”
“Reciteit,”Joesaidthen.
“What?No.”Ishookmyhead.“It’sboring.”
ButJoesaid,“It’stheoppositeofboring.”
Ihesitated.
“Justreciteitforme.I’dlovetohearit.”
Hewould?Washebeingsincere?Isuddenlyfeltshy.“It’sveryordinary,”Isaid.“She’sjust,like,talkingaboutwhattohavefordinnerandstufflikethat.AndshecallsherselfMama,eventhoughbythenI’dbeencallingherMomforyears.”
Joeleanedalittlecloser,waiting.
I’dneverreciteditforanyonebefore.Mydaddidn’tevenknowtherecordingexisted.Itookadeepbreath.ThenIfixedmyeyesonarandomspotinfrontofme.
ThenIjustwentforit:“Hey,cutie.It’sMama.I’matthestore.I’mthinkingspaghettifordinner.Good?Withgarlicbreadandsalad?Callmeifyou’dratherdoFrenchtoast—butI’mabouttocheckout,sobefast.Also,they’reoutofthatshampoothatsmellslikecoconuts,soI’mgrabbingthelemononeinstead.Dadhastoworklatetonight.Notsurewhatyourhomeworksituationis,butI’mfreetowatchamovieifyouare.Okay,that’sit.Homeintwenty.Loveya.”
JoewasquietafterIfinished.“Youreallyknowitall.Evendowntothepauses.”
“I’velistenedtoitathousandtimes.Atleast.”
“It’ssoheartbreaking,”Joesaid.“Butshe’sjusttalkingaboutspaghetti.”
“Becauseshediedthenextday,”Isaid.“That’swhy.”
“Soyouknowthedayshedied.”
“Idon’t,actually.Ican’trememberwhatdayitwas.Itwassometimearoundnow.Sometimeinthespring.Sometimebeforeherbirthday.Butasfortheactualday?Noidea.Sofunny.Thatdaychangedmylifemorethananyothereverhas.Butit’sjustoneday.Youknow?Andit’snotexactlyadayyouwanttoremember.”
Joenodded.Icouldfeelhisreaction.I’dworriedthemundanityofitmightbeunderwhelming.Buthewasn’tunderwhelmed.
Heseemedtogetit.
“Anyway,that’swhatIdoeveryyear,butthisyeargotalittlewonky.ButIguessit’sokaytomissitonceinawhile.”
“There’sstilltime,”Joesaidthen.Hecheckedhiswatch.“It’sonlyten.”
Iwrinkledmynose.“I’mtootiredtobakeacakenow.”
“Whatifwegogetacake?”
Ifrowned.
“There’sadessertplacenottoofarfromhere.I’lltakeyou.”
ITWASN’TUNTILwe’dmadeitallthewaydownstairsthatIrealizedhemeanttotakemeonaVespa.Whichwasprobablymedicallyilladvised.
“Mydad’sadoctor,”Isaid,asJoeworkedthelock.
“Yeah?”hesaid,likeIwasjustmakingchitchat.
“Healwayscalledmotorcycles‘donor-cycles,’”Isaid.
Joeliftedhiseyebrowlikehe’dcaughtmeonatechnicality.“Thisisn’tamotorcycle.It’saVespa.”
“Isn’titdangerous?”Iasked.
“Atteno’clockatnightwhendowntownisdeserted?”hesaid.“Nomorethananythingelse.”
Goodnews:Thehelmetfitinawaythatdidn’ttouchmysurgicalscar,whichIwasstilltenderabout—emotionally,ifnothingelse.
Withthat,Joesatonthefrontpartoftheseatandmotionedformetoclimbonbehindhim.Thenhewrappedmyarmstightaroundhistorsoandsaid,“JustleanhoweverIlean.”Thenheclickedthemotoron,crankedthehandle,andshiftedusintomotion.Confidently.Easily.Likeapersonwhoknewexactlywhathewasdoing.
Andwewereoff.
NextthingIknew,weweremotoringthroughthedesertednighttimedowntownstreets,myarmssnugaroundhim.Ifyougoexactly20milesperhourindowntown,youcantimeitsoyouneverhitaredlight.Andsowejustcruisedalong,slalomingabitinourlane,thewindcaressingusandthemotorvibratingbeneath,neverhavingtostoporwait,justsweptupinacurrentofmotion.
Itwashighlyrelaxing—forsuchadangerousthing.
Itdidn’ttakemelongatalltomeltintothemoment.Joeclearlyknewthisscooterbackandforth,andeverythinghedidhadtheeaseofmusclememory.
Wedidn’ttalk.
Wejustflowedalong.SummerinTexasisdeathlyhot,butspringiscoolandlovely.TheMarchairfeltlikeripplingwaterovermyskin.Wetookaroadthatcurvedalongthebayou,andwepositivelyfloatedalongit.Wepassedstreetart,theDandelionFountain,andtheDowntownAquarium,withitslight-upFerriswheel.Itwasalittlelikedriftingthroughadream.
HowlonghaditbeensinceI’dhadsomeonetoholdonto?
Thedessertplacewasopen—packed,infact,withfolksgatheringforsweettreatsandcoffeeaftertheirevening’sactivities,crowdedattablesbothinsideandoutonthesidewalk.I’dpassedthisplaceamilliontimes.I’djustneverhadareasontocomein.
Abright,bustling,cheeryplace.Itfeltlikeaparty.
Now,weorderedslicesofcake—mine,ayellowdinerslicewithchocolateicing;his,deathbychocolate—andthenwewedgedourselvesintoasmalltableinthemiddleofitall.Joehadinsistedonpaying,andhemusthavetoldthemwewerecelebratingabirthday,becausewhentheslicesarrivedatthetable,thewaiterlittwogiantsparklercandles,stuckthemintheslices,andshouted,“Everybody!Let’ssing‘HappyBirthday’to—”
Andthenhelookedatme.
“Nora!”Ishouted—anditfeltsogreattojustshoutmymom’sname.
Andsothewholeroombegantosing.AndIswearIhadneverthoughtofthe“HappyBirthday”songasanythingparticularlyspecialuntilthatmoment—butsittinginfrontofthatsparklercandleastheentireroomlaunchedintoarichrenditionofit,Isuddenlywonderedwhythatsongdidn’tbringmetotearseverytime.Maybeitwashowcrowdedtheroomwas,ortheacoustics,orthesoundofallthosepeoplesingingwarmwishestomylong-lostmother:HappyBirthday,DearNora…
Butmyvoicegottoowobblytosing.
Ispentthesecondhalfofthesongjusttakingitallin.
Savoringit,thewayIknowshewouldhave.
ItwasnothinglikewhatIusuallydidtocelebratemymom’sbirthday.
Butmaybedifferentwasn’tsobad.
THEREWERELOTSofupsidestothatnight.
Ithadfeltsurprisinglygoodtohelpoutthegirlinthecoffeeshop,andithadbeensurprisinglysatisfyingtotelloffParker.Sue,whilewoefullyofftarget,hadatleastbeensweetlytryingtocheermeup.Joehadturnedouttobegreatatanti-panicbackrubs.Andcreatingpoweroutages.AndIhadcelebratedmymom’sbirthdaynotaloneforthefirsttimesinceshedied.
Butwhat,intheend,wasmytakeaway?
Noneoftheupsides.Justtheonecrushinglydisappointingdownside:Igotstoodup.
Thatwasthesentencethatticker-tapedthroughmyheadallthenextday.
Igotstoodup.Bymyfuturehusband.Onourveryfirstdate.
Howwouldwespinthattothegrandkids?
Imean,fine.He’dhadaworkemergency.Igotit.Iwouldn’thavewantedhimtohaveleftsomeSaintBernarddyingaloneintheclinic.
He’dbeenbusydoingsomethingnoble.Itwasafairexcuse.
Butherewastheproblem.Itwasnowthenextday,andtheadmirable,flawless,andperfectDr.OliverAddison,DVM,hadnotcalledtoapologize.
Imean,ifyouleavealadysittinginacoffeeshop,evenforagoodreason,youshouldcallthenextdayandgrovelalittlebit.Right?Makesomevoicecontact?Stressinrealtimehowsorryyouare?Maybedemonstrateenthusiasmbysettinganewdatetotryagain?
Nothingfromthisguy.Crickets.
Whichforcedmetowondersomethinghorrible:Maybethisperfectmanwasn’tsoperfectafterall.
Notfair.Hadn’tIalreadydecidedhewassupposedtosolveallmyproblems?
Hewassupposedtomakethingsbetter,notworse.Hewassupposedtoeasemyworries,notcreatemoreofthem.Hewassupposedtomakemefeelgood—notfriggingterrible.
Maybehehadn’tgottenthememo?
Iknewofcoursethatpeopleweren’tperfect.Lifewasmessy.Hedidn’tevenknowhowmuchIwascountingonhimtobethefantasy-manmiragethatkeptmemovingthroughmypersonalemotionaldesert.
Icouldn’tlegitimatelyresenthim.
ButIresentedhim,anyway.Illegitimately.
Hewasjustsodisappointing.
Alldaylong,ashecontinuedtodisappointme,Imadeexcusesforhim—maybehe’dbeenupallnightandfallenasleepexhausted?—whileresentingthefactthatIhadtomakeexcusesforhim.
AndwhileIwaited,myminddriftedmoreandmoretoJoe.
BecauseifDr.OliverAddisonhadbeendisappointing…Joe,ifI’mhonest,hadbeentheopposite.
Joehadbeensurprising.Surprisinglynice.Surprisinglyattentive.SurprisinglynotatalllikewhatIwouldhaveexpectedapersonI’dnicknamedtheWeaseltobe.Sixteen
ONTHEAFTERNOONbeforeSuewascomingoverforoursecond—andfinal—make-or-breakattemptatherportrait,ItookPeanutoutforhisfirstlongwalksincehegotsick.
We’dbeenclearedforlittlewalksalmostfromthebeginning.ButbeforePeanutcoulddohissignaturelong,rambling,sniff-everything-in-sightstroll,wehadtomakesurehisstrengthwasback.
Ididn’tmind.Itgavemesometimetothink.
I’dbeenhoping—sohoping—thattheedemawouldmagicallyresolvebeforeIreallygotdowntothewireandhadtopaintthisportraitfortheshow.EverymorningIwokeupandshuffledtothebathroommirror,squeezingmyeyesclosedforasilentprayerbeforefinallypeekingtoseewhatIcouldsee.
Andeverymorning,ofcourse,myownfacewasjustajumbledpileofdisconnectedfeatures.
Imissedit.Imissedseeingmyface.
ButI’dbeeninstructednottogiveuphope,andIwasnothingifnotobedient.
Itwouldcomeback,Ikepttellingmyself.Therewasaverygoodchance,atleast.
ButnowIwasatthepoint,withjustovertwoweeksbeforetheportraitdeadline,whenIhadtotrudgeforward—fusiformfacegyrusorno.Imean,evenifImagicallyresolvedmyfaceblindnesstomorrow,I’dstillneedtimetopaintthepainting.
Itwasamake-it-workmoment.
AndsoI’dbeenresearchingthebrain.I’dbeenreadinguponpaintingtechniquesandneuroplasticity,andhowcreativityworked.I’dbeenhuntingthroughdifferentstrategiesformakinglotsofdifferentart.Mybestideawastotrytobypassthefusiformfacegyrusaltogether,ifIcould.Touseothersensesratherthansight.TosneakaroundmyownassumptionthatIhadtoseefacesthewayI’dalwaysseenthembeforeIcouldpaintthem.
Maybetherewasanotherwayofseeing.
MaybeifSuedescribedherfacetomeinwords,thewordscouldmakeanewpathformetofollow.MaybeIcouldcaptureherfacebeforemyfusiformfacegyrusfiguredoutwhatIwasupto.AnotherideawastotrytoturnSue’sfaceupsidedown,ormaybesideways,sothatmybraindidn’trealizeitwasaface.Maybeifwejustthoughtweweredoingshapesandcolorsandlines,theFFGwouldneverhaveareasontocausetrouble.Andthen,ifneitherofthoseworked,I’dturntomath.Myleastappealingoption,sinceIwasquitemath-challenged.ButartistChuckClosehadmappedphotographswithfacesusingagrid.Who’stosayIcouldn’tdothesamethingonarealface?
Ifworsecametoworse,ImightdrawanactualgridonSue’sactualface.
Shedidn’tknowthatyet,ofcourse.
Buttheseweredesperatetimes.
ANDSOTHEREtheywere.Countlesslatenightsofresearch,distilleddownintomybestthreeideas.Ormoreaccurately,myfinalthreeshotsinthedark.IknewIcouldn’tpaintthewayI’dalwaysdoneit.Myonlyremainingchancewastotrysomethingnew.
Andwhatifnoneofthemworked?
Well,Iwasn’tgoingtothinkaboutthat.
Anyway,that’swhatIwasplanningasPeanutpeedoneverycloverflowerbetweenmybuildingandthebayou:allthecrazynewportraittechniquesI’dtrytonightwithSue.Ihadthecanvasallreadyandameasuringtapeandaprojectorwithagrid.We’dstartwithwordsandgofromthere.MaybeitwouldworkbetterthanIfeared.Maybemyfusiformfacegyruswouldsurpriseme.
Iwasgivingmyselfthatpeptalkwhenafatplopofrainhitmynose.
Followedbyanotheronmyarm.
AndthenIlostcountcompletelyassomedambrokeintheskyandPeanutandIhadtorace-walkthehalfmilehomethroughwhatfeltlikeawaterfallofrain.
Bythetimewemadeitbacktothebuildinglobby,IlookedlikeI’djustclimbedoutofaswimmingpoolinallmyclothes.Myhairwasplastereddownonmyface,andmyshoesweresquishingliketheywerefullofJell-O.
PeanutandIslidthroughtheelevatordoorsjustastheywereclosing—onlytolookupandseetwopeoplealreadythere.Joeinhisjacket.Andafacelesswoman.
Standingnexttoeachother.
“Whoa,”Joesaidatthesightofme.
“Yeah,”Iagreed.
Peanutshookhimselfoutandsprayedthembothwithrainwater,whichmadeJoelaughandthewomanbesidehimrecoil.
Andthat’swhenIsmelledPoison.
Ugh.Justmyluck.
Joetookastepclosertome.“CanIhelpyououtsomehow?”
Hestartedtounziphisjacket,likehewasgoingtogiveittome,butthezippergotstuck.
“It’sfine,”Isaidasheyankedatit.“I’malreadydrenched.”
ButJoewasdetermined,andwhenhecouldn’tgetthezippertogive,hepulledthejacketoffoverhishead.
Itreallywastoolittle,toolate—butIdidn’tstophim.Mostlybecausethesightofhimwrigglingwassoentrancing—ashisT-shirtcameup,too,revealingthestripesatthewaistbandofhisboxerbriefs—thatParkerandIbothjuststoodthere,enjoyingourselves.
Araremomentofunity.
Whenhewasfinallyoutofit,hebroughtthejacketovertome.
Itookit—butthenIwrappeditaroundPeanut.
“Hey,”Joesaid.“Thatwasforyou.”
“He’swetter,”Isaidasmyclothingaudiblydrippedontheelevatorfloor.
Joesettledintoplacebesideme.Themovehadhadadefinitivefeeltoit,asifwewerechoosingteamsingym…andhe’djustchosenmine.
Thatfeltgood.Notgonnalie.
ButnottoParker.
Actingfast,beforewereachedthetopfloor,sheputherhandtoherforeheadandmoanedalittle,fallingbackagainsttheelevatorwall.
ThatgotJoe’sattention.“Hey—areyouokay?”heasked,steppingcloser.
“Ijustsuddenlyfeltdizzy,”Parkersaid.
Andthen,withatechniquethatwasneithersubtlenorconvincing,sheangledherselfatJoeandthen“fainted”intohisarms.
Hecaughther,ofcourse.Joewasn’tthekindofguywhowouldjustletarandomstrangerhitthedeckwithouthelping.
Onceshewascaught,shelolledherheadbackdramaticallyandexposedherwholenecktohim—whichhemighthavefoundtemptingifhewereavampire.
ButJoejustlookedupatmethen,myunconsciousevilstepsisterinhisarms,totallybefuddledbywhatwasgoingon.
Granted,hedidn’tknowshewasmyevilstepsister.
Theelevatordoordingedandslidopen.
Topfloor.
IwalkedoutandheldthedoorforJoeashecarriedParkertowardherapartment.Atthedoor,hestopped.“Hey,”hesaid,shakingheralittle.“Wakeup.”
Ihadpausedinthehallway,stilldripping,torubberneckthesituationandseehowitplayedout.
Joeturnedmyway.“Whatshouldwedo?”
ButIjustshrugged,likeNoidea.
That’swhenParkerrouseddramaticallyandsaid,“I’msodizzy.Couldyouhelpmeintomyapartment?”Andthenshegavehimthepasscode.
Withthat,theyweregone—Parker’smetaldoorslammingsoharditleftatinnyechobehind.
IlookeddownatPeanut,swaddledinJoe’sjacket.“Thatwasweird.”
Peanutlickedhiswetmustacheinagreement.
IwastemptedtobangonParker’sdooruntilJoecamebackandthenhaulhimoutbythecollartoexplainthatParkerMontgomerywasalife-ruinerwithatotalofzeroredeemablequalities—andthenexttimeshefaintedinfrontofhim,heshouldjustletherfall.
ButIwastoocoldandtoowetforthatconversation.SoPeanutandImadeourwaydownthehallwaytowardhome.
BUTTHAT’SWHENweranintoaproblem.
Rememberhowthedeadbolthadbeenbrokentheotherday—stuckintheoutpositionsothedoorcouldn’tlock?
Today,thedeadboltwasstuckagain,butinsidethelatch.Soitcouldn’tunlock
Iputmypasscodeinoverandover.
Imeanyes,myfingerswerecoldandtrembling—butnotthatbadly.
Peanut,alsocoldandtrembling,waitedpatientlywhileItriedagainandagain.
IfoundMr.Kim’snumberandtextedhim.
Mr.andMrs.KimhaddoneverywellinHouston,developingallkindsofproperties,thankstohisbusinesssenseandhereyefordesign.Theyprobablycouldhavelivedanywhere,buttheylivedhereinthebuilding.MostlybecauseMr.Kimwassuperhands-on.
Whenthingswentwrong,wetextedMr.Kim.
Whichworkedfine—unlesshewasbusy.
Imighthaveexperiencedamomentoffrustrationwhilewet,cold,worriedaboutmydog,anddesperatetogohome.It’spossibleItriedtoshakethedead-bolteddooropen.Imightormightnothavehitthehandleseveraltimeswithmyshoe
Noluck.
Finally,therewasnochoicebuttojustwait.Therewerethreestepsuptothedoortotherooftop,andsoIsatdown.
Awet,tremblinghumannexttoherwet,tremblingdog.
Ofcourse,inthatsituation,Icouldn’thelpbutnoticethatJoehadnotyetcomebackoutofParker’sapartment.Whatwashedoinginthere?Whatcouldpossiblybetakingsolong?Wasshetryingtoseducehim?Payinghimforhisservices?Makinghimuncloghershowerdrain?
Anythingwaspossiblewithher.
Onethingwasclear.Ididn’tlikeit.
Forhissake.
NothingwithParkerever,everendedwell.
Iwasn’tjealous,Itoldmyself.ThiswasthesamecourtesyI’dextendtoanyhaplesshumanwhowasabouttofallvictimtosomethingpoisonous.
Justrun-of-the-millhumankindness.
WhenJoefinallycameout,hesawmeattheendofthehallandmadehiswayinmydirection.
“Whatwereyoudoinginthereallthattime?”Idemanded.
“Shewasn’tfeelingwell,soIlookedafterheralittlebit.”
“Shewasfeelingfine,”Isaid.“Shewasfaking.”
Joenodded.“Probably,yeah.ButIdidgetthefeelinglikeshejustneededsomebody.”
“Well,shecan’thaveyou,”Isaid.
Joetiltedhishead.“Shecan’t?”
“Trustmeonthis,”Isaid.“Thatgirlisbadnews.”
“Didyouwaithere,drippingwet,inthehallwaytotellmethat?”Joeasked.
“Iwaitedhereinthehallway,”Ianswered,gladtohavealegitimateno,“becausethelocktothisdoorisbroken.Again.”
Joefrowned,andthenhetookitallin—meshivering,Peanutshivering,thedoorhandlewithitsnewshoe-dents.
“Ohgod,you’refreezing,”hesaidthen,reachingouttotouchmycheek.
“You’rejustnownoticingthat?Myteethhavebeenchatteringthiswholetime.”
“DidyoucallMr.Kim?”
“Threemessages.Andthreetexts.”
“Okaythen,”Joesaid,crookinghisarmaroundmyshouldersandsteeringmetowardhisdoor.“Comeon.”
JOE’SAPARTMENTWASbig.Andpenthouse-fancy.Andtopoftheline:Vikingrange.Glassfridge.Itmademyhovellookevenmorehovelly.
Butalso?Theplacewastotallyempty.
Byempty,Imeantherewasnofurniture.Atall.
Exceptforacoupleofbarstoolsattheislandandamattressonthefloorinthemasterbedroom…nothing.
IsawitwhenJoesteeredmeintothemasterbathroomsoIcouldtakeahotshower.
“WhataboutPeanut?”Iasked.
Joehandedmeatowel.“I’llgethimwiththeblow-dryer.”
“Becareful,”Isaid.“Hedoesn’tlikemen.”
“Helikesme,”Joesaid.
“Youdon’thaveasofa,butyouhaveablow-dryer?”Isaid.ThatfloppyhairofJoe’sdefinitelycouldn’trequiremuchmaintenance.
ButJoewasalreadygone.
WhileIshowered—andcanIjustsaythathisshowerwasfar,farsuperiortomine,soIstayedinwaytoolong—Joeaccomplishedmanythings.HeleftaT-shirt,someheather-graysweatpants,abigplaidbathrobe,andsomeoversizesocksthatfitlikeChristmasstockingsfoldedbythedoorforme.Heblow-driedPeanut,aspromised,andthentalkedhimintoeatingafewpiecesofcoldrotisseriechicken.HeleftanoteontherooftopdoorforMr.KimtocallmeorcomebyJoe’splacewithanyinfoonthelock.AndheorderedtakeoutfromanItalianplacenearbythatIjusthappenedtolove.
Prettyimpressive,allinall.
WhenIemergedatlastalllayeredupwithmyhairwrappedinafluffywhitetowel,Iwasfeelingalotbetter.
Thefoodhadalreadyarrived,andhewasunpackingthebagattheislandinhisemptykitchen.
“Thankyouforyourhelp,”IsaidasIapproached.
Joelookedupatthesoundofmyvoiceandthenstilledatthesightofme.
WhateverexpressionhewasmakingthatIcouldn’tsee,Icouldn’treadit,either.
“Don’tlaugh,”Isaid,tighteninghisrobearoundme.
“I’mnotlaughing.”
“Don’tstare,either.”
“I’mnotstaring.”
“Yesyouare.”
Joedroppedhisheadtolookdown.
Icouldn’thelpbutfeelannoyed.IbethislastglimpseofParker’sattirehadbeenalaceteddy.“ThisisthebestIcandowithmyselfrightnow,okay?”
“No,”hesaid,likeIwasmisunderstanding.“Youlook—”
“Ilookwhat?”
“Youlook…cozy.”
Ifeltanunexpectedpingofdisappointmentatthat.ButwhathadIbeenhopingfor,exactly?“Lovely”?“Ravishinginaman’splaidbathrobe”?“Somuchbetterthanyourstepsister”?
Themanwasservingmelinguinefradiavolorightnow.MaybeIcouldcuthimabreak.
Itooktheemotionalhighroad.“Thankyouforrescuingme.”
“You’renotrescuedyet,”Joesaid—andatthat,IcheckedmytextsforanythingfromMr.Kim.
Nothing.
Fine.Eatfirst,worrylater.
IglancedovertoseeifIshouldmakeaplateoflinguineforPeanut,buthewasfastasleep,alittlepileofblow-driedfur.
“So,”Isaid,settlingontoakitchenstoolandgesturingaroundatthisemptywarehouseofanapartment.“What’sthestoryhere?”
“Whatstory?”
Ilookedaroundagain.“Youknowyoudon’thaveanyfurniture,right?”
“Ah,”Joesaid.“That’strue.”
Nosenseinpretending.“ThisisthesaddestapartmentI’veeverseen,”Isaid.“It’sworsethanmyplace,andIliveinahovel.”
“Apenthousehovel,”Joepointedout.
“Arooftophovel,”Icorrected.
“Butit’ssurprisinglynice.”
“It’smuchnicerthanthissad…”—Ilookedaround—“emptywarehouse.”ThenIhadtoask.“Howlonghasitbeenlikethis?”
“Ayear.”
Ichokedonanoodle.“Ayear?”
Joecrunchedonhissaladandgavemeashrug.
“Doyou…”Itriedtoimagineanykindofreasonatallwhyagrownmanwouldliveinanemptyapartmentforawholeyear.“Areyou…anti-furniture?”
“Notreally,”Joesaid,likethatwasallhewasgoingtosayonthat.Thenheadded,“IjustgaveitalltoGoodwillwhenmywifeleftme.”
Ah.
Okay.
Hewenton,“Iwantedtoburnitinagasoline-fueledbonfire,butthat’sagainstcityregulations.Apparently.”
Wow.Joehadapast.Andmaybesomeangerissues.Whydidthatsuddenlymakehimsexier?“Youcheckedwiththecitybeforetorchingyourex-wife’sfurniture?”
Henodded.“It’sallonthemunicipalwebsite.”Thenhetiltedhisheadlikehewasnoticingmypoint.“I’mverylaw-abiding.”
“Fairenough.”
“Shemusthavedonesomethingreallyhorribletoyou,”Isaidthen,allcasual,hopinghe’dspillitall.
“Yep.”
“Foryoutowanttoburneverything.”
“Yep.”
“Andthenforyoutojust…liveinamausoleum.”
Joestoppedchewingandassessedme.Thenhemadeadecision.“Shecheatedonme.Withaguyfromwork.Andthensheleftmeandmovedinwithhim.Andnowthey’regettingmarried.”
Isqueezedmywholefaceuplikethatreallysmarted.“Ohgod.”
“Yeah.”
“Howdidyoufindout?”Iasked.
“Isurprisedheronaworktripandfoundthemtogetheratherhotel.Naked.Inherprivatehottub.”
“Oof.”
“Shegothomefromthetrip,packedasuitcasewithoutaword,andwenttoahotel.Shecamebackafewdayslatertogettherestofherstuff…andbroughthimwithher.Shebroughthimwithher.Toourapartment.Shekeptsaying,‘Ithoughtyou’dbeatwork,’likethatmadeitbetter.Andthen—longstoryshort—Iwoundupbeatingthecrapoutofhim.”
Hepaused,likeImightthinkthatwasabadidea.
“Good,”Isaid,holdingupmyhandforahighfive.
“Yeah,well.I’mnotnormallyviolent.Justsoyouknow.”
Ilookedathisforkfuloflinguine,restinglukewarmandforgotteninhishand.
WhyhadIpushedtotalkaboutthis?PoorJoe.NowI’dmadehimlosehisappetite.
“Hottubs,”Ideclared,likethismightmakehimfeelbetter,“arejustcrawlingwithbacteria.”
Hewenton.“It’sprettyclichéstuffwhenyouthinkaboutit,”hesaid.“Happenseveryday.”
“Butnottoyou.”
“No…”hesaidquietly.“Thatwasanewoneforme.”
ButsuddenlyIwasfeelingmadforhim.“What’swrongwithher,anyway?Whatcouldshebethinking?”
Withthat,IcouldfeelmyselfsigningupforTeamJoe.IfhewastheterriblepersonI’doriginallythought,hewashidingitreally,reallywell.
Maybetherewasagoodexplanation.
WhateverI’dheardintheelevator,itjustcouldn’thavebeenwhatitsoundedlike.
“You’reveryhandsomeandnice!”Ideclaredthen,goingallin.“Sheshould’vebeenthankingherluckystars!”
“Youdon’thavetosaythat,”Joesaid.
Imean,didIknowforsurehewashandsome?No.Butwhocared?Suesaidhewas—andshewaspicky.“It’strue,”Iinsisted.“Shesquanderedyou.”
“I’llbouncebackeventually,”Joesaid.“Ijust…haven’tfoundagoodreasonto.”
Ipointedathim.“Yet.”
Hesighed.
“Comeon.Sayitwithme.Youhaven’tfoundagoodreasonto—yet.”
Hisshoulderssankasheresisted—likemyforcingthisoptimismwasjustinsulting.“Yet,”hefinallysaid.Andthenhestuffedthatwholeforkfulofcoldlinguineinhismouth,madehimselfchewit,andswalloweditdown.
Then,likeamanwho’djustaccomplishedsomething,hesaid,“Andwhat’syourdeal?”
“Mydeal?”
“Withthatwoman,”Joesaid,gesturingwithhisnow-emptyfork.“Acrossthehall.”
Thatwoman.Acrossthehall.Actually,Parkermightcomeinhandyasadistraction.Isatupstraighter,readytoshiftourfocusfromhismiserytomine.Hislifemightstartlookingbetterbycomparison.
“She’smyevilstepsister,”Isaid.
Joewasn’ttheonlypersonherewithapast.
“Wow,”Joesaid.“Okay.Theystillmakethose?”
Igavealittleshrug.“Notjustforfairytalesanymore.”
ThenJoesaid,“Canyoudefineevilhere?”
Ithoughtaboutitasecond.Beingvaguewasalwaysanoptionintimeslikethese.Butwhynotjusttellthetruth?Ifshewasgoingtokeepfaintingherselfintohisarms,heshouldknowwhathewasdealingwith.
Itookabreath.
“Aftermymomdied,myfathermarriedhermother—like,sixmonthslater,bytheway—andParkermovedintomyhouse,startedattendingmyschool,framedmeforsomeviciousbullyingthatsheherselfwasdoing…andthengotmekickedout.”
Joetookthatin.“Kickedoutofschool?Oroutofthehouse?”
“Both.”
“Wow.”
Inodded.“ThegirlshebulliedwasthissweetkidnamedAugustaRoss.We’dbeenfriendssincewewerelittle.Sheusedtobakesugarcookieswithmeandmymom.Parkerleftmenacingtypedanonymousnotesinherlockereverymorning.Stacksofthem.ShetoldAugustathatshewasugly—goingintogreatdetailaboutwhatwaswrongwitheveryfeatureonherfaceandeverypartofherbody.ShemadeupliesabouthowmuchindividualpeoplehatedAugusta—andfabricatedterriblethingsthey’dsupposedlysaidabouther.Shewasrelentless.
“Andhere’stheclincher:ShetoldAugustathatifsheevertoldanybodyaboutthenotes,shewouldpoisonhercat,Cupcake.Andthensheprintedoffpicturesofcatsandcuttheireyesout—andstartedleavingthoseinAugusta’slocker,too.”
Well.Wecertainlyhadchangedtopics.
Joeseemedtohaveforgottenallabouthisex-wife.
Heslurpedaforkfuloflinguine.
Iwenton.“HerbullyinggotsobadandwassorelentlessforsolongthatAugustaonenighttriedtoswallowawholebottleofTylenol—whichreallywillkillyou,bytheway.”
Joenodded.“Liverdamage.”
“Luckily,shewasterribleattakingpills.Whenherparentswalkedinonherinfrontofagiantpileofcapsules,thewholestorycametumblingout.Theschoolgotinvolved.Aninvestigationhappened.AndParker,whohadapparentlybeentypingthosenotesinahiddenfileonmylaptop,wenttotheadministrationandhandeditover.”
“Yougotblamed,”Joesaid,astonished.
“Igotkickedout,”Isaid.“Theysentmeawayafterthat.Toathingtheycalled‘boardingschool,’butithaddistinct‘correctionalfacility’vibes.”
“Nobodystoodupforyou?Nobodyhelpedyou?”
“EverybodysidedwithParker.Includingmyownfather.”
“Howcouldhedothat?”
Ishrugged.“Hesaidtheevidencewasincontrovertible.”Itookasipofwater.“That’sactuallyhowIlearnedthewordincontrovertible.”
“Wow,”Joesaid.
“Yeah.”
“Shesoundslikeapsychopath.”
Inodded.“Shebasicallystolemylife.Bytheendofhighschool,shewaslivinginmyroom,wearingmyclothes,hangingwithmyfriends,andsleepingwiththeboyfriendwhodumpedmeafterthescandal.”
Joeshookhisheadinprotest.
“Buttheworstpart,”Isaid,inconclusion,“wasPeanut.Icouldn’ttakehimwithme.Hehadtospendtwoyearslivingwiththosemonsters.ThedayafterIgraduated,ImadeLucindabringhimouttomeonthefrontwalk,andIneverlookedback.”
FinallyJoesaid,“Holyshit.”
Inodded.“Yeah.”
“Andnowshe’smovedintoourbuilding?”
“Yep.”
“Notbyaccident,I’mguessing.”
“Agreed.”
“Butwhy?”
“Idon’treallyknow,”Isaid.“Butit’snotbecauseshe’ssuddenlychangedherentirepersonality,Icanpromiseyouthat.”
“Doyouthinkshe’sheretomesswithyou?”
“Iguaranteeit.”
“But…”Joeaskedagain,lookingbefuddled.“Why?”
Ithoughtforasecond.“Youknowthosechildrenwhotrytotrapgroundsquirrelssotheycantorturethem?”
“Iguessso?”
“That’sher.AndI’mthegroundsquirrel.”
Joetookthatin.
“Anyway,”Iwenton,“nowshe’ssethersightsonyou,sobewarned.”
“Whatmakesyouthinkthat?”
Ilookedintohispuzzle-pieceface.“Shetoldme.”
Joepausedlikethatwascompletelynuts—which,infairness,itwas.“Whywouldshetellyouthat?”
Isawthiscoming.IcouldsoeasilyhaveshruggedandsaidIdidn’tknow—andleftitatthat.ButIwasgoingtohavetodoalittlebitoflevelingwithhimtogethimoriented.Itwasmycivicdutytoinformhimwhathewasdealingwith.
SoIsaid,“BecauseshethinksIlikeyou.”
Itwasahellofathingtojust…putoutthere
WhatwasIdoing?WhatwasIthinking?
Sure—Iwastryingtobeaccurate.
ButImiscalculated.IthoughtthatifIrolledmyeyesalittleinthedelivery,he’ddismisstheunderlyingtruthofitoutofhandwhilestillgraspingtheessentials:thatParkerwasouttogetme—andhecouldbecomecollateraldamage
ButIfaroverestimatedmyactingskills.
Aneyerollisacomplexthingtomanufacture.It’snotjusteyes.Eyerollsalsorequireaslightshrug,animperceptibletiltofthehead,amicroscopicretractionoftheneck.Plusimpeccabletiming.Aneyeroll,whenyoureallythinkaboutit,requiresawholeballetofdelicateandprecisemuscularchoreographytimedtothemillisecond.It’snotforamateurs.
Alltosay:Iflubbedit.
Icameofflikeakidactorinabadsitcom.
AndIrealizedIwasoverdoingitasIoverdidit—andsothenIgrimacedinvoluntarilyandgavemyselfonethousandpercentaway
But—andI’llalwaysbegratefultohimforthis—Joedidn’tcallmeonit.Hedidn’tputmeonthespot.Hedidn’tleaninallcuriousandsay,Issheright?Doyoulikeme?
HejustgraciouslyfocusedonthethingIclearlywantedusalltofocuson:howincomprehensiblyterribleParkerabsolutelywas.“Isthatwhyshefaintedintheelevator?”
“Pretendedtofaint,”Ipointedout.
“Wasshe—makingamove?”
“Shewas.”
“Byfainting?”
“Itgotherintoyourarms,didn’tit?Anditgotyouintoherapartment.”
“Imean—sure.Inamedicalway.”
“Babysteps,”Isaid.“Givehertime.”
Joenoddedlikethiswasallreallyfascinating.
“Anyway,Ithoughtyoushouldbewarned.”
“Thanksforthewarning.ThoughIdidn’tneedit.”
Howverycockyofhim.“Andwhynot?”Iasked.
Joeleanedforward,swipedthegarlicbreadoffmyplate,shruggedcharmingly,andthensaid,“Becauseshe’snotmytype.”Seventeen
MR.KIMDIDwindupansweringmytexteventually,andIdidwindupstandinginthehallwaywithhiminJoe’stoo-bigbathrobeashegotthelockworking.
“Whyisthehandledented?”Mr.Kimasked.
“Nocomment,”Isaid.
“Where’sHelpful?”Mr.Kimasked.
Ifrowned.“Where’s—?”
“Helpful,”Mr.Kimsaid,gesturingtowardJoe’sapartmentwithhishead.“Hecouldn’tgetthisfixed?”
Mr.Kim’snicknameforJoewasHelpful?Hehadnicknamesforlotsofpeopleinthebuilding—oftenjusttheirapartmentnumbers.Butthisoneseemed,suddenly,especiallyonthenose.
“Idon’tthinkhe’sverymechanical,”Isaid.
Alltheotherlocksonthepenthousefloorwere,ofcourse,high-tech,digitalfancinessyoucouldoperatewithyourphone.Thislock,however,waslikea1980spunchbox.Somethingarealestateagentinshoulderpadswouldoperate.
“Thisisaterriblelock,”IpointedouttoMr.Kim.
Hedidn’tdisagree.Justglancedinthedirectionoftheroof.“Technically,nobody’sevenupthere.”
“Fairenough,”Isaid.
Mr.Kimcouldfixanything,andthatwasapointofpridewithhim.Hehaditworkingagaininrecordtime—andIwasn’tsureifIwasgladordisappointed.
Beforeheleft,Mr.Kimleanedintotellmesomething.“WhenSuecallsyouwithhernews,don’tworry.Hegotourpermission.”
“Whogotyourpermission?”Iasked.
ButMr.Kimshookhisheadandmadealittlekey-lockinggestureathismouth.“I’vesaidtoomuchalready.Buttrustme.It’sokay.Theyhaveourblessing.”
“Whohaswhatblessing?”
Buthejustshookhishead.
Thenhestarteddownthehallway,wavinggoodbye,beforeremembering:“Mrs.Kimhassomehomemadekimchiforyou!I’llbringituptomorrow.”
“Icancomedownandgetit!”Ioffered.
Buthewavedtheideaaway,likePshaw.
Justashedisappearedintotheelevator,myphonerang.
Itwashisdaughter.
“Hey,Sue,”Isaid.“Yourdadwasjusthere.”
“Don’ttellhimI’monthephone!”shesaid.
“He’sgonealready,”Isaid.“Whydoyousoundfreaky?”
Sueregrouped.“I’mcallingwithnews.”
“Goodnews,Ihope,”Isaid.
Suedidn’tcommentonthat.“IknowI’msupposedtocomeovertonight—”
Icheckedthetime.I’dcompletelyforgottenabouther.“Yes!Andyou’reanhourlate!”
“ButIhaveaconflict,”Suesaid.
“Youcannothaveaconflict,”Isaid.
“ButIdo,”Suesaid,inavoicethatwasjustbeggingmetoaskherwhatitwas.
Isighed.“What’stheconflict?”
Andsosheburstout,“I’meloping!”
“You’re…?”
“Eloping!”Suesaidagain—becauseitwassofuntosay.
“Eloping?”Itdidn’tcompute.“WithWitt?”
“Guesswhathegotforus?”
Didshereallywantmetoguess?
“Transcontinentalrailwaytickets!AcrossCanada!”
Guessnot.“Whatdoesthatmean?”Iasked.
“We’retravelingfromonesideofCanadatotheother!”
“Onatrain?”Iasked.Didtheyevenstillhavethose?
“VancouvertoHalifax,baby!”shesaid,inavoicelikewewereabouttohigh-five.
ButIrefusedtovalidatethismadness.“Idon’tunderstand.”
“We’reeloping.Onatrain.Wittboughttheluxurypackage,”Suesaid.“Heuseduphissavings.”
“Okay,that’saredflag,rightthere.”
“Hush.It’sromantic.”
“Idon’tknowifyouknowthis,”Isaid,“butCanadaisreallybig.”
“Yeah!”Suesaid.
“Sothisisn’tlikeaweekendjauntoranything.It’lltakeatleast…”Ipausedtocalculate.
“Fourteendays,”Suesupplied.
“Fourteendays!”Irepeated.Then,toconfirm:“That’stwoweeks!”Then,justtomakeitsoundevenmoreridiculous:“That’safortnight!”
“It’ssixteendayswithtraveltime.”
“Whataboutwork?”Idemanded,graspingatstraws.“Don’tyouguyshavejobs?”
“Wefigureditout.Don’tworryaboutit.”
“Whataboutyourparents?Won’ttheybepissed?”
“Hegottheirpermissionbeforehand.Whichmadethemlovehimevenmore.”
Shesighedliketheresistanceinmyvoicewasexcitement.Likeweweregoingtoswoonaboutthistogether.“It’sasleepertrain,”shewhispered.
Whywasshewhispering?“Don’tpeoplegetmurderedonthose?”
Shepaused.“Wait.Areyounotexcitedforme?”
Ibacktracked.Whatkindoffriendwasn’texcitedforherbestpalwhensheelopedwithaformercollegetrackcaptain?“Iamveryexcitedforyou,”Isaid,worryingagainaboutmyacting.
“That’sarelief,”Suesaid.
“Whendoyouleave?”
“That’sthething,”Suesaidthen.“We’reattheairportnow.Soifyouhaveanissue,speaknoworforeverholdyourpeace.”
“You’reeloping—rightnow?Aswespeak?”
“Itwasasurprise,”Sueofferedmeekly.
“But—”Isaid.Wasitunsupportiveofmetopointoutthatshewasabandoningmeduringtheoneweek—theonlyweek—whenIneededherthemost?
“Iknow,”shejumpedin,notmakingmesayit.“We’resupposedtodotheportraitthisweek.”
“I—”
“Ishouldhavecalledyousooner—butitwasallsodramatic.Hekidnappedme.Isn’tthatcute?”
Idrewthelineatkidnapping.“Notreally.”
“Thepointis,Ihadnoidea.”
“Wait—”Isaidthen.“AreyoucallingmefromtheairportinCanada?”
“GreetingsfromVancouver.”
Ohgod.Shewasalreadygone.
Iwashappyforher.Iwas,Iwas.OfcourseIwas.
But…just…whowasgoingtomodelformenow?
Iwasinauniquelyterribleposition—becauseIhadtodoauniquelybizarresetofthingstothisperson.Icouldn’tjusthiresomerandomartmodel.IbarelyfeltcomfortabledoingallthesethingstoSue.Andwe’dseeneachotherinbathingsuits!
Ifeltanurgetocryclaspingatmythroat.ButIswallowedit—hard.
IwasnotgoingtoruinSue’skidnapping-elopementbyburstingintotears.Ijustrefusedtobethatperson.
Itookadeepbreathinstead,andIratchetedmyfaceintoabig,brightsmile.“I’msohappyforyou,”Isaid.
“Youare?”
“Ofcourse!BeingkidnappedtoCanadaiseverygirl’sdream.”
“Butwhataboutyourportrait?”
“Pah,”Isaid,makingthemostdismissivenoiseIcouldthinkof.“Modelsareadimeadozen.I’llhaveyourreplacementbeforeyoucaneatabeavertail.”
“NiceCanadareference.”
“You’rewelcome.”
Itdawnedonmethatweneededtowrapthisupbeforemyvoicestartedtrembling.“Yourealize,ofcourse,I’mgoingtomakeyoudoapretendsecondweddinglatersoIcanbeabridesmaid.”
“Doneanddone,”Suesaid.
Imadeherpromisetotextmelotsofpictures.Andsavethebouquet.Anddrinkawholebottleofmaplesyrup.AndthenIblewkissesintothephone.AndthenIhungup…
Andstartedcrying.
Brokenlock.Sickdog.Nomodel.Evilstepsister.Best-friend-less,moneyless,jobless.Nottomentionsuddenlyface-blindattheworstpossibletime.Andabouttofumblemyfirst—andnowprobablylast—bigbreak.
Whattheever-lovinghellhadhappenedtomylife?
Ithadneverbeenperfectbefore,byanymeans—butatleastithadsomepotential.
Icouldn’tpullittogether,butIcouldn’tmakemyselfgobacktoJoe’sapartment,either,soIjuststoodthereinthehallwaycrying.Thisisgood,Ikepttellingmyself.Thisisemotionallyhealthy.You’vegottofeelyourfeelings.
Iwasfeelingthem,allright.
Ifeltthemandfeltthem—untilIfinallylookeduptoseeJoecomingoutofhisplacewithaboxoftissues.
“Iwasgoingtoletyoucryitout,”Joesaid,holdingouttheboxashegottome.“ButthenIstartedworryingyou’dgetdehydrated.Medically.”
“I’mnotabigcrier,”Isaid,pullingoutatissuetoblowmynose.
“Ifyousayso.”
Istuffedthetissueinmypocketandtooktheboxfromhim.“Seriously.”
“Ieavesdroppedonyourconversation,”Joeconfessed.“Notonpurpose,atfirst—butthenIgothooked.”
“It’sfine.”Whocared,honestly?Eavesdroppingwassolowonmytriagelist.
“Soundslikeyourbestfriendjusteloped?Fortwoweeks?Leavingyouwithoutamodelforyourportraitproject?”
Inoddedandstartedcryingagain.
JoewaiteduntilIsloweddown,andthenhepulledatissueoutoftheboxforme.“I’llbeyourmodel.”
Idabbedatmyface.“What?”
Joeshrugged.“Howhardcanitbe?”
“Ican’taskyoutobemymodel,Joe,”Isaid.
Butheshookhishead.“Youjusthavetositthere,right?”
“It’smorethanthat,”Isaid.“Thisiskindofaspecialproject.”
“Wait—”hesaidthen.“Isitanakedportrait?IsthislikeaBurt-Reynolds-on-a-bearskin-rugdeal?I’llneedtogrowsomebetterchesthair.”
Itoleratedthat.“Peoplearen’t‘naked’inart.They’re‘nude.’”
ButJoewasgrinningatmelikehehadmynumbernow.“You’regoingtomakemetakemyclothesoff,aren’tyou?”
“No!”Isaid.“Thisisacompletelynormal,non-nakedportrait.Noclothingwillberemoved.”
“Sowhat’stheproblem?”
Ilookeddown,tryingtofigureouthowtoexplainit.Itdidn’tmakealotofsenseifhedidn’tknowaboutthefaceblindness—andIwasalreadydoublingdownonnevertellinghimaboutthat.Themoreappealinghebecame,themorehedidnotneedtoknowhowmessedupmylifewas.
Buthowtoexplainitwithoutexplainingit?
“SueandIweregoingtotrysomeunconventionaltechniques,”Isaid.
“That’sfine,”hesaid.
“I’vebeentryingtopushmyselfasanartist,”Isaidnext.Notuntrue.“AndsoIneedtotrysomenewstrategies.”
“Areyoutheonewho’llbenaked?”
“Noone’sgettingnaked.”
“ThenIdon’tseetheproblem.”
“It’sjust…”Itriedagain.“I’dhavetotouchyou.”
“Touchme?”
“I’dhavetodrawagridonyourface.Sothere’dbeafairbitoftouching.Andstaring.Andstudying.Foralongtime.Itcouldbevery…intimate.”
“Butyouwouldn’tbepunchingme,right?”
“Ofcoursenot.”
“I’mstilljusttryingtofigureoutwhichpartofthisisbad.”
“It’snotbad,exactly.Itjustmightbeawkward.”
“Icanhandleawkward.”
“Butwhywouldyouwantto?”
Joetiltedhishead,likeitwasalreadyobvious.“Tohelpyouout.”
Atthewordhelp,Ifeltmyusualknee-jerknope
Ididn’twanthishelp!Ididn’tneed—
…Butactually,Ididneedhishelp.
Iwouldn’tbestandinginthishallwaysobbingifIhadanyotheroptions.
Woulditbesoterribletojustlethimhelpme?
IthoughtabouttheveryrecentmomentwhenI’dgivenmyfavoritedresstoatotalstrangerinapublicbathroom.Itdidfeelgoodtohelpotherpeopleoutsometimes.
Fine,Idecided,withalongsigh.Hewantedtohelpme?I’dlethimhelpme.
WhatotherchoicedidIhave?
Maybethiswasamomentofpersonalgrowth.
“ThingsImightdotoyou,”Isaid,“include,butaren’tlimitedto:Staringatyoualot,peeringatyou,andleaninginclose.Studyingyou.AskingyoutodescribeyourfacetomewhileI’mpaintingit.Projectingagridoveryourfaceandmappingitoutmathematically.Measuringyourfeatureswithatapemeasure.Andtouchingyourface,neck,andshoulders.Isanyofthatobjectionable?”
“Aslongasyoudon’tputmeinaBurtReynoldstoupee.”
“Butwhatdoyouthink?”
“IthinkIdon’tknowwhywe’restilltalkingaboutit.”
ButthenIhadtoask:“Woulditbotheryourgirlfriend?”
“Mywhat?”
Itiltedmyheadtogesturedownthehall.“Aren’tyoudatingBustyMcGee?”
Helookedinthedirectionofmygesture.“DoyoumeanMarieMichaux?”
“Huh.Iguessshehasarealname.”
“Youknowshe’sascientist,right?Dr.MarieMichaux.”
“No,”Isaid.“Ijustknowshelooksfantasticinatanktop.”
Joeshookhishead.“Sheisatrailblazingevolutionarybiologistandherpetologist.”
“Herpetologist?Shestudiesherpes?”
Joesighed.“Herpetologistsstudyreptiles.She,inparticular,studiestheeffectsofclimatechangeonsnakecoloration.”
Istareddownthehallatherclosedapartmentdoor.“That’snottheprofessionIwould’veguessed.”
“ShewasjustfeaturedinSciencemagazine.She’sbrilliant.”
“So…”Isaidthen,justtoirritatehim.“You’redatingabrilliantherpesologist.”
“Herpetologist,”hesaid,makingacoupleoftuh,tuhnoisesafterwardtoemphasizetheT.“Andwe’renotdating.”
Thatperkedmeupalittle,thoughI’dneveradmitit.
Itperkedmeupsomuch,infact,thatIdidnotsubmitanyfollow-upquestions—onthechancethathemightfollow“We’renotdating”withsomethingghastlylike“We’rejustsleepingtogether.”
Don’task,don’ttell.Whathedidordidn’tdowiththesnake-a-tologistwashisbusiness.
“Ican’tpayyou,”Isaidthen.“Notwithmoney,anyway.”
Thatgothisattention.“Whatwillyoupaymewith?”
“Well,”Isaid,“Ican’tgiveyoutheportraititself,becausethey’reauctioningthoseoff.”
“That’sokay,”Joesaid,alldeadpan.“Ihavetoomanyportraitsofmyselfalready.”
“So,”Iwenton,businesslike.“Let’sjustsayyoucanhavewhateveryouwant.”
“WhateverIwant?”heasked,likeitwastoogoodtobetrue.
“Withinreason,”Isaid.“Ifyouwantmetopaintsomethingforyou,orifyouwantmetobuyyoudinnerorgiveyouanartlesson,maybe.Whateveryoucanthinkof.”
“Areyougivingmeablankcheck?”heasked.
“No!”
“Soundslikeablankchecktome.”
“I’msayingyouandIcanfindamutuallyagreed-onformofpaymentatsomepoint.”
“Soinotherwords,”Joesaid,thedelightofteasingmeprettyclearinhisvoice,“ablankcheck.”Eighteen
SUE’SELOPINGWASabummerformanyreasons.
One,I’dbemissingmybestfriend’swedding.
Two,allthestuffIwasabouttodotoJoewasnerve-rackingtosaytheleast.Hehadnoideawhathewasinfor.
Andthree,Suehadpromisedtobemydatetotheartshow.
Whichwastheworstbummerofall.
Becausewhenyouhavetodosomethinggenuinelyscary,it’snicetohaveafriend.
I’dbeallalone.JuststandingstraightandbrittlewithcrazyeyesandaquaverysmileallnightwhileIwaitedforabunchofportraitcriticsintortoiseshellglassestorenderjudgmentonmytalent,myvalueasahumanbeing,andmyentirefuture.
So,yeah.WaselopingtoCanadareallymoreimportantthankeepingmefromdyingofmisery?
Icouldseebothsides.
Anyway,Suehadbeenfullyonboardtohelpmesurviveitall.
Untilshegotkidnapped,thatis.
IsupposeitwaspossibleI’dastonishusallandwinthisartshow.
ButIdidn’tlovemyodds.
Thatsaid—Ihadjustenoughhopetokeepgoing.
That’sthedarkunderbellyofhopethatnobodyevertalksabout.Howitcanskewyourperspective.Howitcankeepyouinlongpastwhenanyreasonablepersonwould’vebeenout.HowitcanlandyouinyourownapartmentonarandomTuesdaynight—annotatingyourdownstairsneighbor’snose-to-lipdimensionswithatapemeasure.
“Youdon’thavetoholdyourbreath,”IkepttellingJoe.
“Right.Gotit.”
Hewasmorenervousthanhe’dexpectedtobe.Icouldtellfromhisposture.Andhowveryscrubbedcleanhewas—likemaybehe’dtakenashowerandahalf.Evenfromthecautiouswayhe’dwalkedacrosstherooftoptowardmydoor.Almostlikehehadhalfamindtoturnaround.
“It’sharderthanitseems,huh?”Isaid.
“Trigonometryishard.ClimbingElCapitanishard.LandingonthebeachesofNormandyishard.Thisisjust…sittinghere.”
“Sittingherewhileatotalstrangermeasureseverysquareinchofyourface.”
“You’renotatotalstranger.”
“You’reright.I’mworse.Youknowmejustenoughforthistobesuperawkward.”
“Idon’tfeelawkward,”Joesaid.
“Yeah,youdo.”
I’dmadeagraphonacanvasandIwasdividinghisfaceintoone-inchsections,tryingtotreateachsquareasadifferentlandscape.Maybeifmybraindidn’tknowitwasaface,itwouldn’tcausetrouble.
Iworkedmywayfromtoptobottom.SofarIhadthehair,thehairline,theforehead,andtheeyebrows.Ithadgoneprettywell,butnowwewerecomingtotheeyes,andforsomereasonIdidn’tunderstand,eversincethestartofthefaceblindness,theeyesweremyhardestthingtolookat.
Buttheseweren’teyes,Itoldmyself.Theseweredotsandlinesandcolor.Ijusthadtothinkaboutitthatway,andI’dbefine.Maybethatwasthetricktoitall.Abstractitout.Makethefacenotaface.
Easy.
ButofcourseJoedidn’tknowhisfacewasn’taface.Hekeptrubbinghiseyesandsneezingandlookingbackatme.Everytimehiseyesmetmine,Igotajoltofsomethingphysical,likeIwaslookingintoabrightlight.
“Youcanlookdown,”Ikeptsaying.
“Sorry,”he’dsay.
Mostly,though,hesatstill.
Mostly,theproblemwasme.
Thisjustwasn’thowIwasusedtoworking.
I’dbeenpaintingportraitssincehighschool.I’dpatternedmytechniquesandmethodsintomybrainlikedeepgrooves.
Thisfeltliketryingtoreadabookupsidedown.Inanotherlanguage.
AtnopointdidIeverjustgetcaughtupintheflow—thewayIalwayshadbeforewhenIwaspainting.Therewasnoflow.Therewasnogettinglostinthemoment.ThemathandthestruggleandtheshockinglyclosepresenceofJoe’sactuallivehumanbodyjustrightthere,inchesawayfromme—breathingandgeneratingheatandleaninginwheneverIgotclose—keptmeanchoredtoreality.
IblameJoe.
Andthattorsoofhis.
Anddon’tevengetmestartedontheimaginaryjudgesIkepthearinginmyhead:“Didsheuseagridforthis?Whatisthis,paintbynumbers?”
Icouldfeelmyselflosing.Inadvance.
Ihadabadfeeling.ItookapictureoftheportraitsofarandtextedittoSueforherprofessionalopinion.
Herreplywasimmediate:Nope.Creepy.
Salvageable?Itextedback.
Notachance.
“Idon’tthinkthegridisworking,”IsaidtoJoe.
Joeshrugged.“Okay.What’snext?”
Iconsultedmylistofideas.“Let’sturnyouupsidedown.”
Sothatwasournextattempt.Joelayonthesofa,hanginghisheadbackwardoverthearm,andIturnedthecanvasupsidedownandtriedtosketchhimlikethat
Sue’sresponsetothisonewasasimpletwowords:Policesketch
Sowemoveddownthelist.Itriedhavinghimdescribehisfacetomeandpaintingwithmybacktohim.
Maybethethirdtimewouldbethecharm.
Butno.
Sue’sfinalresponsewastheworstofall:Serialkiller
Okay.
Weweredonehere.
Isetmybrushdownandtookasecondtorubthekinksoutofmyhand.HadIevercrampedupwhilepaintingbefore?
Never.
Joemusthavebeencrampingup,too,somehow.Becausehewatchedmeworkingonmyhandsforaminute,thenlookedupdecisivelyandsaid,“IthinkIneedabreak.”
We’dbeenatitsincefiveo’clock,andnowitwasten.
“Oh,”Isaid.“Sure.Ofcourse.”
Hestartedwalkingtowardmydoor,andwhenIdidn’tfollow,heturnedbacktowavemeinhisdirection.
Bybreak,Ithoughthemeant,youknow,aturnabouttheroomorsomething.“Arewe…goingsomewhere?”
“Weneedtogetsomeair.”
OUTSIDE,WESTROLLEDforabit.
ThenJoeasked,“Whohaveyoubeentextingallnight?”
WasthereanywayinhellI’dbetellingJoethatIhadnoabilitytojudgeifmyownportraitswereanygood?
No.
“Isityourfriendwhoeloped?”
“I’mjustgettingheropinions,”Isaid.“Ontheportraits.”
“You’retextingherpictures?”
“Yep.”
“CanIsee?”
“Seewhat?”
“Theportraits.”
Ifrownedathim,likehewascrazy.“Ofcoursenot.”We’dalreadyagreed.
Justthen,anothertextcameinfromSue.Iglanceddowntocheckit—justasJoeleanedovertopeek.
“Hey!”Iprotested,hidingthephonebehindmyback.
Buthetriedtoreacharoundme,allplayful.
“Nope,”Isaid,race-walkingaway.Hewasnotseeingthoseportraits.
Nowhewaschasingmealittle.“Yourfriendgetstoseethem,andsheabandonedyouforCanada.”
“Shedidn’tabandonme,shewaskidnapped,”Isaid,movingtowardapatchofgrass.
Whatwashappeninghere?ItgoeswithoutsayingthatJoetryingtostealmyphonewasmuchmorefunthanParkertryingtostealmyphone.
Butdidhereallycareaboutseeingtheportraits?Ordidhejustwanttoblowoffsomesteamandroughhouse?Hehadn’tseemedtocareatallearlier—butmaybehewasjust…lookingforareasontorunaroundoutside?Flirting,even?
Joeswipedatmyphoneagain,managingtopullmeintoahug-likesituationashedid—andthistime,hegrabbedit.
Iwasn’tclearedforrunning,soIknewIcouldn’tchasehim.
Instead,Ithrewmyfootoutandtrippedhim.
Hehitthegrasswithan“oof,”andthen,beforehecouldscrambleoffandrunaway,Isatonhimandstartedticklinghim.
Itworked.Joe,despitehisclaims,washighlyticklish.Hestartedlaughingsohard,hefullydroppedthephone.AnditwassofuntoseehisreactionthatevenafterI’dgrabbeditandstuffeditdeepintomypocket,Iwentbacktothetickling.
Whatastrangethingtodo.HadIevertickledanyoneinadultlife?
Definitelynever.Butitfeltsomehowliketheonlythingtodo.
Turnsout,itwasfun.
“Weagreed,”Isaid,likeIhadtopunishhimwithticklingnowbecausehe’dbrokentherules.“Youweren’tgoingtolookattheportraitsuntilIwasready.Right?”Itickledsomemore.“Right?”
“Fine,”Joefinallysaid,breathless.“Right.Igiveup!Peace!”
Isatback,outofbreath,andthenhesatup,alsooutofbreath.
Wesatcompanionablysidebysideforaminute.Thatwholethinghadbeenalotmoreplayfulthaneitherofushadexpected.
Andmoresuggestive.
Joewasjuststandingtohelpmeupwhenweheardawoman’svoicesay,“Youalwayswereticklish.”
Atthesoundofthevoice,Joewenttightlikeawire.Thenheturnedtostareatthewomanwiththeintensityofahuntingdogonpoint.
Shewasstandingafewfeetawayfromus,withaman,holdinghishand.
Whowerethey?WeretheypeopleIknew?Iscannedforclues.Shehadablackshirtdressandsandals,andheworekhakisandagraph-checkbutton-down.
Theycouldhavebeenanyone.
ButnottoJoe.
Joeknewexactlywhotheywere,andhisbodytensedupsomuch,ittightenedtheairaroundhim.Thatsaid,hehadsomegrassinhishair.SoIreacheduptobrushitout.
Hedidn’tevennotice.
“Whatareyoudoinghere,Skylar?”Joeasked,hisvoiceaboutasfriendlyasaknife.
Ohgod.Itwastheex-wife.
Thetip-offwasJoe’svoice.Specifically:thefumesofloathingrisingupfromit.
Yeah.Definitelytheex.
Skylarturnedtowardthemanwithher,whogaveJoealittlewaveliketheykneweachother.
Andthismustbethemanshe’dleftJoefor.TheHotTubGuy.
“Wewerejustgettingcoffee,”SkylaransweredJoe,noddinginthedirectionofBeanStreet,andcalibratinghervoiceto“pleasantries.”
“Thisisn’tyourcoffeeshopanymore,”Joesaid.
Skylargavealittle“sorry,notsorry”shrug.“Stillthebestintown.”
Joedidn’tdignifythatwitharesponse.
SoSkylarturnedtowardme.“Andwho’sthis?”
It’strue,Icouldn’tmakesenseofherface.Buteverythingelseabouthermadeperfectsense.Shewaspoised.Andcoiffed.Shecouldwalkinheels.Sheseemedexactly,genericallylikeawomanniceguysmightwanttomarryandspendtheirniceliveswith.
Butshewasalsoacheater.
ShehadmarriedJoe,andpromisedtoloveandcherishandbefaithfultohim…andthenshe’dclimbedbathing-suit-lessintoahotelhottubwith—IglancedoverattheHotTubGuybesideher—thisdude.
Gross.IcouldseeitinmymindalmostlikeI’dbeenthere.
True,myfirstimpressionofJoehadbeen…prettynegative.
IfthatwasallIhadtogoon,Imightevenbetakingtheex-wife’ssiderightnow.
ButeveryinteractionI’dhadwithhimafterthatfirstonehadbeenpositive.Verypositive.IthoughtaboutDr.NicolesayingIcouldn’ttrustmyself,andthenIthoughtaboutJoegivingmehisjacketwhenIwascold.AndfeedingmeItalianfood.Andblow-dryingPeanut.Andofferingtobemymodel.
Maybetheproblemwasme.
MaybeIshouldgivethispoorguythebenefitofthedoubt.
Inthatsecond,Icouldjustsenseeverymiserable,conflicting,rejected,angry,hurt,abandonedemotionthatJoehadtobefeeling.
Andinthatrushofempathy,Ijust…wantedtohelphim.
Maybeitwasthefactthathe’dhelpedmetonightwithoutanyhesitation.OrmaybeitwasallthetimeI’djustspentmeasuringhisface.Ortheticklingwe’djustdoneinthegrass.ButIfeltastrongurgetohelphimoutovertakemerightthen.
AndIjustdidn’toverthinkit.
Rightthere,underthecuriousgazesofJoe’sex-wifeandHotTubGuy,“Who’sthis?”stillhangingintheair,IslidupnexttoJoe,hookedmyarmaroundhiswaist,andtriedtocreatethemostsexuallysuggestivesidehuginhistory.
IfeltSkylartakeitin:thewaymyhiprubbedagainsthis,thewaymyarmtightenedaroundhistorso,theimpactofmytempleasitmadeitslandingonthecurveofhisshoulder.
Thatwasallsheneeded.“Ah.”
Guessitworked.
Itshouldhavebeenenough.Really,itwasplenty.I’dmademypoint,right?
Joehadrescuedmesomanytimes—andnowI’drescuedhimback.
ButitfeltbetterthanIwould’veexpected.Boththehugitself—touchinghim,slippingovercloseandpressingagainsthiminsomanyplaceslikethat,settingoffemotionalsparksIdidn’tseecoming—butalsotherescue.
Thebrainsystemthatreadspeople?Itrevvedrightupatthatmoment.IcouldfeelJoe’sreliefatwhatIwasdoing.Icouldfeelhowgratefulhewas.Itwaspalpable.Histensioneased.Hisbreathslowed.Eventhefeelofhisarmasitcameuparoundmeinresponsewaslikeagratefulcaress.
Suddenlywewereateamworkingtogethertopulloffthismoment.Thetwoofusagainsttheworld.Or—moreaccurately—againstJoe’sex-wife.
Thepointis,Ididn’tstopatthesidehug.
WhileSkylarandHotTubGuywerestilltakingusinasacouple,IcouldjustfeelJoe’sbrainreplayingthebetrayalalloveragain—almostlikeIwasfeelingitwithhim.AndIjustcouldn’tresistthechallengeoftryingtotakethatpainaway.
Ididn’tthinkitthrough,that’sforsure.
Ididn’tthinkatall.
Joewasn’ttheonlypersonaroundherewhocouldbepathologicallyhelpful.
AndatthatIreachedout,grabbedthecollarofJoe’sshirt,pulledhimdowntowardme,andkissedhim.
Bytheway,hislips?Inthatmoment?AsIwentinforthelanding?Icouldseethemjustfine.Zeroinginonthelipswaseasier,infact,thantryingtotakeinawholeface.Itfeltlikearelief.
Itwasmeanttobeapeck,butatthemomentofimpact,IheardSkylarmakeanastonishedlittlegasp.
Andthatspurredmetokeepgoing.
Topushincloser,infact.Togobigger.
Anddeeper.Andsofter.
IshiftedmyhanduptothebackofJoe’snecktoholdhiminplace—notsurehowhe’dreacttotheshockofitall.Theoddswerefifty-fiftythathe’djumpaway,likeWhatthehell?
Buthedidn’tjumpaway.
Theopposite,infact.
Inaremarkablefeatofsurpriseimprov,assoonasherealizedwhatIwasdoing,hewentwithit.Hebroughthishandtomyback,pulledmetighter,softenedhismouth,andkissedmerightback.
Justlikethat,itwentfromfaketo…somethingelse.
Wedidn’tevenneedahottub.
Idon’tknowhowlongthatlittlekisslasted.Threeseconds?Five?Ahundred?AllIknowis,whenitstarted,wewerebothentirelyfocusedonthecouplestandingacrossfromus…andbythetimeitended,thatfocushadshifted.
SkylarandHotTubGuywereforgotten.
Thatis,untilSkylarcoughedandsaid,“Okay.Well.Greatseeingyou.”
Itbrokethekiss,butnothingelse.Joedidn’tevenlookoverorloosenhisarmaroundmeorsaygoodbye.Hejuststaredintomyeyesuntilaftertheyweregone.AndIwastoodazedtoevenmind.
Then,inunison,wesnappedoutofthetrance.Webrokeeyecontactandsteppedback.
Next,ofcourse,itwasawkward.
Joecoughed.Ituckedmyhairbehindmyears.Joecheckedhiswatch.Ilookeddownatmyshoes.Finally—whatchoicedidIhave?—Ismackedhimontheshoulderandsaid,“Stoptryingtopeekattheportrait.”
Andmuchtomydelight,thatmadeJoelaugh.Andthatwassomething.
Ilookedoffinthedirectionthey’djustwalked.“Yourex-wife,right?”Isaid,myeyesonher.
Joenodded.“Bull’s-eye.”
“AndHotTubGuy?”
Joenoddedagain.“TeaguePhillips.”
“That’shisname?Teague?”
“Yep.Valedictorianofhishighschoolclass.”ThenJoeadded,“It’sweirdthatIknowthat.”
“Heseemsverydull,”Isaid,maximizingmyjudgmentalnessoutofloyalty.
“Thankyou,”Joesaidthen.“Myplanwastonever,everaccidentallybumpintothem.”
“Howdaretheycometoourcoffeeshop?”Isaid.“Nohottubbersallowed.”
“Whatyoujustdidwas…”Joestarted.
What?Whatwasit?
“Verykind,”hefinished.
Huh.Notsureaboutkind.Impulsive,maybe.Reckless.Brave.
“Youreallysavedme,”Joesaid.
Iheldmyfistupforabump—tryingtoreestablishequilibrium.“You’vesavedmeafewtimes.”
“Notlikethat,Ihaven’t.”
Hewasn’twrong.
“That,”hewenton,“wasaheroicthingtodo.”
“Doyouthinkitworked?”
“Oh,itworked,”Joesaid,likethatmightbetrueinmorewaysthanone.
“Gladtobeofservice,”Itoldhim.
Later,itwouldoccurtometoworryaboutDr.Addison.Iwasofcourseawarethatweweren’treallyengagedorevendating—yet.Butwehadanintentiontostartdating.Whatweretherulesaroundkissingsomeonewhenyouhadaplantostartdatingsomeoneelse?
Ihadn’ttechnicallycheated.Thatmuchseemedclear.
ButwhatwouldDr.Addisonthinkaboutthatmoment,ifhe’dknownaboutit?
Itriedtorevisethememoryintoasimpleactofaltruism.Joehadbeeninpain,andI’dseenawaytorelievethatpain.Unselfishly.
Fornopersonallygratifyingreasonsofmyown.
Italmostmademeabetterperson,inaway.
Besides.Anyway.IfDr.OliverAddison,DVM,didn’twantmeofferingpitykissestohipsterneighborsambushedbytheirex-wives,heshouldhavefoundawaytomakeittoourdate.Nineteen
YOUKNOWTHOSEdayswhenitjustfeelsliketheuniverseisouttogetyou?Andeventhoughyouknowintellectuallythattheuniverseiswaytoobusytositaroundplanningyourpersonaldestruction,itstillfeelsthatway,anyway?
Thenextdaywasoneofthosedays.
Ihadn’tbeenawakeanhourbeforeI’dstubbedmytoe,burnedmytoast,andwatchedPeanutthrowuponmyseagrassrug.Whichhappenedsometimes.Itdidn’tnecessarilymeanhewassick,butIcalledthevetanyway.Theysaiditwasnothingtoworryabout,butwemadeanappointmentforacheckuponThursday,justtobesafe.Iwassupposedtowatchhimuntilthenandcallifheseemedworse.
AnappointmentwithDr.Addisonshouldhavebeenasunnypatchuponthehorizon.
Buthestillhadnevercalledtoapologizeafterstandingmeup,soIreallywasn’tsureatallhowhefeltaboutme.
Iwasn’tentirelysurehowIfeltabouthim,either.
Becausethat“fake,notfake”kisswithJoekeptpoppingintomyheadinflashes:Thetensionofhissurprise,andhowfasthe’dmeltedintothemoment.ThetickleofhishairasI’dcuppedhisneckwithmyhand.Hisarmtighteningaroundme,pullingmecloser.Thevelvetysmoothnessoftheskinonhislips.
Ifanybodyatallhadaskedmeanythingaboutit—includingJoehimself—I’dhaveswornupanddownitwasonehundredpercentplatonic.
Butthoseflashesofmemorywerefull-bodyexperiences.Andwhentheyappearedinmymind,Ihadtosuckinaquickcoolbreath,andthenstandupandwalkaroundforaminute.
Dr.Addisonneededtopickuphispace.IcouldfeelJoegainingonhim.
ButthenIrememberedthatIwastheonewho’dwantedtotakethingsslowinthefirstplace.WhatwasIevendoing?Ishouldn’tbethinkingaboutanythingatallrightnowexceptgettingthatportraitdone—orkillingmyselftrying.Ishouldn’tbegoingaroundkissingpeople!Evenforhumanitarianreasons.
Screwhumanity!Ihadworktodo!
Butfirst—today—Ihadalongto-dolist.Noneofitfun.StartingwithabrainscanwithDr.Estrera.WhichmeantIhadtowalkalongJoe’shallwayandpasthisapartmenttogettotheelevator.Whichwasafull-bodyexperienceonitsown.
Thiswashisfloor.
Thiswasthespotwherehe’dhandedmeaboxoftissues.
Thatwashisapartmentdoor.
Andtherewasthemanhimself,inhispajamas—
—comingout—
—ofParker’sapartment.
Wait—what?
Idartedintothestairwellbeforehesawmeandheldmybreath.
DidIjustseethat?
Itwaseightinthemorning.WhyonearthwouldJoebecomingoutofParker’sapartmentfirstthinginthemorning?
Besidestheobvious.
Itriedtoputittogether.Joe.Pajamas.Parker’sapartment.Eightinthemorning.
Itcouldn’tbewhatitlookedlike,right?
Imean,itwashardtoignoretheprobabilitythathehadsomehow,justhoursafterafakekisswithme,addedParkertohischarcuterieboardofwomen.Thathereallywasamuttonmuncher,orwhateverthatold-timeyinsultwas.
Isobadlywantedtheretobesomeotherexplanation.
But—what?
Mymindpagedfranticallythroughthepossibilities.Hadshepretendedtofaintagain?Hadshebeggedhimtocomekillacockroach?Maybehertoiletwascloggedandhewashelpfullyplungingitforher,likeagentleman?
Ugh.Ridiculous.
Icouldn’tevenconvincemyself.
WhileIwaitedforittomakesense,Parker’shairlesscat,ofallthings,wanderedintothestairwell,asifpetswereallowedtoroamthehallsatwill.Itappraisedmepetulantlyforaminute,andthenitwalkedrightuptome,turningasitdidtobackupandliftitstail.Ileaptawaywithinsecondsofgettingpeedon.
Howhaditcometothis?
Onethingwasforcertain:Thepleasant,Joe-infusedbuzzI’dbeenfeelingallmorning?Itstoppedbuzzing.
THEDAYWASdownhillfromthere,ifyoucanbelieveit.
Imean,bytheend,thisdaymadeburnedtoastseemadorable.
Hidinginthestairwellmademelate,soIcutitalittleclosewiththecrosswalklight.Imadeitacross,butaguywhoIinconveniencedforthreesecondsdecidedtorolldownhiscarwindow,shootthebirdatme,andshout,“Fuckyou!”beforeflooringitandtearingoff.
Iglaredafterhim,like,Really,sir?Wasn’tthatjustalittlemuch?
Hewasclearlydoomedtoalifeofrageanddisappointment.
Butitstillkindofsmarted,Iadmit.
Next,IclimbedintomywaitingUberand,tryingtomultitask,checkedthecommentsonmyEtsyshopontheride—onlytodiscoverthehands-downmeanestreviewofmyworkI’deverbeheld.
Itookascreenshotforposterity:
Theseportraitsareaninsulttotheartworld.Banal,trite,andcheesytothemax,thisis“art”Ican’tunsee.Seriously.Myeyesareburning.Trashlikethisisthereasonhumanityisdoomedtohell.
Okay.Whoa.
Youcan’tpleaseeverybody.Igetthat.But“doomedtohell”?
Imean,ArtWeenie911clearlyhadsomeissues.Thelevelofhisorherviciousnesstowardpleasant,smiling,fairlyphotorealisticportraitsofpeoplefromallwalksoflifewas…abitextreme?
Itriednottotakeittoheart.ForallIknow,ArtWeenie911wasatrollbot.Senttosowdiscordin…what?Thebarely-making-ends-meetonlineportraitpaintingcommunity?
Maybenot.
Iwastwofortwowithrandomactsofdouchinesstoday.
NotcountingtheJoe-in-pajamasincident.Byfarthedouchiestofall.
Ontheheelsofthat,afterspendingseveralcoldhoursinamedicalgowninwaitingroomsandvariousimagingscanners,Igotatotallyunhelpfulreportthatshowednoreductionintheedema—andthenIwastoldagainto“justbepatient.”
WhichofcourseIwould.BecausewhatchoicedidIhave?
ButhowmuchtimeandmoneydidIwastejusttobeinstructedtodowhatIwasalreadydoing?Therewas“nochange”inmysituation?Icould’vetoldyouthat
I’dbeenhopingagainsthopeforalast-minutedisappearanceoftheswelling.AlifetimeofmovieswithunderdogchampionshadprimedmetoexpectthatI’dfindawaytotriumphjustinthenickoftime.
Butthatwasn’thappening.
NottomentionalldaylongIwasgettingstalkedbyLucinda,whoinsistedsheneededtospeakwithme“urgently”about“amatterofgreatconcern.”
TextsandphonecallsIignored,ofcourse.
ProtipfordealingwithLucinda:Ifsheeversaysanythingisurgent,justrunandhide.
Addtomylistofgrievances:Strappysandalsthatweregivingmeablister.Aphonewiththreepercentbattery.ThemomentwhenIforgotmypurseinawaitingroomandhadtoracebacktofindit.Nottomention:Theartstorewasstilloutoflinden-greengouache,andthegrocerystorewasoutoftheonlyvet-recommendeddogfoodthatPeanutwouldeat.
BythetimeIlimpedhome,thesunwassetting,myAchillestendonwasstinging,andIfeltlikethedaywaspositivelybullyingme.Somewherealongtheway,I’dstartedkeepingamentaltallyoftheinsultsandinjuries—almostasifIcouldsubmitthelistanddemandarefund.
EventheprospectofseeingJoethatnightfeltlikeanattack.Eitherhewouldn’ttellmeaboutParker—whichwouldbebad.Orhewouldtellme—whichwouldbeworse.
OnethingIknew:Ididnotwanttoknow.
Buttherewasnowrigglingoutofanyofit.Theonlywayoutofthisdaywasthrough.SoasIgearedupforthehomestretch,IstoppedatBeanStreetforahalf-caflatte—forbothcomfortandcaffeine.
Andthat’swhenParkerdescendeduponme,justasHazelOnehandedmemycoffee
“Lucinda’sbeentryingtoreachyouallday,”Parkersaid.
Parker.Ofcourse.WhoelsewouldreekofPoisonandknowthataboutLucinda?
“Yeah.Well.I’vebeenkindofbusy.”
“Ibetyouhave.”
Shewantedmetoaskherwhatthatwassupposedtomean.SoIdidn’t.
Shewenton.“SawyousmoochingtheVespaguylastnight.Whichofcourseprovokedmetoretaliate.”
Retaliate?Whatdidthatmean?Didthatexplainhismorningwalkofshame?Hadsheshownupathisdooratmidnightinabustierandgarters?Ifeltdisloyaltomyselfadmittingthis,butParkerwas,technically,agood-lookingperson.Shehadenoughtoworkwithinthelooksdepartmentthatshecouldhavepulledoffastuntlikethat.
Shewantedmetoreacttothat.SoIdidn’t.
AndthenIhadafreeingthought.Ididn’thavetostandhere.
Icouldjust…leave.
Ididn’thavetostay.Ididn’thavetoletherpushmybuttons.Ididn’twanttoletthisescalate.Ijustwantedtogetoutside.Icouldseethesunshinejustpastthewindows.
Istartedwalkingtowardtheexitdoors.ButParkerfollowedme.I’djustreachedthemwhenshecaughtup.
“Youdidn’tletmegiveyoumynews,”shesaid.“I’mcomingtoyourshow.”
Andthereitwas.Somuchforjustleaving.Shegotme.Iturnedback.“Mywhat?”
“Yourlittleartthingy.”
Theportraitshow?Thebiggest,mostimportantmomentinmyentirecareer?Shewascomingtothat?“Youcan’t,”Isaid.“You’renotinvited.”
Butsheshookherheadandshrugged.“Opentothepublic.It’sonthewebsite.”
“You’renotinvited,”Isaidagain.
“SureIam.”
“Youcan’t.”Then,panicking—lookingforastrongenoughword:“Iforbidit.”
ShelookedatmelikeIwascontemptiblyfunny.“LucindaandDaddyandIareallgoing.”
HadParkerjustcalledmyfatherDaddy?NobodycalledmyfatherDaddy.Notevenme.
“We’regoingtomakeanightofit,”shewenton.
“No,”Isaid.
Shewenton,“MaybehitaBraziliansteakhousefordinner.Toobadyoucan’tjoin.”
“No,”Isaidagain.
Sheabsolutelylovedhowfuriousthiswasmakingme.“Nowhat?”sheasked,knowingperfectlywell.
“No.Thisismything.AndIdon’twantyouthere.”
“That’ssofunny,”shesaid.“Because,asusual,Idon’tthinkyoucanstopme.”Thenshewavedatmeallcutesy,likeBuh-bye,beforeseemingtorememberonelastthing.“Oh!Didyougetmycomment?”
Ishookmyhead.Curious,despitemyself.
“TheoneIleftatyourEtsystoretoday.”Thenshegavemeamischievousshrugandturnedtogo.
ButIguessthiswaswhenthetsunamistartedtoreachtheshore.“Why?”Icalledafterher.
Parkerturned.
“Why?”Isaidagain—allthepressureinmybodymakingthesoundtightandsharp.“Why,why,why,why,whycan’tyoujustleavemethehellalone?”
Andthereitwas.Shegotmeintheend.Asalways.Andnowherworkwasdone.“Idon’tknow,”shesaidwithacheerfulshrugbeforeturningtowalkaway.“It’sjustsofuntowatchyoufallapart.”
Iblinkedafterherforasecond,andthenIturnedtopushoutthedoorsandescapeintothesunshine.ButasIdid,allthatbuildingangersomehowshotintomyarmlikeaboltoflightning—andIaccidentallyonpurposeslammedthecoffee-shopdoorbehindme.
Theglasscoffee-shopdoor.
Which,apparently—Iwasabouttodiscover—hadabrokensoft-closehinge.
BecausewhenIslammedit?Itslammed.Hard.
Itfeltsatisfyingforasecond,I’lladmit.Butthen,asifinslo-mo,alltheglasspopped,shattered,andrainedtothefloor.
IturnedbackatthesoundandstaredattheviolenceofwhatI’ddone.Thegapingholeoftheemptydoorframe.Glasseverywhere.Peoplestaring.Allmovementandconversationfrozen.Ateenagerstartedfilmingwithhisphone.
Iputmyhandtomymouth.IlookedupandsawHazelOneoverbythecoffeestation.Shewasthefirstpersontospringintoaction,andshegrabbedabroomandadustpanandcamemyway.
“I’msosorry,”Isaidasshegotclose.“Ididn’tmeantodothat.”Then,ofcourse:“I’llpayforit.I’llfixit.”I’dfigureitoutsomehow.
“Don’tworry,”HazelOnesaidkindly.“Thehingeisbroken.Happensallthetime.”
Itdefinitelydidnothappenallthetime.
ButIwastoomortifiedtoargue.
Andthenthecraziest,trippiest,mostunrealthingI’veeverseeninmylifehappenedrightbeforemyeyes.HazelOneleanedherbroomagainstthedoorjambforasecond,preparingtostartsweepingupthemess,andshepulledoutaponytailholderfromherapronpocket,liftedherhandsbehindherheadtotwistherhairintoit,andwhenshedroppedherhandsagain…shewasHazelTwo.
WhatI’msayingisthis:HazelOnealwaysworeherbrownhairdown,andHazelTwoalwaysworeherbrownhairinaponytail—andthat’showIcouldtellthemapart.Andinthatoneimpossiblemoment,IwatchedHazelOnebecomeHazelTworightbeforemyeyes.
Likeahorrormovie.
Igaspedoutloudatthesight.
“Wait…”Isaid,takingastepback.“Whatjusthappened?”
“When?”HazelTwoasked,startingtosweep.
“AreyouHazelOneorHazelTwo?”
Nowshelookedup.Icouldfeeltheconfusioninherexpression.“Huh?”
“OfthetwoHazelswhoworkhere,”Isaid,withafeelinglikethisquestionwasalreadydoomed,“whichoneareyou?”
Apause.Thensheshookherhead.“I’mtheonlyHazelwhoworkshere.”
“Always?”Iasked.“HasthereeverbeenanotherHazelworkinghere?”
“Nope,”Hazelsaid,gettingbacktosweeping.“Justme.”
Oh,mygod.TherewasonlyoneHazelwhoworkedhere.Thegirlwiththebobandthegirlwiththeponytailwerethesameperson.Twenty
IKNEW,OFcourse,thatIcouldn’ttrustmyperceptions.
Iknewthatmybrainwashavingaroughmonth.
Butitwassostrangetowitnessitcorrectingitself.
Ireallywasn’tokay.Notyet.
TheonlyHazelwasgesturingatmetomoveoutofthewaynowsoshecouldsweep.Istartedtotiptoemywayoverthebrokenglassinmydumbstrappysandals…whenanarmclampedaroundmywaisttohelpguideme.
Joe.
IknewitbeforeIknewit.Ifelthiminaninstant.
Thenonesideglancebroughtconfirmation:Yep.Thebowlingjacket.
“Let’ssityoudown,”Joesaid,startingtowalkmetowardabench.
Butwhenwegotbacktothesafeshoreoftheglass-shard-freesidewalk,Isidledoutofhisgrasp.
Joe.Pajamas.Parker.Nope.
Hedidnotneedtorescueme.Nottoday.Notafterwhateverhe’dbeenuptowiththedefiningbullyofmylifetime.Icouldrescuemyself,thanksverymuch.
Mostly,IwasangryatParker.Iwasangryatthemanwho’dshotmethebird.Iwasangryattheimagingtechwhohadn’tfoundanyreductionoftheedema.Iwasangryatmyblisterandmyunderstockedgrocerystoreandmydeadphonebattery.Andatmyselfformyowninabilitytonavigatemylife—andthewayI’djustbrutalizedthatinnocentglassdoor.
Butrightthen,allthatangerjustcrystallizedatJoe.
Howdarehecavortwithmyevilstepsisterlikethatandthenshowupactinglikeagoodperson?
Itwasn’tjustpoorchoices.Itwasadeepbetrayal.Andthefactthathedidn’tknowthat?
Thatjustmadeitworse.
AnimageofJoesteppingoutofParker’sdoorinhispajamaslitupinmyheadlikeaneonsign.Whodidhethinkhewas?
“I’vegotit,”Isaid,myvoicedistant.
Joehesitated.“CanI—”
“No,thanks.”
“Areyou—”hetriedagain.
“I’mgood.”
Therewasnobouncingbackhere.Therewasnoredeemingthismoment.Orthisday
Istartedwalkingtowardourlobbydoors.NowaywasItakingtheshortcutthroughBeanStreet.Imightnevergetcoffeethereagain.
Astheragerecededinmyconsciousness,delayedhumiliationtookitsplace.Iwalkedfaster,tryingtoescapeassoonaspossible.
Butthat’swhenJoecalledafterme.“Areyouokay?”
Ijustkeptwalking.
Joecalledaftermeagain.“Areyoumadatme?”
Noresponsethere,either.
OnefinalquestionfromJoe.“Dowestillneedtofinishtheportrait?”
Thatone,Ineededtoanswer.Istoppedandturned.“Theportrait,”Icalledback,lookingnearhimbutnotathim,“iscanceled.”
CANCELED.
ThewordricochetedaroundinmyheadasIrodetheelevator,climbedtherooftopstairs,servedaplateofcroissantmorselstoPeanut,andthendrapedmyselfovermybed.
Canceled.
Thatfeltsurprisinglygood.
Ididn’thavetodoanyofthis.
Theideamistedmewithrelief.Ididn’thavetojustendlesslysufferandsufferandsuffer.
Icouldjust…quit.
Thatwasavictory.Kindof.Wasn’tit?
Anactofself-respect:NotforcingmyselftoendureacontestIknewIcouldn’twin.NotsufferingthroughanendlessartshowwhereIdidn’tbelong.Notpaintingtheportraitofadisappointingman.
Icouldbecomeafamilytherapist.Orascubainstructor.Orachef.Orahandbagdesigner.Wastheresomerulesomewherethatthedreamyoupickedforyourselfincollegehadtobethedreamyoukeptforever?
Peanutfinishedhisrepastandjoinedmeonthebed,andthetwoofusloungedtheretogetherforawhile,feelingvictorious.
Thejoyofquitting.Whoknew?
Icouldjuststoptrying.Icouldjustneverpaintagain.Icouldbefree.
Therawpowerofsayingnofeltsogood,wejuststayedlikethat—enjoyingourperspectiveshift—untilwebothaccidentallyfellasleepanddriftedintooneofthosedeep,peaceful,underwaternaps.
WHENIWOKEup,IhadatextfromSue.
She’dfoundanarticleaboutanartistwhohadseverefaceblindnesswhoseentirebodyofworkconsistedofdrawingsshe’dmadeofherownface—byfeel.Thousandsandthousandsofportraitsofherownface—donewithhereyesclosedasshemovedherfreehandaroundherfaceandtookinvisualinformationbytouch.
LOOK!Sueshouted—allcaps—inthetext.THESESELF-PORTRAITSAREAWESOME!
Self-portraitsarenotallowed,Itextedback.
Justreadthearticle,Suesaid.
Ireadthearticle.Itwaslong.Ittoldthestoryofthisartist’slife—ofhowherseverelifelongundiagnosedfaceblindnesshadledherparents,teachers,andschoolmatestothinkeverybadthingtheywantedabouther.Frombeingcalledstupidtouncooperativetoobstinate,she’dbeenmisunderstoodandblamedherentirelife,asifshesufferedfromanattitudeproblem.Orabadpersonality.Theyblamedheranddislikedher—andsheblamedanddislikedherself…untilshediscoveredthepracticeofdrawingbyfeel.
Shecouldn’tperceiveherownface,andsotheprocessofdrawingself-portraitshadbecomeawayoffindingherself.Shehadthousandsandthousandsofthembynow—allofthemetherealandpoeticandmysterious,likeshewasglimpsingherselfthroughadeepfog.Icouldn’tseethefaces,either,whenIlookedattheimagesofthearticle,butIcouldseethesmokypencillines,Icouldfeelthesenseofmystery,andIcouldreadtheexquisitedetails.
AndIrealized,lookingattheimages,thatIwasseeingtheminaspecialway.Mostpeople,Irealized,sawherfaceitself—andherattemptstorenderit.ButIcouldn’tseetheface.AllIcouldseewastheemotion.Theartistry.Thelonging.
Itwaslikegettingtheinsideview.
BythetimeIfinishedreading,myperspectivehadshifted.Theartistdescribedherself-portraitsas“healing,”andthatwastheonlywordIneededtohear.
Igrabbedsomepaperandsomecharcoalpencils,satstraightdown,andstartedworkingonaself-portraitbyfeelofmyown.
Twosecondslater,twohourshadgoneby.
Ilookedupfromthefinisheddrawingandsawthedarkeningsky.
ThenIturnedbacktotheself-portraitI’djustdrawn—thatjumbleoffeaturesthatIcouldn’tsee—andIjustknew,verysimply,thatitwasgood.
ItextedaphototoSueandsaid,Thisisgood,isn’tit?
Shetextedback:OMG.It’samazing!
Ihadbarely“liked”itwhenanothertextcamefromher.
DothattoJoe!!!Then,Maybethisisthebrainhackyou’vebeenlookingfor!!!
But,Itextedback,Ijustdecidedtoquitthecompetition.
Toobad,Suesaid.Unquit.
NOTQUITTINGMEANTIhadsomegrovelingtodo.WithJoe.
Iwentdowntohisapartmentandknockedonthedoor.
“I’msorryIwasweirdbefore,”Isaidwhenheopenedthedoor.“Ihadacolossallybadday—andyouwerejustinthewrongplaceatthewrongtime.”
“Really?”Joesaid.
Hedidn’tbelieveme?“Really,”Isaid.“Itwasn’tpersonal.”
“Itseemedkindofpersonaltome.”
“Ihadjustshatteredaglassdoor,”Isaid.“Iwashavingamoment.”
“Butthewayyouglaredatme…”
HadIglaredathim?
“IwalkedawaywonderingwhatIhaddone.”
“Youdidn’tdoanything.”Nottrue—butIdidn’twanttogetintoit.Ididn’twanttohearanyconfessionsorapologiesaboutParker.BecauseI’dneverbeabletobearoundhim,ortoleratehim,orputmyhandsalloverhimthewayIwasabouttoasktodoifhetoldmehewasdatingher.
ThenI’dreallyneedanewmodel.
Thepointwas,Ididn’twanttoknow.Ineededtokeepitallprofessional.Noconfessions.Notruths.JustapleasantapologyandonelastportraitattemptbeforeIgaveuponallmydreams.
Joewenton,“AndsoIthoughtaboutit.Prettymuchallday.WhathadIdonetopissyouoff?AndthenIgotit.”
“Yougotit?”
Joenodded.Hereitwas.Confessiontime.
“Wedon’thaveto—”Istarted.
ButthenJoesaid,“Thekiss.”
Thekiss?
“Right?”hewenton.“Itmustbethekiss.Youwerejusttryingtohelpmeout,andthenIturneditintoawholeotherthing.Idon’thaveanexcuseforthat.Ijust—Iguessitwasthesurpriseofit.AndIhadn’tkissedanybodyinalongwhile.Andtherewasdefinitelysomesweetrevengemixedin.Butmostlyitwasjust…sounbelievablynice.”
Really?That’swhathethoughtIwasmadabout?Aswoonykiss?
Whogetsmadaboutaswoonykiss?!
Inthatsecond,mygoalsshifted.Hewantedtohavethisconversation?Fine.We’dhavethisconversation.
Itmightruineverything.ButIguessthat’sthethingaboutanger.Isuddenlydidn’tcare.
“Notthekiss,”Isaid.
“Notthekiss?”
“WhatelsemightIbemadabout?”
Joehesitated.
Iwasgoingtoforcehimtosayitnow.He’dstartedthis,andIwasgoingtofinishit.“Rackyourbrain,”Isaid.
ButJoejustshookhishead.
Andthatjustmadememadder.“WhatamImadabout?WhatamImadabout?Itwasn’ttheveryniceaccidentalsweet-revengekiss.”Itookasecondtoshakemyheadincredulously.“Itwasyourwalkofshame.”
“Mywalkofwhat?”
“OutofParker’sapartment.Thismorning.Atthecrackofdawn.”
Joethoughtback.Thenheremembered.Thenheprotested.“Butthatwasn’t—”
“Areyousayingyoudidn’tslinkguiltilyoutofParker’splacethismorning?”
“Imean,Iwalkedout.ButIdidn’tslink.”
Inarrowedmyeyesathim.
“Isthatwhatyou’rethinking?ThatIgotuptonogoodwithyourevilstepsister?”
“Provemewrong.”
ButJoewasjustshakinghishead.“Howcouldyouthinkthat?HowdumbdoyouthinkIam?”
“AllmenaredumbwhenitcomestoParker.”
ButJoewasstillindignant.“Iwasn’tmessingaroundwiththestepsisterwhoruinedyourlife,”hesaid.“Iwasfeedinghercat.”
Confirmation.“YouwerefeedingParker’sevilcat?Theonethatkeepspeeinginourhallway?”
Joenodded.“Yep.ItsnameisElvira.”
Itookthatin.“Butyouwerewearingyourpajamas.”
“Exactly!”Joesaid.“Peopledon’tdowalksofshameintheirpajamas.”
Hehadapoint.
“Parkerwasn’teventhere!SheleftatthreeA.M.onaflighttoAmsterdam!”hesaid—andnowitwashisturntobemad.“YouthinkthatIkissedyoulastnightandthenturnedaroundtohavesomekindofillicittrystwithyourworstenemy?”
Imean,yes.
WorsethingshappenedallthetimewithParker.Buthisoutragewashumbling.
“Itwasn’tarealkiss,”Ifinallysaid.
“Itwasrealenough.”
Ishrugged,stillhalfthinkingIwasright.
“Howcouldyouthinkthat?”Joesaid.
“Idon’tknow.Peopleareterrible.”
“Peoplemaybeterrible,”Joesaid.“ButI’mnot.”
Hereallyfeltkindofhurt.
Maybeitwastimetolevelwithhimalittle.“I’msorry,”Isaidthen,“I’mhavingaveryweirdmonth.”
“Okay,”Joesaid,listening.
Buthowmuchtosay,standinghereinthedoorwayofhisemptyapartment?Maybejustthebasics.
Itookabreathandwentforit.“Aboutamonthago,”Isaid,“Ihadwhattheycallanonconvulsiveseizureinthecrosswalkinfrontofourbuilding.AndapparentlyaGoodSamaritanpushedmetosafetyjustbeforeIgotmoweddownbyaVolkswagenBeetle.Atthehospital,theydidabrainscanforthecauseoftheseizureandfoundalittlemalformedbloodvessel.TheysaidIneededsurgerytocorrectit,soIhadsurgery.”
Joeshookhishead,likeWhat?“Youhadbrainsurgery?”
“Yeah,”Isaid.
“Amonthago?”
Inoddedtoconfirm.Then,likeakidshowingsomeoneaboo-boo,Ileanedforwardandpulledmyhairasidesohecouldseethescarbehindmyear.
Hepeeredinatit.“Wow.”
Ihadn’tshownanybodymyscaryet.NotevenSue.
“Yeah,”Isaid.“Andit’sbeen”—here,atremblefounditswayintomyvoice—“aweirdlyhardmonth.Nothing’squiteright.Thingsthatusedtobeeasyarenow…not.Especiallypainting.”
Joenodded.
“Thedayoftheseizure,I’djusthadmyfirstbigcareerbreak.AndIwasallsettowinit.”Ilookeddownatmyhands.“ButI’mhavingtroublepaintingnow.”
“That’swhyyou’retryingnewtechniques.”
Inodded.Iwasnot,not,notgoingtotellhimaboutthefaceblindness.ButmaybeIcouldtellhimaboutwhatitfeltlike.“Mywholelife,mybrainwasalwaysjustso…reliable.Butnow,notasmuch.Ikeepgettingthingswrong.Ican’ttrustmyself.Thewholeworldlooksdifferent.Andsotheversionofmethatyou’regettingrightnowis…kindofamess.Muchmoreofamessthanusual.”
IfJoehadanysenseofwhatabigdealitwasformetoadmittoanyoneeverthatIwasn’tA-okay,hedidnotshowit.“You’renotthatmuchofamess,”Joesaid,hisvoicesofter.
“Ismashedaglassdoortoday.”
“Thatwasamess,”Joeconceded.
“Anyway,I’mreallysorry,”Isaid.“Gettingsupermadatpeopleoverwrongassumptionsisnotnormallymything.”
“It’sfine.Youcanmakeituptome.”
“How?”
Joegaveashrug.“Justun-canceltheportrait.”
“Funnyyoushouldask,”Isaid.“That’sexactlywhatIcameheretodo.”Twenty-One
BYTHETIMEJoeshowedatmyplaceforthefinalportraitattempt,itwasdoordie.
Mostlydie.
Becausethisportraitwasgoingtolose.Big-time.
Itmightturnintoareallycompellingpieceofart.Itmightbecomeafascinatingcharacterstudy.Itmightwindupbeautifulormesmerizingorpowerful.
Hell,itmightevenbesalable.
ButitwouldnotbethekindofportraittheNorthAmericanPortraitSocietywaslookingfor.Itwouldnotbethekindofpaintingthathadallowedmetobeatout1,990othercompetitors.Anditwouldnotlookliketheworkofatwenty-first-centuryNormanRockwell—guaranteed.
Whichwasfreeing,inaway.
KnowingIwasgoingtolose?
ItmeantIcouldlosewithsomestyle.
AfterJoeagreedtothefinalattempt,Suegavemeapeptalk.
“DoyouthinkIcandothis?”I’dasked.
“Whatdoyoumeanby‘dothis’?”
“Win.DoyouthinkIcanwin?”
“Nowayinhell,”Suesaid.
“Hey!”Isaid.“You’resupposedtoencourageme.”
“Idon’tthinkyoucanwin,”Suepushedon,“butIdothinkyoucanmakesomethinginteresting.Idothinkyouhavemadartisticskillsandawildlycreativebrain.IdothinkyouunderstandcolorandlightlikenooneI’veevermet.AndIalsothink,justfromthevibesI’mgettingacrossinternationalborders,thatyoumightbemadlyinlovewithyoursubject.”
Sothatshecouldgettoherpoint,Ichosenottoargue.
“Maybeyouneedtoletgoofwinning.Maybethereareallkindsofwaystowin.Maybeit’sachanceforyoutomakeyourownsetofrules.”
“You’resayingIshouldgiveup?”
“Don’tgiveup.Justshootforadifferentkindofvictory.”
“Youcan’tjustnotwinandpretendthatyoudid.”
“Look,”Suesaid.“Maybeyoucan’tdoyourusualthingrightnow.Whatifyoudosomethingcrazyanddifferent?Whatifinsteadoftryingtomakeathingyoucan’tmake,youtrytodosomethingelse?”
“Likewhat?”
“Liketrytotellthestoryofthismomentinyourlife.Trytocaptureyourworldrightnow,crackedopen,exactlythewayitis.Capturethechaosandtheuncertaintyandthelonging.Anddon’tforgettocapturewhatever’sgoingonwithyouandthatguy—becausethere’ssomekindoffireinthat.”
Ithoughtaboutit.“Idon’tusuallytrytotellastoryaboutmylifewithportraits.”
“But,”Suecountered,“that’swhatyou’vebeendoingallalong.Tellingthestoryofagirltryinglikehelltopaintexactlylikeherlostmother.Andmaybenow,inthestory,thegirlhasnochoicebuttopaintlikeherself.”
“Butthisisn’tmyself.”
“Rightnowitis.”
Ithoughtaboutit.
“Whatifyoujustcaptureyourstory—rightnow—asitis.I’dgiveanythingtoseethat.”
“I’lltry,”Isaid.Becausewhatotherchoicewasthere?
“Andthentextmeapicture.”
“Fine,”Isaid.“Butifyoutextbackwordslike‘serialkiller,’we’regoingtohaveaproblem.”
OKAY.SUEWASN’Twrong.
Before,I’dbeentryingtopaintaportrait.Ahighlyspecifickindofportrait
ButknowingthatIcouldn’tdothatwasakindoffreedom.
NowallIhadtodowaspaintsomethinginteresting.Somethingcompelling.Somethingthatheldyourattention.Somethingtrueaboutmylife.
Iwasgoingtopaintthemoment.MyexperienceofJoeinthismoment.
Whateverthatmightturnouttobe.
WhatIdidn’thavegoingforme,obviously,wastheface.
WhatIdidhave?
Joe’sexquisitetorso,forone.Right?IknewforafactIcouldseethat.NowthatIthoughtaboutit,itseemedlikeacrimetoleaveavisualfeastlikethatallcoveredup.
Ialsohadgoingforme:form,color,mystery,composition,contrast.Andattitude.Iwasn’tgoingintothispaintingtimid.Iwoulddiveinbold—headfirstandnaked.
Metaphoricallynaked.
Whichleftmefeelingallthethingsyoufeelwhenyou’reabouttogetnaked.Nervous.Awake.Churningwithanticipation.Hyperawareofthefactthatyou’realive.
WhenJoearrived,heseemedlikehemightbesomeofthosethings,too.
“Youdon’thavetodothis,”IsaidasIopenedmyhoveldoor.
“SureIdo.IsaidIwould.”
“Yes,butI’mgivingyouanout.”
“Idon’tneedanout.”
“Youdon’tknowwhatI’mabouttodotoyou.”
“Youcandowhateveryouwanttome.”
“I’mgoingtotouchyou,”Isaid.“Isthatokay?”
“Ithinkso?”
“WhatImeanis,Ijustreadanarticleaboutanartistwhodoesself-portraitsbytouch,withhereyesclosed.Soshe’spaintingwhatshe’sfeelingmorethanwhatshe’sseeing.AndI’dliketodothattoyou.”
Joeshrugged.“Fine.”
Wasitbravado?Ordidhereallynotthinkmeputtingmyhandsalloverhimwouldbeabigdeal?Ormaybehewasn’tyetfullyawareofhowverymuchIwasabouttoputmyhandsalloverhim.
Ihadtowarnhim.“RememberwhenIsworetherewouldbenonakedness?”
“Yeah?”
“Imighthavetoaskyouforasmidgeofnakedness.”
Icouldfeelthegrinthattookoverhisfaceatthat.“ArewegoingfullBurtReynolds?”
“No,”Isaidfirmly—likethatwasthefullanswer.ThenIamended,myfacecrinkledwithapology,“ButIdoneedyoutotakeoffyourshirt.”
Joeshrugged.“Fine.”
NowonderMr.KimcalledhimHelpful.Icouldn’tgetanooutofthisguy.
Alltosay:Readyornot,weweredoingthis.
Iledhimtowardmyeasel,whereI’dplacedastoolforhimrightupclose.Everythinghadtobewithinarm’sreach—thestool,thecanvas,thepaints.BythetimeIhadussetup,hiskneeswereoneithersideofmythigh—closeenoughthatwekeptbrushingandbumpingagainsteachother,overandover…
InawaythatIworkedveryhardtoexperienceasnonsensual.
Joewaitedforinstructions.
ButIsuddenlyfeltshytogivethem.“Sonow…ifyouwouldn’tmind…Ineedyoutotakeoffyourjacket…andyourshirt,ifthat’sokay.Because…Idon’tknowifyouknowthisaboutyourself,butyourtorsoisreally…compelling.AndIjustfeellikeitwouldbeatragicmissedopportunitytoleaveitout.”
“Youthinkmytorsoiscompelling?”Joeasked,shruggingoutofhisjacketandtossingitovermysofa.Icouldfeelhimsmiling.
“Yes,”Isaid,tryingtoclarifythroughtoneofvoicethatmyintentionsweresohonorabletheywerealmostscientific.“Artistically.Visually.Mathematically,even.It’scompelling.Tolookat.Byallobjectivestandards.AndsoifIcancapturethatintheportrait,thentheportraitwillbecompelling,too.”
JoepeeledoffhisT-shirt,andmyeyestookinthesightwithoutaskingpermission.
“Yousureyou’regoodwiththis?”Iasked.
“You’remuchmorenervousthanIam.”
“IjustwanttomakesureIhaveyourconsent.”
“Iamonehundredpercentconsent.”
I’dpaintedmanymodelsovertheyears,anditwasnevernerve-rackinglikethis.Butthiswasdifferent.Usuallythemodelswereacrosstheroom,notrightupnexttome.AndInevertouchedthem—justlooked.AndtheywerenotpeopleIhadkissed.Oryelledat.Oreatenlinguinewith.OrriddenVespaswith.Ortoldaboutmymother.Orcriedinfrontof.
Theywerealwaysstrangers.
That’swhenIrealizedthatJoewasn’tastranger.
Ididn’tknowexactlywhathewastome,buthewasn’tastranger.
AllthetouchingIwasabouttodotohim…itcouldn’tbejustanartproject.Itcouldn’tbejustaboutshapesandtexturesandtones.Therewereemotionsinvolved.
Ididn’tknowhowtogetridofthem.
AndIdidn’twanttogetridofthem.
AndIsuspected,honestly,thatthey’dmakethepaintingbetter.IfIcouldkeepittogether.
IliftedmyhandsupforJoetosee.“So,”Isaid,tryingtomakeitallsoundrational,“I’mgoingtotoucheverythingthat’sgoingtobeintheportraitwiththese.”Ishookmyhandsathim.
Joenodded,likeCool.
“FirstI’mgoingtojustkindofmapyouwithmyhands.AndthenonceI’vegotareally3-Dmentalpicture,I’llstartsketching.”
Joenoddedagain,likeLet’sgo.
ButIwasstillhesitating.“I’mgoingtoframetheportraitkindoffromthewaistbandup.SoI’mreallygoingtohavetotouchyoueverywhere.”
“Gotit,”Joesaid.
“AndIwantyoutoknow,”Iwenton,“whatI’mabouttodotoyou,I’vealsodonetomyself.”
Thatcameoutunexpectedlysuggestive.
Iwastryingsohardtopretendlikethiswasjustanotherdayattheoffice.LikeIdidthiskindofthingallthetime—nobigdeal.Butmyhandswereweirdlycold.AndIwasstrangelyawareofmybloodtravelingthroughmybody.Andthen,asIreachedouttotouchhim,justbeforeImadecontact,myhandfaltered.
Itjust…stopped.Liketherewasaninvisibleforcefield.
Butthat’swhenJoe’shandcameup,andhecuppeditbehindmine,andhepulledmypalmtohischest.IfelttheimpactbeforeIrealizedwhathewasdoing:thestonelikehardnessofhiscollarbonebeneathmyfingertips,thespongyfirmnessofhispecsbeneath,thewarmthofhisskin.
Icouldfeelthathewaslookingatme.Icouldfeelhimencouragingme.Andsomethingelse,too.Somethingthatfeltlikelonging.
Wasithisormine?
Forasecond,theairinmylungsfelttight.
“Don’tbeshy,”Joesaid.“I’mfine.Justdowhatyouneedtodo.”
“I’mnotbeingshy,”Isaid.Butneitherofusbelievedme.
Anyway,thatbroketheice.Afterthat,IclosedmyeyesandworkedmyhandaroundhisshouldersandneckandchestbeforemakingmywayuppasttheAdam’sappleandovertheridgeofthejawtohisface.
Wasitworking?Iwasn’tsure.
ButI’ddecidedIdidn’thavetodecide.
Iwasjustgoingtodoit.Iwasn’tgoingtooverthinkitorevaluateitorjudgeit.
Iwasjustgoingtocapturethemoment.Forbetterandforworse.
Thiswasbyfarthemostself-consciousI’deverbeenaroundamodel.Pullittogether,Itoldmyself.Doctorstouchpeopleallthetime.
ButIwasnodoctor.
Also,I’massuming,doctorsdidn’tusuallyspendatonoftimewithpatientsoutsidetheoffice.Orhaverecentmemoriesofaltruisticallykissingtheminfrontoftheirex-wives.Orhavecrushesonthemtheywereindenialabout.
Thetruthis,itwasintense.
Foronething,weweresoclosetoeachother.You’reneverjustinchesawayfrompeopleforlongstretchesoftimelikethat.Iwascloseenoughtohearhimbreathing,andeventofeelthosebreathsastheybrushedovermyarm.Icouldsmellhisaftershave,whichwasscentedlikecedarandjuniper,Idecided.
Foranotherthing,Iwasreallytouchinghim.Iwasgoingdeep—workingthepadsofmyfingersovereveryinchofhisface,fromhairlinetojaw,exploringhisskin,andthemusclesbeneaththat,andthebonestructureevendeeper.
Imean,Iwasnostrangertootherpeople.I’ddatedguys.Flirted.Kissed.Gonetobed.I’dlivedwithEzrafortwoyears.ButevenpeopleItouchedallthetime…Ididn’ttouchthemlikethis.
ThefactthatIwasexploringhimforthesakeofartdidn’tfeeltoorelevantinthatmoment.Thewhatwasmuchstrongerthanthewhy
Andthewhatwasskinagainstskin.Breathswirlingaroundbreath.Eyesclosed.
Tobehonest,myheartwasthumpingsohard,Iwonderedifhecouldseeit.Likemyshirtfabricmightactuallybequiveringoveritlikeanecho.
Itriedtokeepitprofessional,Ireallydid.
Iworkedmywayaroundthelandscapeofhisface,asI’ddonebeforewithmyown.Istartedwiththebonestructure,togetoriented.Thesolidnessofhischeekbonesandtheangleofhisjaw.
Thenthepadsofmyfingerswentsearchingfordetails.Thearcofhiseyebrows.Thedepthandnumberoflaughlinesathiseyes.Thelengthofhislashes.Theanglesofhisnose.Ispentalotoftimeworkingaroundtheedgeofhismouth,tryingtogetthelinesandanglesofhislipsjustright.
Ifeltitall.Thewarmthofhisskinundermyfingers.Thefeatherybrushofhishair.Theimperceptiblehumandvibrationofbeingalive.
Itwasartisticallyerotic,too.Isthataweirdthingtosay?
WhatImeanis,thewholeexperiencewasfull-immersionpleasure—bothphysicallyandcreatively.Shimmeringwithpossibility.Richandbutterywithsatisfaction.Ignitingmyattentioninsomeveryspecialway.Pullingmethroughthemomentwithamountingsenseoflonging.
EachthingIdid,eachmoveImade,mademewantmoreofwhateverthatwas.
WhenIfeltreadytostartpainting,Ifollowedmyinstincts.
IsketchedoutJoe’storso—hisoutlineleaningintotheframewiththatkindoffriendly,Labradorretrieverenergyhehad.Ifoundmyselfsoimmersedinrenderinghisbody—thoseshoulders,thepecsandforearms,thetrimanglesofhisfingers,restingonhisjeans—thatIdidn’tworktoohardontheface.Iwasn’tavoidingit,exactly.Iwasjustfollowingthepartsthatcalledtome.Theneck,theearlobes,theflopofthehair.
EverythingI’dtriedtodosincethesurgeryhadbeenabouttryingtogettotheproduct.ButnowIsettledintotheprocess.Ijustpainted.Ikeptmyeyesclosedto“look”atJoe,butIopenedtheminfrontofthecanvas.Iwantedtoseethecolors.Iwantedtowatchthebrushstrokeshappen.Iwantedtoseethepaintingappearinfrontofmyeyes.
Nomatterwhatelsemighthappenwiththispainting,theprocessofmakingitwasbliss.
Thatcountedforsomething.
Atlast,whenIfinallyworkedupthecouragetosketchhisface,Ididn’ttrytomakeitmakesense.
Iwasn’tthinking,WhatwouldNormanRockwelldo?
IwasthinkingaboutwhatIwoulddo.WhatIneededtodo—witheachmarkandeachline—torendermyexperienceofJoe’sface.
Iwasfollowingmyowncompass.Whereveritwouldlead.
Anditturnedout,Suewasright.Thatwasawininitself.
IPAINTED—ANDTOUCHED,andpaintedandtouched—Joefortwosolidhoursthatnight.
Hewasendlesslypatient.Didn’tcheckhisphoneorfallasleeporevenaskforaglassofwater.Hejuststayedwithmethewholetime,takingitallin.
WhenI’ddoneeverythingIcoulddoforthenightandIhadaprettyfull,dynamicearlypaintedsketch,Ithankedhim,likehecouldgo.
“Anyway,”Isaid,washingmyhandsatthesink.“Ireallyappreciateyoudoingthisforme.Congratulations.You’realmostfree.”
“Freefromwhat?”Joeasked.
“Fromme.Oncetheartshowisover,wewon’thavetoseeeachotheranymore.”
“Whywouldn’tweseeeachother?”
“I’mjustsaying.I’vetakenupalotofyourtime.”
“Iwashopingyou’dgivemeroller-skatinglessons.”
“ButhowwouldDr.Michauxfeelaboutthat?”
Joefrowned.“WhywouldDr.Michauxfeelanythingaboutthat?”
“Aren’tyou…youknow?”
“What?”Joetookaswigofwater.“Didn’twetalkaboutthis?”
“Yousaidyouweren’tdating.ButIfiguredyoumustbehookingup.”
Joecoughed.“What?”
“You’realways…comingoutofherapartment,”Isaid.Andabunchofothers.
“Yeah?So?”
“Soaren’tyouguys…together?”
“Wait—youthoughtwewere—what?”
Myfingerswerestilltinglingfromtouchinghim.Ishrugged.
Joestartedlaughingthen,butIdidn’tthinkitwasfunny.Heleanedhisheadbackandletoutabigsigh.“I’mnotdatingDr.Michaux.Iampet-sittinghersnakes.”
Nowitwasmyturntobebefuddled.“You’rewhat-sittingherwhats?”
“Hersnakes,”Joeconfirmed.“Remember?Herpetologist?Shehasawholedenofsnakesinthere.EvenanIndonesianflyingsnake.It’sprettycomplicated,keepingthemhealthy.”
Okay.Icouldfreakoutaboutapenthousefullofflyingsnakeslater.
Firstthingsfirst.
Ineededtogetthisstraight:“You’re…asnakesitter?”
“Petsitter,”Joecorrected.“WhydoyouthinkIwasfeedingParker’scat?”
“That’swhatyoudoforaliving?”
IcouldfeelJoefrowning,likethatquestionwasreallyodd.“It’soneofthethingsIdoforaliving,”hesaid.
“Allthattime…youweregoingintheretofeedsnakes?”
Joenodded.“
“Andsothebrownbagswerefullof…?”
“Livemice,”Joeconfirmed.
“Ohmygod.”
Joeshrugged.“Foodchain.”
“But,”IsaidasItriedtosnapthepiecesintoplace,“whataboutthattimeIsawyoustumblingdrunkenlyintoDr.Michaux’sapartment?”
“Doyoumeanthetimeshehadastomachvirus?AndIwashelpingherdownthehallfromtheelevator?”
“Youweren’thookingup?”
Joeshookhishead.
“Youwerejusthelpingher?JustbeingaBoyScout?KindalikewhenParkerpretendedtofaint?”
“I’mnotaBoyScout,”Joesaid.“But,yes,Iwashelping.”
Iwasstillworkingtotakeitin.“That’swhatyou’vebeendoing?Allthistime?”
“Yep,”Joesaid.“Mostlycatsonthisfloor.Andonebunny.Wait.DidyouthinkthatIwassleepingwithallthosepeople?”
“Imean,Ihopeditwassomethingelse.ButIcouldn’timaginewhatthatwouldbe.”
“Youhaveaverylimitedimagination.”
“Well,Idefinitelywasn’tpicturingflyingsnakes.”
“Idon’tknowifIshouldbeflatteredthatyouthinkallthosepeoplewouldwanttosleepwithme—oroffendedthatyouthinkI’maman-whore.”
“SueandIpreferthearchaictermmuttonmuncher.”
Joejuststared.
“What?”Isaid.“Youhavetoadmitit’ssuspiciousbehavior.”
“Fortherecord,Ihaveneversleptwithanybodyinthisbuilding.Otherthanmywife.Backwhensheusedtolivehere—andusedtobemywife.”
Butthatdidn’ttrack.“Wait—”Isaid,pointingathim.“Whatabouttheladyyoufat-shamedintheelevator?”
Joeshookhisheadlikemaybehehadn’theardmeright.“What?”
“Idefinitelyoverheardyoutalkingaboutaone-nightstandintheelevator.Awomanwithalotofbellyfatwhoshreddedyoursheetsandwasarealbreather.”
IcoulddefinitelyfeelhowJoewasstaringatme.LikehecouldnotinanyuniverseimaginewhatIwastalkingabout.
“Shedry-humpedyouintheparkinglot?”Iprompted.“Andthrewupinyourentryway?”
ButJoejustwaited.
“Shesleptinyourbed,”Iwenton,“andyoualmostsuffocatedundera‘mountainofblubber.’”
That’swhenJoeliftedhishead.Recognition.
“Nowyouremember,”Isaid.
Joeputhisfaceinhishands.“Iremember,”hesaid.“Butthatwasn’talady.”
Really?Weweregettingintosemanticsnow?“Idefinitelyheardyou—”
“That,”Joewenton,droppinghishandstomakehispoint,“wasabulldog.”
Ifrowned,likehe’djustsaidsomethingimpossible.“Abulldog?”
“Arescuebulldog,”Joeconfirmed.“NamedButtercup.”
“Youhadaone-nightstandwithabulldog?”
Joenodded.“Idid.Abulldogwhowasabandonedaftersheateatreebranchthelengthofherentirebodyandherownersdecidedshewastoomuchtrouble.Ifosteredherforonenight—actually,itturnedintothree—beforetakinghertoarescuegroup.”
“So…”Isaid,myvoicequietingasIletthisonepieceofinformationreworkallmyeavesdropping,“whenyoucalledherabitch,youliterallymeant…abitch?”
Nowhewasoffended.“Ican’tbelieveyouthoughtIwastalkingaboutaperson.”
SuddenlyIcouldn’tbelieveit,either.
Joekeptshakinghishead.“YouthoughtIwastalkingaboutaone-nightstand?”hesaid.“Withahumanwoman?”
“Whatotherkindisthere?”
Heshookhisheadindisbelief.
SoIadded,“Youcalleditaone-nightstand.”
“ButIwasjoking.”
“Ididn’tknowthat.”
“Iwasn’ttalkingtoyou.”
Nowallthepieceswereclickingintoplace.“That’swhyyoupostedpicturesofheronline?”
Joenodded.“Petfinderdotcom.”
“Andthat’swhyyoufeltsofreetoliberallymockherappearancelikeshehadnohumandignity?”
“Shehasnohumandignity,”Joesaid.“She’sadog.”
“Yousaidsomeharshthings,”Isaid.“Evenforadog.”
Joedroppedhisshoulders,likeComeon.
“Isee,”Isaid.
Joepulledinadeepbreathnowasthefullunderstandinghithim.“Youthought,”hesaid,“thatIhadaone-nightstandwithadrooly,noisy,sheet-shreddingactualhumanfemaleandthenmadefunofherbodythenextdayonthephoneinapublicelevatorbeforepostingsleepingphotosofheronline?”
Imademyvoiceverytiny.“Kindof?”
“Nowonderyouweresomeantome.”
“WasI?”
“Yeah!AndIdeservedit!”
“Right?”Isaid,tryingtodrawatentativealliance.
Joesighed.Thenhesighedagain.Thenhesaid,“Fortherecord.Ihavenotsleptwithanyone—atall—sinceIwalkedinonmywifehot-tubbingnakedwithTeaguePhillips,thePlanet’sMostBoringWanker.”
Butnowwehadawholenewtopic.“Oof,”Isaid.“That’salongtime.”
“I’maware.”
“Areallylongtime.”
“Thankyou.”
Ishookmyhead.“Ithought…youwereatotalplayer.”
“YouthoughtIwasatotaldouchebag.”
Ihunchedupmyshoulders.“Sorry?”
“I’mnotaplayer,Sadie.I’madamnedmonk.”
Ifeltabuzzingrealizationthatthis,righthere,wasanotherofJoe’sproblemsthatIhadthepowertodosomethingabout.
Joesighed.“Look.Here’sthetruth.There’sexactlyonepersoninthisentirebuildingIhaveanyinterestinsleepingwith.AndIdon’teventhinkshelikesmeverymuch.”
Pleasedon’tletitbeParker.Pleasedon’tletitbeParker.
Myheartclampedclosed.“Whoisit?”
ButJoedidn’tanswer.
Inmypanic,Istartedyammering:“AnybodybutParker,okay?Iwholeheartedlyendorseanyandallsexualescapadeswithliterallyanyresidentofthisbuilding—eventhesnakelady—justnotParker—okay?—becauseshereally—”
ButJoedidn’twanttotalkaboutParker.
Rightthenhereachedformypaintingsmock,hookedhisfingersthroughtheaprontie,andtuggedmeclosertohim.Isteppednearer,intothecovebetweenhisthighs,andthenIfelthispalmssettleonmyhips.
Therewasthatcedarandjunipersmellagain.
“It’snotyourevilstepsister,”Joesaid.
Ishookmyhead,likeIt’snot?
Hepulledmealittlecloser.“Andit’snotthesnakelady,either.”
Ihadn’treallythoughtitwouldbe.ButIfeltafrissonofrelief,anyway.
Joeleanedinabitmore.Sittingonthestool,hewasjustthesameheightasme.Ourfaceswerejustinchesfromeachother.“Doyouwantmetotellyouwhoitis?”heasked.
Inodded,watchinghismouthlikeIwasinatrance.
Finallyhesaid,“It’syou.”
I’dhopedhewouldsaythat.
Butjusttodouble-check:“It’sme?”
Theworldhadbeensohardtoreadlately.IthadsomehowseemedjustaspossiblethathemightsayHazelfromthecoffeeshop.
Butitwasme.
Andso,whenhenodded,Ijustsaid,“It’syou,too.”
It’strue,Icouldn’tseehisfacerightthen.Notinthetraditionalway.NotinthewayIwasusedto.
ButasIlookedatthepiecesofit—theoutlineofhislips,thedimpleinhischin,thesandpaperystubblealonghisjaw—itfeltalmostlikeIcouldseehimbetterthanIwould’veotherwise.Likenotseeingthebigpictureletmegraspthedetailsmoreclearly.Itwasn’tlikelookingintoavoid.Itwaslikelookingwithamagnifyingglass.Likebeingcloserthanclose.
Thatmouth,forexample,Icoulddefinitelysee.Plumpandfirmandpracticallydemandingtobekissed.Butforrealthistime.
AllIhadtodonowwasswayforward.Itwouldbesoeasytomatchmymouthtohis.Toclaimhimformyselflikethat.
Wasn’tthatwhatkisseswerefor,afterall?Tolightalittlesparkinsomeoneelse?Asparkthatwouldburnforyou?
IwantedsomepartofJoetoburnforme.
AndIguesshewantedthatback.
Iedgedforward.
ButthenIhitthatforcefieldofhesitationagain.Ipausedrightthere,mymouthjustaninchfromhis.
Andthen,onceagain,Joehelped.
Hisarmskimmedupmyback,andhishandfounditswayintomyhair,andthenhecuppedthebackofmyneckwithhispalmandpulledmetohim—shatteringthatforcefieldlikeaglassdooratacoffeeshop.
Assoonasmymouthtouchedhis,hetightenedhisotherarmaroundme,andIletmyarmswrapthemselvesaroundhisneck.
Foraminute,thewarm,blissfulshockofitwasenough.
Theelectricsoftnessofhismouth.Thecomfortofbeingpressedagainsthim.Thereliefofgivingintoallthatlonging.Thecrazyjoyofbeingconnectedlikethatatlast.Ofwantingsomeonesobadly—andbeingwantedback.Oftouching.Offeelinggoodandhappyandconnected,andliketherewassomuchtolookforwardto.
Thiswasn’tlikethefakekissfrombefore.Thiswasn’taperformanceforsomeonlooker.Thiskisswasjustforthetwoofus.Becausethosewordshe’dsaidjustmadeeverythingreal.Everyfeeling,everyglimmer,everysparkle—theveritableweathersystemofemotionsthathadbeenbuildingaroundmeeversinceJoefirstpissedmeoffintheelevator…assoonashesaid,It’syou—itallbecamepalpable.
BeforeIknewit,Iwascrawlinguponthestool,perchingonhisthighs,graspingtighterandmoremadly,kissinghiminawaythatfeltlikemeltingintoanotherreality.
Hepulledbackforasecondtolookatme.Iforcedmyselftolookback.NomatterwhatIcouldorcouldn’tsee,Iwantedtogivehimthesoul-deepanswerwe’realwayssearchingforwhenwelookintosomeone’seyes.
Wasthishappening?Werewedoingthis?Shouldwekeepgoing?
Yes.Allyes.
Butmaybewealreadyhadouranswers.
Heleanedinagainandcapturedmymouthwithhis,anditwaslikeawaveofblisscrashingovermeandknockingmeoff-balance—allsoftnessandsilkandrhythmandtouch.
Hestoodupnextandcarriedmetowardthebed,mylegswrappedaroundhiswaist,ourmouthsneverparting,andhelaidmebackagainsttheblanket,pressinghimselfdownovermeaswesankfurtherandfurtherintothemoment,andthefeelingofbeingtangledtogether,andlostwitheachother.
Asifstayingthiswaycouldmakeeverybodyelseonearthdisappear.
Until…almostliketheuniversejustwantedtoproveuswrong—inamomentofbadtimingworthyoftheGuinnessbook—therewasaknockatmydoor.Twenty-Two
SPOILER:ITWASLucinda.
Ahumancoldshowerifevertherewasone.
Wefrozeatthesound.Isqueezedmyeyesshut,butJoecranedaroundtopeekatthedoor.
“It’samiddle-agedlady,”hewhispered.“Icanseethroughtheglass.”
“DoesshelooklikeMarthaStewart?”Iwhisperedback.
“Yes,”Joewhispered.
“Withkindofasourpussface?”
“Yes,”Joeconfirmed.
“Andavibelikeshemaybesucksthefunoutofeverything?”
“Notsure,butmaybe?”
“It’smystepmother,”Iconfirmed.“Justignoreher.”
Ipulledhismouthbackdowntomine.Butatthat,Lucindastartedknockingagain.
“That’sgoingtobechallenging,”Joesaid.
Lucindatalkedthroughtheglasspaneinthedoor,hervoicemufflingitswayintotheroom.“Ineedtotalktoyou,”shesaid.“Stopignoringme.Icantellyou’reinthere.”
Shecouldcertainlykillamood,I’dgiveherthat.
Isighed.WasIreallyabouttoshutdownthebestkissingofmylifeforLucinda?
Theknockingcontinued.Andcontinued.
IguessIwas.
“Promiseme,”Isaidthen,lookingdeepintoJoe’seyes,“thatwearenotdonehere.”
“Wearenotevenclosetodonehere,”Joesaid.“Ipromise.”
Andsoweshutitdown.
Joefoundhisshirtandhisjacket.Istraightenedtheapronwehadn’tevenhadtimetoremove.Westeadiedourbreath.Shiftedgears.
Andthen,withdread,Iopenedthedoor.
“Howdidyouevengetuphere?”IsaidasLucindawalkedin.
“Mr.Kimgavemeyournewpasscode.Becauseitwasanemergency.”
KindheartedMr.Kim.We’dhavetohaveatalkaboutLucinda.
“Whatemergencycouldpossiblyexistbetweenmeandyou?”Iasked.
ButLucindawassizingupJoe.“IsthisthemanyoustolefromParker?”sheaskedthen.
Stole?FromParker?“IhaveneverstolenanythingfromParker,”Isaid.
“That’snotthewayIheardit,”Lucindasaid.
“That’sneverthewayyouhearit,”Isaid.
Joeclearedhisthroat.“I’msorry,ma’am,butSadie’sright.Iwasnotstolen.”
“Look,”IsaidtoLucinda.“We’rekindofinthemiddleofsomething.”
“Icanseethat,”Lucindasaid.
“Pleasedon’tcomeoverhereandpeepthroughmywindows,Lucinda,”Isaidinatonelikewe’dbeenoverthisamilliontimes.
“Iwasn’tpeeping.Iwasknocking.Icouldn’tseeanythingbutfeet,anyway.”
“Lucinda,”Isaid,“I’mbusy.”
ButLucindaremainedrighteousaboutherchoices.“Youleftmenootheroptions!Youwouldn’tanswermycalls.Youwouldn’trespondtomytexts.DoyouthinkIwantedtotrudgeovertoyourhovelinthemiddleofthenight?Ididnot.ButIneedtospeaktoyou!”
“Sospeak,”Isaid.
LucindalookedJoeupanddown.“Privately.”
“Let’sgetthisclear,”Isaid,gesturingatJoe.“Heismyguest.Youareaninterloper.”
“Youcan’tignoremeforever.”
“Yes,Ican.Iabsolutelycan.WhywouldIdoanythingelse?”
ButnowLucindahaddecidedtostartlookingpitiful.Ididn’tevenhavetoseeittoknowthechoreography:thetremblingbottomlip,themoisteningoftheeyes,thedroopingofthebrows.Asignaturetechniqueforgettingherway.Whichworkedonasurprisingnumberofpeople.Butnotme.
Unfortunately,Joehadn’tbuiltupanimmunitytoit.
Hecouldwatchforonlysolongbeforehecaved.“Youknowwhat?”Joesaid.“I’veactuallygotsomestufftodo.”
Ugh!Damnhumancompassion!
“No,youdon’t,”Isaid.
“Yes,”henoddedatme,like,Thishastohappen.“Ido.”
ButIwasshakingmyhead.Icouldnot,not,notbetradingJoeforLucinda.“Don’tgo.”Ifollowedhimtothedoor.“It’snotarealemergency.Shejustwantsattention!”
ButJoeshrugged,likehedidn’tknowhowtostay.
Icouldn’tblamehim.DevelopingemotionalarmorforsomeonelikeLucindatakesyears.Youneeded,like,agraduatedegreeinemotionalmanipulation.
“I’llcallyoutomorrow,”Joesaidasheslippedoutthedoor.
Tomorrow?Thatwasaneternity.
Assoonashewasgone,IroundedonLucinda.“What,”Idemanded,“isthis‘emergency’?”
Lucindatookadeepbreathandcrossedherarms.“Yourfather,”shesaid,“hashadanaccident.”
Okay.Iadmit.Shegotme.“What?”
Shenodded,likemypanicwaslegit.“AndI’vebeentryingtoreachyou.”
“Whathappened?Whereishe?”
Andhere,leaninginandjustowningit,shesaid,“Heslammedhishandinthegaragedoor.”
Ipaused.“Hewhat?”
“It’sveryswollenandbruised.Hefracturedhissmallmetacarpal.”
“Hispinkie?”Isaid.“YoucameallthewayoverherelikethebuzzkillofallbuzzkillstotellmethatDadfracturedhispinkie?”
“That’saverybigdealtoasurgeon.”
“I’msureitis,”Isaid.“Butit’snot”—andIhittheTprettyhardonnot—“anemergency.”
“Itwasveryfrighteningatthetime.”
“Lucinda,”Isaid,“whyareyoureallyhere?”
Lucindasighed.“Thepointis,”shesaid,“becauseofhishand,yourfatherwon’tbemakinghistriptoViennanextweek.SoIinvitedhimtoyourartshow.”
Ishookmyhead.“Why?”
“Because!We’refamily.”
“Haveyoueverseenafamily?”Idemanded.“We’renothingevenclose.”
Whatwasthisnewdeterminationtobond?
Moreimportant:Wastheartshownextweek?
Wow,thetimereallyflewafterbrainsurgery.
Afterasecond,Isaid,“He’snotcoming,ishe?”
“Ofcoursehe’scoming,”Lucindasaidproudly.“We’reallcoming.Me,yourdad,andParker.”
“No,”Isaid.
Lucinda’sshouldersdropped,andherdisappointmentalmostfeltgenuine.
“You’renotcoming,”Isaid.“Nothim.Notyou.AndsureasshitnotParker.”
“Buthehadhissecretaryaddittohiscalendar.”
“Makeherun-addit.”
“ButI’vealreadyboughtanoutfit.”
“Ifeellikeyou’renotlistening.You’renotinvited.Ifyoushowup,Iwillcallsecurityandhaveyouforciblyremoved.”
“Youwouldn’tdothat,”Lucindasaid
AndthenbeforeIhadachancetosayWatchme,sheliftedupashoppingbagIhadn’tnoticedinherhandandhelditouttome
“What’sthis?”
“Openit.”
IlookedbetweenLucindaandthebag.Finally,curiositybeatouthesitation.IwalkedtomyarttableandsetthebagtheresoIcouldreachinside.
AndwhatIpulledoutmademegasp.
Itwaspinkfabricwithappliquédflowers.
Iheldmybreathforafewminutes,wasafraidtoevenhope…
“Isthis…”Isaid,justholdingitandstaring.
Lucindawaitedformetofinishthequestion.
ButIjuststartedover.“Isthis…?”
Iloosenedmygripsothefabriccouldunfurl,andthenIhadmyanswer.
Itwas.
“It’sthedress!”Isaid.Itwassoimpossible,IturnedtoLucinda.“Isitthedress?Fromthehospitalthatnight?”
“Itis,”Lucindasaid.
“Buthow?”Isaid,stillstaringatitindisbelief.“Ithoughtitwasdestroyed.”
“AfterIleftyourroom,Iwentlookingforit.”Shepaused,thensaid,“What’stheexpression?Iwent‘fullKaren’onthathospital.Ievendemandedtoseethemanager.”
“Idon’tthinkgoingfullKarenisagoodthing,”Isaid.
“Itworked,though.Didn’tit?”
Imarveledatthedress.“Ithoughtithadbeenincinerated.”
“Fivemoreminutes,anditwould’vebeen.”
Iwalkedovertothemirrorontheclosetdoortoholditupinfrontofmyself.
“It’snotthesame,”Lucindasaidnext.“Thereareafewdarkspotswherethewinestainswouldn’tcomeout.Wewereabletoreweavesomeoftheshreddedfabric,butnotallofit—sothefitmaybemoresnug.”
IfeltlikeI’dneverbeensoastonished.“Youdidthis?”
“Lord,no.Itookittoatailor.”
“But…”Ididn’tfullyunderstandwhatwashappening.“Yousavedit.”
“Yes,”Lucindasaid,hervoicesofter.
“Why?”Iasked.
“Becauseitwasyourmother’s.”
Myeyesfilledwithtearsatthosewords.“Inevertoldyouthat.”
“Youdidn’thaveto.”
Sheletthesoftnesslingerforasecond,andthenshesnappedbacktobusiness.“Anyway,that’stheemergency.Weneedtomakesurethisversionfitsyou.Now.Tonight.Otherwise,we’llnevergetthealterationsbackintime.”
“Intimeforwhat?”
ButLucinda’sanswerwasalmostasincredulousasmyquestion.“Foryoutowearittotheartshow.”
AndasItriedthedressonsoshecouldcheckthefit,andasshefussedandcluckedovermelikerealmotherssometimesdoovertheirrealdaughters,onethingwasprettyclear.
Lucindawouldbecomingtotheartshow.
Andmaybethatwasn’tsuchabadthing.Twenty-Three
IT’SFAIRTOsaythatthiswasatimeinmylifewhenalmostnothingmadeanysense.
Butafterthatnight,onethinginmylifewasmorethanclear.
I’dhavetocalloffmyengagementtoDr.Addison.
Thatwasit.Joewastheone.
TheoneIwouldchoose.TheoneIwantedtodate.TheoneIcouldtalktoandjokearoundwith.TheoneIcouldn’tstopthinkingabout.TheoneIlongedtoputmyhandsallover.Again.Andagain.TheoneIwishedwerestillinmybedrightthisveryminute.
Itwasn’tevenacontest.
Dr.Addisonhadonlyeverbeenaromanticdaydream—andofcourseI’dknownthatfromtheminuteIfirstfixatedonhim.Hewasthenotionofalovematch.Hewasthesuggestionoffuturehappiness.Hewaspurefantasy.
Joe,incontrast,wasreality.Hewasscarsandcollarbonesandthesmellofjuniper.He’dseenmehaveapanicattack,andhe’drescuedmewhenIwaslockedout,andhe’dbroughtmetissueswhenIwascrying.
Nowthatthewholebulldogsituationwasclearedup,therewasnothinglefttodobutgiveupandgivein,andlikehimlikecrazy.
Ilikedhim.Thiswasn’tashockingrevelation.Butitfeltgoodtoputitinwritinginmyhead.Hewasn’tsomeillusionofaboyfriendIwassummoningtohelpmethroughahardtime.Hewasarealpersonwithanemptyapartmentandawoundedheart.
Ididn’twanttomessthisup.
Ididn’twanttheretobeanyconfusion.
IwantedtohonormyincredibleluckinfindingsomebodylikeJoebyendingthingscleanlyandneatlywithDr.Addison.
Eventhough,ofcourse,itseemedcrazytoendsomethingthathadneverstarted.Wehadn’teverevenhadonedateyet.ButIjustwantedtoclarifywithhiminanuts-and-boltsconversation.Wehadn’tstartedanything,andwewerenevergoingto.
WasitcopacetictodothatatPeanut’scheckupduringDr.Addison’sworkinghours?
Probablynot.
Butwehappenedtohaveanappointmentthatday.Anditfeltlikethesooner,thebetter.Icouldn’timagineDr.Addisonwouldcaretoomuch,anyway,giventhewholestanding-me-up-and-then-never-calling-againsituation.
Icouldsettlethingswhilehewaspalpatingmydog.
Howmuchcouldhepossiblycare?
ITWASSTRANGEtoseeDr.Addisonagainattheappointment.I’dalmostforgottenabouthim.Ithadn’tevenbeenthatlong,butIguessgettinginfatuatedwithsomeoneelsemadeitseemlonger.
AsDr.Addisonstrodetowardmeinthewaitingroominhiscrispwhitecoatandtie,hishairbackinthatIvyLeaguestyle,Icouldn’thelpbutnoticehowthatGQlookdidn’tdoitformeanymore.Howutterlyeroticizedfloppyhairandhipsterglasseshadbecomeformenow.
Validating.
Dr.Addison,myonce-fantasy-fiancéobsession,hadbecomejustanotherrandomguy.
Peanut’scheckupwasgood.TheplaylistthatdaywasnonstopLouisArmstrong,andInotedthatthevettechhadbeenright.Peanutreallydidlikehim.
Dr.Addisonwasbeingshadowedbyavetstudentthatday,andheletherdomostoftheexam.Bytheendoftheappointment,thestudentandDr.Addisonagreed:Peanutwasjustaboutthehealthiestelderlydogeitherofthemhadeverseen.
“MustbeallthatpadThai,”Dr.Addisonsaid,withalittleflirtyundertonethatthevetstudentdidn’tnotice.
“Thankyou,”Isaid,grabbingthedoc’shandplatonicallyandpumpingitupanddown.“Youreallysavedhim.”
“Itwasagroupeffort,”Dr.Addisonsaid.
AmemoryofashirtlessJoefloppingmedownonmybedandkissingmyneckflashedthroughmyhead.SomehowIjustcouldn’timaginethisguy—withhistightpostureandhistieandhisclickerpeninhisOxfordclothpocket—positivelymeltingawomaninthatway.
Caseclosed.I’dchosenwell.
Timetoendit.
“I’msosorry,”Isaidtohimthen.“Doyouhaveaminutetotalkprivately?”
Dr.Addisoncheckedtheclock.“Ihaveseven,”hesaid.
Then,atmyfrown:“Minutes,”heclarified.“Beforemynextappointment.”
“Ah,”Isaid.“Great.”
Hewalkedusoutbacktoalittlegrassyyardfortheanimals.
IletPeanutoffhisleash,andhetrottedofftosniffthings.Andthenitwasdowntobusiness.
Ifeltoddlynervous.I’dneverdumpedanyonebefore.Iwasgenerallythedumpee.
Although—canyoudumpsomeoneyou’renotevendating?
“Isoappreciatethetimewe’vespenttogether,”Ibegan,bustingoutthemonologueI’dpracticedinfrontofthemirror,butthengoingoffscriptbeforetheendofthefirstsentence.“AndIjustwantedtoclarifyalittlebitwithyouthatwhatever’sgoingonormightgoonbetweenus…”
Wow.Iwasterribleatthis.
Dr.Addisontookastepcloser.
Thenhereachedforwardandtookoneofmyhands—quietly,butwithencouragement.
Ipushedahead.“Iknowwe’vebeenmovingtowardspendingmoretimetogetherlately…”Myheartsurprisedmebypoundingagainsttheinsideofmybreastbone.“ButIjustwanttosay,inthefuture,fromthispointon…Ithinkit’sprobablybestforustokeepourrelationshipprofessional.”
Thatsurprisedhim.
Dr.Addisonletgoofmyhandandtookastepback.
Icouldn’tseehisfacefall,butIcoulddefinitelyfeelit.
“Professional?”heaskedthen,afterapause,sounding,really,likehehadnotseenthatcoming.
“Yeah,”Isaid,tryingtokeepthingslight.“Youknow.Forustojustkindofstayinthevetandclientcategory.”
Anotherpause.Dr.Addisonreachedbackandpalmedthebackofhishead.“You’resayingthatyoujustwantustohaveavet-clientrelationship?”
Inodded.“That’sright.”
“Nothingmore?”
Inoddedagain.
Alongpause.Thenatensequestion:“CanIaskwhy?”
“Sure,”Isaid,tryingtokeepthingssuperfriendly.“Well,it’sbeenabitofacrazytimeforme,lately.AndIactually,um,youknow,notonpurposeofcourse,butjustkindofbyaccident…IguessyoucouldsayIdevelopedathingforsomebodyelse.”
Dr.Addisonstoodthereasecond.Thenhesaid,“Athing?Youdeveloped‘athing’forsomebodyelse?”
Wasn’tthatwhatIjustsaid?“Yeah.Youknow.So…”
“When?”heasked.
“Um,”Isaid,myvoiceslidingunnaturallyhigh.“Recently?”
“Whoisit?”heaskednext,soundingbrittle.
“Oh,justaguy.Yaknow.AguyI’vehadtospendsometimewithlately.”
Dr.Addisonstartedpacingaround.
Thatmuch,Icouldsee.
“I’msorry,”Isaid.“Itjustkindofhappened.Iwasn’tevenreallysurethatyouwereinterested,anyway.”
“Youweren’tsureIwasinterested?”
“Imean—wereyou?”
“Yes,”hesaid,hisvoicesour.“Iwasinterested.”
Wow.ThiswasnotthereactionI’dbeenexpectingfromaguywhostoodmeupandthennevercalled.
Dr.Addisonadjustedhistie.“So…you’regoingtodatethisotherperson?”
“Ithinkso,”Isaid.
“And,”hewenton,studyingthegroundlikehewastryingtosolveaproblem,“ifItoldyouthatIreallylikeyoualot,wouldthatmakeadifference?”
Iwasn’tsurewhattosay.
“IfItoldyou,”hewenton,“thatIcan’trememberthelasttimeImetsomeonewhowokemeuplikeyoudo…Thatthere’ssomethingaboutyouthatIcan’tgetoutofmyhead…ThatIkeepthinkingaboutyouandwonderingifwemightbe…reallyrightforeachother…”Helookedup.“Whatwouldyousay?”
I’dsay,“Don’tstandmeupnexttime?”Ithoughttomyself.
ButtoDr.Addison,Ijustsaid,“I’msosorry.Ijustthinkit’stoolate.”
Andthen—maybeoutofpoliteness,ormaybejustbecauseit’snoteverydaythatsomeonesawsomethingsovaluableinme—Iadded,“Thankyou,though.Forfeelingthosethings.”
Next,thedoortotheclinicslammedopenandavettechsaid,“I’msorry,Dr.A.We’vegotaGreatDanewithtorsion.”
Dr.Addisongaveacurtgotitnod.Thenafterthetechwasgone,heletoutadeepsigh,andsaid,“DoIhaveanychanceatallofchangingyourmind?”
Ishookmyhead.
“I’msorry,”Isaid,figuringthatbeinghonestwasprobablybetterforbothofusinthelongrun.“IthinkIjust…accidentally…fellmadlyinlove.”
Hetookthatin.“Can’targuewiththat.Iguess.”
Helookedupattheskythen,tookadeepsigh,andwalkedtotheclinicdoor.
Butnext,beforegoingthrough,hestoppedandturnedback.“Iwishyouwell,Sadie,”hesaid.“Ireallydo.”Then,likeheabsolutelymeantit,headded,“Behappy,okay?Andtakegoodcareofyourself.”
“I’lltry,”Isaid.
Thenheandhistieandhiswhitelabcoatweregone.
IlookeddownatPeanut,whowasscootingaroundnow,scratchinghisbumenthusiasticallyonthegrass.
Peanutpausedtolookupatmyface,andIpausedtolookdownathis,andthetwoofussilentlyagreed:Iwoulddefinitelyneedtofindanewvet.Twenty-Four
IWENTHOMEthatafternoonandpaintedlikecrazy.
Ihadtwodaysbeforetheportraithadtobedeliveredtothegallerybeforetheshow.
Ihadnevertriedtocompleteapaintinginsuchashorttimeframebefore.Myoldmethodcouldtakeweeks.ButIdidn’thaveweeks.Ihadtwodays.
I’ddowhatIcoulddoandlettherestgo.
I’llbehonestandsay:Ilikedthispainting.Icouldn’tentirelyvouchfortheface,buteverythingelsewasstrong,compellingwork.Thecurveofhisshoulder.Theslantofhiscollarbone.TheshadowaroundhisAdam’sapple.Plus,thecolors,whichwerejusttherightcombinationofbrightandmuted—happyandsad.Thewholethinghadanenergyaboutit—afrissonofemotions—thatwasjust…appealing.
Itwouldn’twin,ofcourse.Afacelessportraitwasthelastthingthesejudgeswerelookingfor.
Butitwouldbesomethingtrue.SomethingIcouldbeproudof.
WhenItextedasnapshotofittoSue—nowamarriedwomaninEdmonton,Alberta—shetextedback.Wow!
Doyoulikeit?Iasked.
It’sphenomenal!!!shetextedback.Thattorso!!Thenafterapause,Thismightbethebestthingyou’veeverdone.
Thatmademekissthephone.Thinkit’llwin?Itextedback.
Notachance,Suereplied.Thensheadded,Butifanybodycanwinwhilelosing,it’syou.
IFINISHEDTHEpaintingadayearly,emergingfromablissfulstateofflowandtextingJoe:Yourportrait’sdone.
WhenIdidn’thearback,Idecidedtogetmoreexplicit.Wanttocomeseeit?
Stillnoresponse.
Maybehewasbusy?Wasthisthebusyseasonforpetsitters?CouldsomeofDr.Michaux’ssnakeshaveescapedtheden?WaseverythingokaywithJoe’shundred-year-oldgrandmother?
ItoldmyselfnottotextJoeallthesequestions,butthenItextedthemall,anyway.
Plusafewmore.
Wheretheheckwashe?
IdemandedthatSuecallmefromCanada,andthenIsaid,“IthinkIjustdumpedmyfantasyfiancéforaguyinmybuildingwho’snowghostingme.”
“I’msurehe’snotghostingyou,”Suesaid.
“I’vesenthimseventextsinthepasttwenty-fourhoursandhehasn’trepliedtooneofthem.”
“Forgod’ssake,stoptextinghim!Havesomeself-respect!”
“Ijustwanthimtotextmeback.”
“He’sclearlyunavailable.”
“IwanttoshowhimtheportraitbeforeItakeittothegallery.”
“Can’talwaysgetwhatyouwant.”
“Butwhyisn’thereplying?”
“Justgivethepoormanthebenefitofthedoubt.Maybehisgrandmother’ssick.”
“Youthinktheydon’thavecellservicewherehisgrandmotherlives?”
“Maybe!Youdon’tknow!Maybeshe’sanancientSicilianladyonaremoteislandwheretherearenophones.Hecouldbestompinggrapesrightnow,tryingtokeepthefamilyvineyardgoingwhileshefightsforherlifeinacharmingItalianICU.”
“Whydoesthatnotfeellikely?”
“Ifyou’resoworried,goknockonhisdoor.”
Knockonhisdoor?
Ihadn’tthoughtofthat.
Cuttome:Sixtysecondslater—knockingonhisdoor.
Noanswer.
CouldhebestompinggrapesinSicily?
Imean,itwasn’timpossible.
Butasthesilenceworeon,evenoptimisticSuehadtoadmititwasn’tlookinggood.“I’mlosinghopeontheItaliangrandmother,”shesaid,duringyetanotherprocessingsession.
“Right?”Isaid.“Thisisnotafriendlymiscommunication.Plus,Iknowhe’sintownbecauseIsawhimintheelevator,andhesawmeheadingforit—andhedidnotholdthedoors.”
“Maybehedidn’tseeyou?”
“Hedefinitelysawme.”
“Lookslikeit’stimeforinterpretationB,”Suesaid.
“Whichis?”
“Hehatesyou.”
“Butwhywouldhe?”
“Maybeheoverheardyousayingsomethingmeanabouthim?”
“Ihaven’tsaidanythingmeanabouthiminweeks.”
“Notholdingtheelevatordoorisdefinitelyamaximum-hostilitymove.”
“Maybehejustgothiseyesdilatedatthedoctor,andhecouldn’ttellitwasme.”
“Thatonlyworksforcloseobjects.”
“Oh.”
“There’snowayofknowingifhewon’ttalktoyou,”Suesaid.
“Mypointexactly.”
“ButifIhadtoguess?He’sanasshole.Andhewentafteryouforthethrillofthechase.Butthenhecaughtyouandlostinterest.”
Ididn’twantthattobeit.
Butofalltheoptions,thisoneseemedthemostlikelybyfar.Certainlymoreplausiblethanthesickgrandmother.Butherewerethebarefacts:1.Hewasstillinthebuilding.2.Hewasnotrespondingtoanyofmyattemptsatcontact.3.Hedidnotholdtheelevatordoors.
Plus,rackingmybraindidnotyieldanything—atall—thatImighthavedonetohimtopushhimaway.I’dbeenworriedthatseeinghisfinalportraitmightmakehimrunoffscreaming—buthehadn’tevenseenityet.Andotherthanthat,Ihadn’tyelledathimorliedtohimor—godforbid—askedhimforhelp.
Wait—Ihadn’tletmyselfneedhim,hadI?
I’dletmyselfwanthim,butthatwasn’tthesamething.
Unlessaskinghimtositfortheportraitcounted.
Butwait—Ihadn’taskedhimtodothat!He’doffered!
Weren’tthosedifferentthings?
ShouldIneverhaveaccepted?
Icouldhaveaskedthesequestionsallnight.
ButSueneededtogetoffthephone.SheandWittwereheadedtothedinnercarforajazzconcert.“GuesswhattheCanadiancocktailofthedayiscalled?”
“What?”Iaskedglumly.
“TheAngryCanadian.”
“Joke’sonyou,”Isaidflatly.“There’snosuchthing.”
“That’swhatIsaid!”Sueresponded,maybehopingwecouldtalkaboutsomething,anything,else.
Butnoluck.
Atlast,inconclusion,Suesaid,“Maybewe’llgetlucky.Maybehe’sgotaterminalillness.”
BUTIKNEWbetterthantohopeforaterminalillness.
AndIjustcouldn’tseemtobelievethathewasabadperson,either.
Ithadtohavebeenme.
Desperationovertheartshowhadmademeneedy.Ishould’vekeptmydistance.Stayedaloof.Saidnowhenheofferedtobemymodel.WhatwasIthinking?Ofcoursehe’dglimpsedmylifeandbolted.Who’dwanttogetanywherenearit?
Intheend,ItooktheportraittothegallerywithoutevershowingittoJoe—orseeinghimatall.AndthenIspentthenexttwodaysbeingignoredandobsessingoverwhythatwashappening.
Inthemeantime,Irearrangedmypaints.Organizedmycanvases.Restackedthedishesinmycabinets.PaintedPeanut’stoenailswithglitterpolish.WatchedavideotutorialabouthowtomakeonelargeT-shirtintotwelvedifferentoutfits.
Andstewed.Emotionally.
Oh,andIgoogled“Whymendon’ttextyouback.”
Butitwasn’tveryhelpful.
Ialsohadanotherbrainscantocheckmyedema.Andthatwasn’thelpful,either.
Dr.Estrerareportedthat,shockingly,accordingtothescan,theedemahadnowlargelyresolved.Hecomparedlastweek’sscanwiththisweek’sscan—bothofwhichlookedquitesimilartome.“We’reseeinganeighty-onepercentreductioninswellinginthearea,”Dr.Estrerasaidproudly.
Bignews,Iguess—butitdidn’tdomemuchgoodifnothingelsehadchanged.
Andnothingelsehadchanged.
Afterthescan,Dr.Nicolegavemeabatteryoffacialrecognitionteststocomparetomybaseline.AndIwasexactlythesameonthoseasI’dbeenamonthago.Thesameidenticalnumericalscore.
Iknockedmyheadagainstthetableattheresults.
“Pleasedon’tdothat,”Dr.Nicolesaid.
“HowcanIbeexactlythesame?”Iwhined.
“Theseresultsaretohelpyou—notmakeyoupoundyourheadonthetable.”
“Well,theydon’tfeelveryhelpful.”
“Nowthattheedemaisresolving,youshouldstarttoseesomechangesinyourfacialperceptions,”shesaid,likethatmightcheermeup.Thensheadded,“Noguarantees.”
ButIwasn’tinthemoodtobecheeredup.Ifloppeddownonhersofaindespair.“Nothingisgoingright.”
“Maybeyouneedtobroadenyourdefinitionofright.”
“Don’tthrowthatcheerynonsenseatme.Mylifeisashitshow.”
Thisrightherefeltlikemylowestmomentsofar.IthoughtIwassupposedtobegettingbetter,notgettingworse.Learningtocope,atleast.Whatthehellwasgoingon?
“Tellmewhathasyoufeelingdown,”Dr.Nicoleasked.
“Everything?”Iasked.Like,didshereallythinkshecouldhandlethat?
“Sure.Everything.”
Okay.Sheaskedforit.“Istillcan’tseefaces.IsubmittedaportraittothiscompetitionthatIshouldhavewon—handily—that’sguaranteedtocomeindeadlast.I’mbeingmenacedbymyevilstepsister.I’membarrassedtogobacktomyfavoritecoffeeshop.MybestfriendelopedtoCanadaandleftmedatelessforwhat’ssuretobethemosthumiliatingeventofmylife.Mystepmotherwantstobuildarelationshipwithmeandshe’scomingtotheshowovermyvociferousobjections.Mydogisathousandyearsold.Ibrokeupwithmyfantasyfiancé.AndtheverycuteguyinmybuildingwhoImightgenuinelybeinlovewithkissedmesenselesstheothernightandthenfullydisappeared.”
“Ah,”Dr.Nicolesaid.
“That’sallyou’vegot?Ah?”
“Ofallofthose,”sheaskednext,“whichoneistheworst?”
“Allofthem,”Ianswered.ThenIhadanidea.“Anychanceyoucouldbemydatetotheartshow?SoIdon’thavetogoalone?”
Itwasalongshot,ofcourse.
Butshedidn’tbudge.“Ifindourworkgoesbetterinhere,”shesaid,“whenwedon’tseeeachotheroutthere.”
BYTHESATURDAYoftheartshow,ithadbeenafullfourdays,fourteenhours,andtwentyminutessinceI’dhadanycontactfromJoe.
Itseemedprettyclearatthispointthathe’dmovedon.ThoughIcontinuedtoholdouthopeforSue’sSiciliangrandmotherscenario.Ormaybeanunexpectedcaraccident,likeinAnAffairtoRemember.Ormaybesomekindofheadinjury-inducedamnesia?
Therewerestillafewpossibleexplanationsthatwereforgivable.
Sortof.
Oh,well.
Hewasoutofmylifenow,whichwasprobablyagoodthing,Ikepttellingmyself.
ButImissedhimanyway,iswhatI’msaying.Againstmybetterjudgment.Iconfess:IhadmomentswhenIfelttemptedtocallinsicktotheartshow.
Imean,howcouldyougotoanartshowthatyouwereguaranteedtolosewithoutanyhopeatall?
Butontheotherhand,howcouldInotgo?
It’sonethingfordreamstoshiftslowly—foryoutoevolveandlongfordifferentthings.It’sanotherthingtoabandonyourdreamoutofspite.
Ithoughtaboutmymom.Mycourageous,kindheartedmom.Shewouldhavegivenanythingtogotothisexactshowfourteenyearsago.Shewouldgiveanythingtobehererightnow,fullyalive,facingwhateverlifethrewather,andjustcherishingitall.
Maybethebestwaytoholdontoherwasn’ttoobsessoverherpaintingsorwearherskatesorlistentohermusicorcopyherstyleorworryoverwhatwouldhappenwhenIfinallylostPeanut.Maybethebestwaytokeepherwithmewastoembraceherspirit.Toemulatehercourage.Tobringthewarmthandlovetotheworldthatshealways—fearlessly—had.
Shehadloveduswithoutreservation.Sheadoreduswildly.Andlaughed.Anddanced.Andsoakeditallup—everyatomofherlife—everymomentofhertime
Shefeltitall.Sheliveditall.
That’swhatIlovedabouther.Notjustthatshewasagreatmomoragreatwifeoragreatdogrescuer.Shewasagreatperson.Sheknewsomedivinesecretabouthowtoopenuptobeingalivethattherestofuskeptstubbornlymissing.
She’dwantedmetoknowit,too.She’dwantedmetosayyestoeverything.She’dwantedmetogoallin.
Butwhenshedied,Iwenttheotherway.
I’mnotjudgingmyself.Iwasakid.Ididn’tknowhowtocopewithlosingher—oranyofthehardshipsthatfollowed.ButIguessthat’sthegreatthingaboutlife—itgivesyouchanceafterchancetorethinkitall.Whoyouwanttobe.Howyouwanttolive.Whatreallymatters.
Ididwanttogototheartshow.I’dearnedmyrighttobethere.Ididn’t,ofcourse,wanttobehumiliated.ButitwaslookinglikeIcouldn’thaveonewithouttheother.AndIjustwasn’tgoingtoletthethingsIwasafraidofholdmebackanymore.
Ihadnoideahowthatdecisionwouldturnout,butIknewonethingforsure:
Mymomwouldapprove.
Asthetimeapproached,Izippedmyselfintoherpinkdress—muchtighterandslinkiernow.SuehadgiftedmeamakeoverfromhercousinwhoworkedatMacy’sandahairblowoutfromhercousin’sroommate.
Ididitall.
IfIhadtogotothisartshowallalone,Iwoulddomydamnedesttolookgood.
Therewas,ofcourse,stillachancethatJoemightshowupinasurprisetwistandwhiskmeofflikeCinderella.ButasIclankeddownthemetalstairsfromtherooftopinasetofgorgeousbutactivelypainfulheels,hewasrunningoutoftime.
Iwalkeddownourlonghallway,hopingtoseehim.
Irodedownintheelevator,hopingtoseehim.
IwalkedouttothestreetinfrontofourbuildingtomeetmyUber,stillhopingtoseehim.
Waitingthereinthelate-afternoonlight—myhairdone,adaisybehindmyearasanodetomymother,andwithsomuchmascaraonthatIcouldactuallyseemyowneyelashes—Idecidedtotrytotexthimonelasttime.
Thiswouldbeit.Myfinalattempt.
Andthen,whenhedidn’treply,I’dcallit:TimeofdeathformythingwithJoe.Saturdaynight,sevenP.M.
ThenI’dgoaheadandletmyselfmourn.
Butaftertheartshow.
Andthen,righttherenearthestreetlampbythecrosswalk,asifthedecisiontogiveuphadcalledforthsomekindofmagicfromtheuniverse,Isawhim.
Joe.Inhisbowlingjacketandhisglasses.Comingoutofourbuilding.Withasuitcase.
“Hey!”Ishouted,mybodywalkingtowardhimwithoutmybrain’spermission.
MyUberpulledupasIwaswalkingaway.
“Hey!”Icalledagain.
Joelookedup,tookinthesightofmeinbyfarthefanciestgetupanyofushadeverseen,andheldverystill.
IfIhadwantedhimtowhistleorogleortellmeIlookedgreat—orevenlongedagainstlongingforsomekindofshiftinhisbodylanguageatthepleasureofseeingme—Iwould’vebeensorelydisappointed.
Themanwasatotalstatue.
Fortunately,Ididn’twantanyofthat.Ijustwantedtoconfronthim.
I’dbeenhavingimaginaryconfrontationswithhimfordays,ofcourse.Wherehadhebeen?Whatwasgoingon?Whothehelldidhethinkhewas?
Butonceitwasreallyhappening?Ipanicked.
Forasecond,nowordscameoutatall.Finally,Imanaged:“I’vebeentextingyou.”
Useless.Joe’sbodylanguagestayedblank.
“Andcalling,”Iadded.God,nowIsoundedlikeLucinda.
Joejuststoodthere.
AtlastIgeneratedaninterrogative:“Haveyoubeensick?”
Andatlast,aresponse:“No.”
“Haveyoubeen…outoftown?”
“No.ButI’mleavingnow.”
“You’releavingtown?Now?”Iglanceddownathissuitcase.“Rightnow?”
“Yes.”
Iregrouped.“Doyouhappentoremember”—Ifeltahitchinmythroat—“thatyouweregoingtobemydatetomyartshowtonight?”
Joelookedaway,likehecouldn’tstandthesightofme.Thefacemightbeunreadable,butthebodylanguagewasunmistakable.
WhatonearthhadIdonetohim?
OrmaybeIhadn’tdoneanything.
SometimeswhenI’mwatchingamovieandthere’sasimpleBigMisunderstandingbetweentwopeople—hethinksshe’saspacealienorsomething—Iwanttoshout,“Justtalktoeachother!”
Butofcoursenothinginreallifeiseversimplelikethat.
Everyrealhumaninteractionismadeupofamilliontinymovingpieces.Notasimpleone-notesituation:asymphonyofcuestoreadanddecipherandevaluateandpayattentionto.
It’sawonderweevergetanythingstraightatall.
Andofcourseforme,formostofmylife,thenumberonego-tofordecipheringanyhumaninteractionwasfacialexpressions.
WhichIcouldn’tevensee.
Sothisconversationwasdestinedtofailfromthestart.
ButIstillhadtotry.
Itookastepcloser,wantingtogetreallyclear.“Iguessthedate’snothappeningnow?”
Joegazedoffatsomefarpointonthehorizon.
“That’sright,right?You’renotcomingwithmetothisthing?Eventhoughyousaidyouwould?”
NothingfromJoe.
“IguessI’mjustreallynervoustogobymyself,”Iwenton,feelingmyvoicewaveralittle.“Idon’twanttogoatall.ButIhavetogo,youknow?Mypainting.Mylifegoals.Andeventhoughtheportraitisnotwhattheywant,forsure—soI’monehundredpercentguaranteedtocomeindeadlast—Isuspectitmightactuallyreallybegood.Inanuglyducklingkindofway.Plus,there’sagoodchancemyhorriblefamilywillshowupandmakethingsahundredtimesworse.AndI’mgoingtohavetodoitallgenuinely,totallyalone.”
Iheldmybreathforasecond,tryingtosteadymyself.
Inever,everaskedforhelp.AndifJoe’sbehaviorthepastfourdayshadmadeanythingclear,hewasinnomoodtogiveit.
ButIwasn’taskingforhim,Irealized.
Thiswasn’tabouthisanswer.Thiswasaboutmyquestion.
Andmusteringthecouragetoaskit.
“Thethingis,”Isaidthen,myvoicefeelinglikeaballoonImightloseholdof.“Thethingis…I’mscaredtogoalone.AndIdon’tknowwhy,butitfeelslikeyou’retheonlypersonIcansaythatto.You’retheonlypersonIwanttosaythatto.Ijustwantsobadlytohavesomebodywithme.Anybody.AndsoIjusthavetoaskifyoumightstaytonight.Despiteeverything.”Itookastepcloser,likethatmightsealthedeal.“Canyoupostponeyourplans,”Iasked,“andcomewithme?”
Iftherewasanyhopeforusatall,he’dsensemydesperation—howbadlyIreally,trulyneededhim—andrescuemethisonelasttime.
Buthedidn’t.
Hekepthisfaceturnedtowardthehorizon.“Areyouaskingmetobeyouranybody?”
“Iguessthat’sonewaytoputit.”
Now,atlast,heturnedtowardme.“I’mnotgoingtobeanybodyforyou,Sadie.AndIdon’twanttoseetheportrait.AndIdon’tknowwhyyouthinkI’dcareaboutanyofthis.”
ButIshookmyhead.“Idon’tunderstandwhathappened.”
Icouldfeelaflashofangerinhisexpressionlikefire.“Really?”hesaid.“Idon’tunderstandit,either,tobehonest.Buthereweare.”
Itookadeepbreath.“WhateverI’vedone,I’msorry.”
ButJoeshookhisheadlikesorrywasthemostuselesswordintheworld.
Worsethanuseless,even.Insulting.
Heturnedtoleave.Thenhestoppedandturnedhalfwayback.
“I’mmovingout,bytheway,”hesaidthen.“Sostopcomingbymyplace.Andstopcallingme.Andforgod’ssake…stoptexting.”Twenty-Five
THEFIRSTINSULToftheartshow—beforealltheinjuries—wasplacement.
Iarrivedatthegallerytofindmyportraithungintheworstconceivablespot—halfunderastaircase,fullyattheback,rightnearthebathrooms,underanexposedair-conditioningventthatwasliterallydrippingintoabucket.Therewasamoldysmelltothearea—nottomentionatingeofLysol.
You’dthinkthatabright,airy,recentlyrenovatedartgallerywouldn’thaveadankcorner—butyou’dbewrong.
Andthat’swheretheystuckme.
Attheartgalleryequivalentofarestaurant’ssuckertable.
Worstofall,thespotwashardtogetto,butbecauseoftheU-shapedlayoutofthegallery,itwaseasytosee.Everybodyenteringthebuildingcouldgetafullviewofmyindefensiblytragicsituation.
Soanyandallhumiliationstocomewouldbeonfulldisplay.
Andtherewereplentyofhumiliationstocome.
Startingwiththefactthatnoonewasthere.
Oh,peoplewerethere—attheshow.Theshowitselfwaspacked.Just—noonecametomyshadowy,mildewy,forgottencorner.
Istoodcourageouslynexttomyportrait,underthecold,damp,blowingairofthatdrippyvent,feelingasexposedasahermitcraboutofitsshell—asIwatchedtheentiregallerymillingwitheagerartpatrons.
Everywhere—exceptwhereIwas.
Noonecameuptomeandsaidhello.Noonetalkedtomeatall.Onlyafewfreakishoutliersevenglancedatmyportrait,whichwasclearly,easily,thebigloserofthenightfromminuteone.Iscannedpeople’soutfitsandhairandgaitsforidentifyingclues,butIdidnotrecognizeoneperson.
Theartistclosesttome,layout-wise,wasaguynamedBradleyWinterbottom,who’ddoneaportraitofachildonthebeach.Hehadatleasttwentypeoplegatheredinhisarea—chattingcompanionablyaboutthecomposition,delightingoverthewayhe’dcapturedthatlate-afternoonsunlight,swooningoverthesweetnessofthechild’sface.
Imean,nothingagainstBradleyWinterbottom,butIreallyhatedthatguyrightthen.
Hehadmoreadmirersthanhedeserved.
I,incontrast,hadzero.
Ididn’tevenneedadmirers.Iwould’vebeenhappyforsomeonetotalkto.Apersonwhoneededdirections,say.Alosthiker.
Butnoluck.Itwasjustme.Alone.
Nothingtodobutpanicoverlife-alteringdecisionsaboutwheretorestmyhands.Theyweretooposedandawkwardatmysides,buttheyfelthostileifIcrossedthemovermychest,andtheyhadtoomuchjudgy-momenergyifIrestedthemonmyhips.Ijustkeptshiftingthemaround.Wasbehindthebacktoogoofy?Wasclaspedatthepelvistoomeek?Wasclenchedintofistsofmiserytoo…honest?
Nothingworked.EveryfewsecondsItriedanewpose.Likeananimatronicscarecrow.
Tonoavail.
Ihadnoideawheretolook,either.Lookingatthefloorwouldmakemeseemashamed.Lookingatotherpeoplewouldmakemeseemneedy.LookingatmyownportraitonthewallwouldmakemeseemlikeIwasfully,heartilygivinguponmydreamsinrealtime.
WhichIwas,bytheway.
Thereisnothing—nothing—moresociallyawkwardthanstandingaloneinacrowdwaitingforsomeone,anyone,tocomeandjoinyou.
IcursedSueforgettingkidnapped.Andforeloping.AndforeveryAngryCanadianshe’dtossedback.
ThenIfeltguiltyandtookitback.
IcursedJoeinstead.Foreverything.
ThenIfeltguiltyaboutthat,too.
ThenItoyedwithcursingmyself…beforedecidingIwascursedenough,already.
THEWHOLEEXPERIENCEwaswall-to-wallagony.Therewerenotwowaysaboutit.
Ifinallysetmyphone’stimerforelevenP.M.—themomentwhentheshowtechnicallyended,accordingtotheinvitation—sothatIcouldstrideout,orpossiblysprint,theverysecondIwasdone.
Onlytwohoursandforty-fiveminuteslefttoendure.
Fortheauctioncomponentoftheshow,eachartisthadasleek,Jetsons-stylecocktailtablenexttotheirportraitwithaclipboardonitforpatronstowritedowntheirbids.
BradleyWinterbottomhadtorequestanextrabidsheetafterhisfilledup—frontandback—butdoIevenneedtosayhowmanybidswounduponmyclipboardduringtheentiretimethatIstoodthere?
Zero.That’sright.
Butwasthattheworst,mostinsultingpartoftheevening?
Wow.That’satoughcall.
Let’sreviewtheoptions:
Therewerealltheshockedlookspeoplegavemyportraitfromacrosstheroom—handsovermouths,eyesbigwithpity—thewayyoumightrubberneckpastacarwreck.
TherewasthemomentwhenIaccidentallyknockedoverthebucketofA/Cdrippingsandthenapologeticallymoppeditupwithpapertowelsfromthebathroom,onedrippybunchatatime,whileotherartistsandpatronsglancedoverwithirritationlikeIwasreallybringingeveryonedown.
Thereweretheendlesstenminuteswhenanotherfinalist,whoworealittleporkpiehat,wentbythesinglepseudonymLysander,andapparentlypossessedanervousdigestivesystem,hadtoworkthroughsomebrutaldigestiveissuesinthemen’sroom,whichIcouldofcoursehearindetailfrommyprimospotbythebathroomdoors—grunts,splashes,andall.
Oh.AndtherewasthetimewhenItookapeebreakandoverheardsomejudgeswhoseizedthatmomenttodartoverandlaughatmywork.Yes,that’showclosemyplacementwastothebathrooms.Icouldliterallyhearthesepeopletalkingfromthestall
“Whatishappeninghere?”Judge1asked,inahorrifiedwhisper.
“Iknow,”Judge2said.
“Didtheartist…leave?”
“Wouldn’tyou?”
“Ineverwouldhaveshownupatall.”
“Shemusthavefled.”
“Right?Offtonotquitherdayjob.”
“Ortoflingherselfoffabridge.”
Theysnickeredatthat.
“It’sjustsobizarre,”onewentonpensively.“Thebodyandbackgroundaresoexquisite…”
“Butthenyougettotheface.”
“Ikeepthinkingit’sCarlSagan.”
“IkeepseeingSteveBuscemi.”
“Itlookslikeawolfface,inaway.”
“Impossible.Animalsareagainsttherules.”
“Right?It’snotveterinaryportraiture.”
“Whateveritis,it’slikethefacemelted.”
“Orgothitwithapierightbeforethesitting.”
“Orlandedfacedowninmud.”
“Orhadabotchedcosmeticsurgery.”
“Ijustdon’tunderstandhowthispieceisevenhere.”
“Maybetheynotifiedthewrongartist?”
“It’sjustinsulting,morethananything.”
“Itkindofmakesmeangry.”
“WhatawasteofaTopTenspot.”
“Toobadwecan’tgivenegativepoints.”
“Isn’tit?”
Atthat,I’dhadenough.Ipressedthetoilethandlewithmyshoeandhelditthere.
Mercifully,theblastoftheindustrialflushwasloudenoughtostartlethemaway.
Inthesilencethatfollowed,Iwashedmyhands,smoothedmyhairinthemirror,smiledencouraginglyatmyunintelligibleface,stoodupstraightlikehowIimaginedapersonwithsomeremaininghumandignitywould,andwalkedbackouttomypost.
Justtwosoul-draininghourstogo…
Itwasokay.Itwasfine.WhatwasitJoehadsaidaboutsittingfortheportrait?“Trigonometryishard.ClimbingElCapitanishard.LandingonthebeachesofNormandyishard.”AllIhadtodowasstandhere—andkeepstandinghere—untilmyalarmwentoff.
AndthenIcouldgohome.Andbrainstormanewlife’sdream.
ThiswasthebigbreakI’dbeenworkingtowardforoveradecade.ThiswasthemomentI’dbeenwaitingfor—dreamingof.ThiswasthelifeI’dchosen.Thiswasacompetitionthatifthepastfiveweekshadn’thappened,I’dbecrushingrightnow.ThiswasashowcasemomentforthethingIwasbestatinmyentirelife…Justnotanymore.
CouldIhaveusedatleastonepersontherewithmeinthatmoment?
Yes.
AndwouldIhaveevenmindedifitwasLucinda?
Notatall.
ButIgotfullystoodup.Byeveryone.Eventhoughmydad’ssecretaryhadputitonhiscalendarandLucindahadinterruptedmylast—only—nightwithJoetogivemethatnews.EventhoughI’dbeendreadingthemcomingeversinceIfoundout.EventhoughtheywerethelastpeopleIeverwould’vechosen.
Iwasoutofchoices.
AstimeworeonandthesmileI’dstapledtomyfacequiveredmoreandmore,Ifoundmyselfhopingforsomeone,anyone,toshowup—and,ifI’mhonest…imagininghowgreatitwouldbeifthatsomeonecouldbeJoe.
Itwasn’timpossible,wasit?
Crazierthingshadhappened,right?
Ifnothingelse,imaginingitgavemeanicedistraction.Joe:Havinganepiphanyinlineattheairport,abandoninghissuitcase,hailingacab,butthenhittingtoomuchtraffic,sprintingthefinalblockshereonlytoburstthroughthedoorsandshovepastelderlyartcriticstomydarkcornerlikeitwastheonlyplacehe’deverwantedtobe…andthenbreathlesslybeggingmyforgivenesswhiledeclaringhisundyinglove—therebyvalidatingmyentireexistenceforeveryonehere,includingme.
MaybeIshouldpopoutforsomeairfreshener.
Thanksalot,Lysander.
Anyway.Iknewitwasimpossible.Joehadalreadyrefusedtobemyanybody.
Butbecarefulwhatyouhopefor.
Ididgetananybody—atlast,twohoursin…
ButitwasParker.
Confirmed:Hopeistheworst.
YOUKNOWTHATsayingthatpeoplelookliketheirpets?ParkerslinkedovertomelikeahumanSphynxcat,andIswearherpupilswereverticalslits.“Aw,”shesaid,withdelightedfauxsympathy.“DidDaddyandLucindastandyouup?”
“Theyweren’tinvited,”Isaid.“Andneitherwereyou.”
Parkerlookedatmydressandsaid,“Areyouheadedtotheprom?”
Thatwasherbestinsult?Itwasalmostdisappointing.“Maybe,”Isaid.
Thenshestage-whispered,“Areyoutotallyaloneoverhere?”
“No,”Isaid.Iclearlywas.
Thenshelookedaroundtheatrically.“Looksliketheyputyouatthesuckertable.”
“It’smoodlighting,”Isaid.
“Whydoesitsmelllikediarrhea?”Parkeraskednext.
IglancedoveratLysander,nowbackathisstation.ButIsaidtoParker,“Mustbeyourperfume.”
Atthat,Parkerturnedherattentiontotheportraitandstudieditagoodwhile
“Who’sitsupposedtobe?”sheaskedatlast.“TheguyfromTheHobbit?”Sheshiftedherstance.“Wait—isitJohnDenver?”Thenshetookastepback.Thenlikeshe’dnaileditatlast:“Holdup!DannyDeVito.”
“Don’tyouhaveanythingatallbettertodo?”Iasked.
“There’snothingbetterthanthis.”
“Knowwhatyourbeinghererightnowtellsme?”
“ThatI’llalwayswin?”
Igaveitabeat.“Thatyoustilldon’thaveanyfriends.”
“Idon’tneedfriends.Istoleyours.”
“Yes,youdid.Butyoudidn’tgetwhatyouwanted.”
“Neitherdidyou.”
Shewasn’twrong.
Parkerlookedaroundtheroom.“Thisissobrutal,”shesaidthen.“Yourpaintingsucks,yourdressisawful,I’mprettysureyou’rebeingshunnedbytheartworld,andyournemesisisrighthere,gloating.”
“Parker?”Isaid.“Getout.”
“No.”
“GetoutbeforeIcallsecurity.”
ButParkerjustsmiled.“Youwon’tdothat.You’realreadyatmaximumhumiliation.”
“Joke’sonyou.Idon’thavemaximumhumiliation.”
Butdidtheuniversehearmerightthenandthink,Challengeaccepted?Becausewewereabouttoredefinemaximumhumiliation.
“Parker,”Isaid,“justgo.”
“Noway.Iwanttosavoreveryminute.”
“Whyareyoutheworstpersonintheworld?”Iasked,likeshemighttrytoanswer.
“Ohmygod.You’realwaysthevictim,aren’tyou?”
“Well,whosefaultisthat?”
“Youjusthavetoblamemeforeverything.”
“Idon’tblameyouforeverything.Youactuallydoeverything.”
Butsheleanedin.“Yourpersecutioncomplexisunreal.”
“Idon’thaveapersecutioncomplex!”Isaid.“Iamliterallybeingpersecuted.”
“It’snotmyfaultyourmotherdied,”Parkersaidthen.“It’snotmyfaultyourdadmarriedmymom.It’snotmyfaultwesoldourhouse,andIgaveupmyroom,andwegotthrowntogethereveryminuteofeveryday.Ididn’taskforthat,andIcertainlydidn’taskforyou.Iwasnotconsulted—aboutanyofit!Andyes,Ididallthoseterriblethings!Iframedyouandliedaboutyouandcoaxedthembothintopushingyouaway.Butyourdadnotlovingyou?That’snotmyfault,either.Hestoppedlovingyouwellbeforewemet.Youlosthimallonyourown.Andyouwanttoknowhowyoudidthat?Becauseyou”—andheresheseemedtoriseuponherdragonhaunches—“arethereasonthatyourmotherdied.”
Iguessourvoiceshadaccidentallygottenloud.
Whenshestoppedtalking,therewasnotasoundinthegallery.
IcouldheartheA/Cdrippingintomybucket.
Icouldhearatoiletflush.
AndIcouldhearallthosepeoplewho’dbeenignoringmeearliersuddenlytakinganewkindofinterest.
Iloweredmyvoice,inacomicalshotatprivacy.“Whatareyoutalkingaboutrightnow?”
“Ioverheardthemtalkingonenight—DadandLucinda.Hetoldherwhathappened.Thatyourmomhadamessed-upbloodvesselinherbrain.Thathe’dbeggedhertogetsurgerytofixit.Butsherefused.Sheputitofftillsummer.Thetwoofyouhadplannedaspringbreaktrip,togovisitsomeartist’smuseum,andshewasn’tgoingtodisappointyou.Yourdadtoldhertocancelthetrip.Hebeggedher.Butshewouldn’tlisten.Shewentanyway.Andthenoneweeklater,shecollapsed.”
Whatwasshesaying?
Ifeltaweirdpaininmychest,liketheshellofmyheartwascracking.
“That’swhathesaidthatnight,”Parkerwenton.“Thatitwasyourfault.Thattryashemight,hecouldn’thelpbutblameyou.Iheardhimsaythosewordsoutloud.SoyoucanstopthinkingIruinedyourrelationshipwithyourfather.It’snotmyfaulthedoesn’tloveyou.It’snotmyfaultyoulostyourfamily.Youdidallthattoyourself.”
Wassomethinggoingonwiththefloor?Itfeltliketheroomwasshaking.
Somuchforstayinguntiltheend.
Ilookedupforanescaperoute,andthat’swhenIsawmyfather.Iknewitwashimataglancefromthatnavypolka-dotbowtiehe’dbeenwearingtofancyeventseversinceIwaslittle.AndI’dknowhisstance—nottomentionhisoutline—anywhere.Andtherehestood,aforgottenbouquetofgrocerystoreflowersinhisnon-bandagedhand—watchingus,hissheermotionlessnesstelegraphingthathe’djustwitnessedthewholething.
Andthatitwastrue.
Ididn’tevenbothertowalkcloser.Therewerenosecretswiththiscrowdnow.
“Isshelying?”Isaidtomyfather.“Orisittrue?”
Mydadtookahalfstepforward,thenpaused.
Istoodupstraighter.“Tellmeshe’slying,”Isaid.Then,yelling:“Tellmeshe’slying!”
WherethehellwasJoewhenIneededhimtoflipthebreakerandsaveme?
Oh,well.
IguessI’dhavetosavemyself.Twenty-Six
THATMOMENTMUSThavebeensofunforParker.
Shebrokeme.Shereallydid.
AllthateffortI’dmadetobethereandwithstanditallandstayuntiltheend?
Annihilated.
Ichargedpastmystill-motionlessdad,throughthestill-gapingcrowd,andpushedmywaytowardtheexit,feelingweirdlylikeIwasunderwaterandhopingdesperatelythattheremightbemoreairoutsidethanin.
Butnope.
Outsidewasjustasairless.
Ifeltwoozy.Istoppedjustpasttheentranceandpressedmypalmsandforeheadagainstthebrickwall,tryingtopullittogether.
Easierimaginedthandone.
BeforeI’dstabilized,Iheardavoice.Andsure,Iwasn’tgreatatvoices,butitdidn’ttakemelongtofigureoutwhoitwas.
“Thereyouare!It’snotoverisit?Iwasjustparking,butyourdadshouldalreadybeinthere.Didhefindyou?I’msogladIdouble-checkedafterwegotParker’semail,”shewassaying.“Wealmostmissedthisentirething!”
Iliftedmyheadawayfromthebrickwallandturnedaround.
IlookedstraightatLucinda’sscrambledface,stillbreathinghard.“What,”Iasked,“didyoudouble-check?”
Lucindatookastepcloser.“Theshowtonight,”shesaid.“Parkerthoughtitwascanceled.”
Inthatmoment,mydadshowedupbehindLucinda.AndParkerbehindhim.
Itookinthescene.Lucinda,veryslowontheuptakeaboutwhatwasgoingdown;mydad,lookingcrushed,upside-downbouquetstillforgotteninhisgoodhand;andParker,standingbehindthemboth,herfacetheverydefinitionofsmug.
“Parkeremailedyou,”Isaidthen,“tosaythattheartshowwascanceled?”
Lucindanodded.“Wealmostdidn’tcome.GoodthingI—”
“Theshowwasnevercanceled,”Isaid.
“Weknowthatnow,”Lucindasaid.“ThankgoodnessIthoughttocallthegallery.”
Butshewasmissingmypoint.“Parkerliedtoyou.”
“No,no,”Lucindasaid.“I’msureshe—”
“Sheliedtoyou,”Isaid,“becauseshewantedyoutostandmeup.”
Lucinda’sutterincomprehensionatthisideamademewanttolightmyselfonfire.Sheshookherhead.“Ithinkshejust—”
ButIcouldn’tbeartolistentohertrytoexplain.
Icutheroff.“Sheliedtoyoubecauseshealwaysliestoyou.Sheliedtoyoubecauseshewantsustohateeachother.Sheliedtoyoubecauseit’sfunforher!Becauseshedelightsinmessingwithpeople!Becauseyoulether!Youneverquestionher.Youneverchallengeher.Youneveruseanykindofcriticalthinking.Evenwhenherfactsdon’taddup!Evenwhennothingmakesanysense!She’smakingupastoryofthisfamily—andit’snotevenagoodone!Butyoujustbelieveit—everydamntime.”
“Iknowyou’reupset,”Lucindasaid.“Butlet’snotslanderParker.Shereallythoughtitwascanceled.IfIhadn’ttextedhertosetherstraight,she’dhavemissedit,too.”
“Youalwaysbelieveher—noquestionsasked!Andyounever,everbelieveme.Evenwhen—asalways—I’mtellingyouthetruth.”
Lucindaandmydadlookedateachother,like,Herewegoagain.
Sure.HadIsaidthistothemathousandtimes?Yes.
Ihadyelledittothemasanangryteenager.Ihadsobbedittotheminaschoolparkinglot.Ihadwrittenittothemincountlesscareful,logical,please-believe-meletters.
Haditeverworked?
Never.Notonce.
Talkaboutconfirmationbias!TheyhaddecideddecadesagowhoParkerandIbothwere—andthosedecisionshadhardenedintostonebynow.ButIdidn’tcare.
Herewewentagain.“IfParkersaidIstoleyourgrandmother’srubyhatpinoutofyourjewelrybox,youbelievedher.EventhoughitwasParkerwhostoleitandtookittoapawnshopdowntownandusedthemoneytobuyticketstoaconcertshewasn’tevenallowedtogoto!Shehadtosneakout!Butshetoldyouitwasme,soitwasme.Igotgroundedforstealing,andshetookmyboyfriendtoaconcert!”
Lucindatriedtomakehervoicesoothing,likeyouwouldwithadog.“Sweetheart,thatwasallsolongago—”
“Wasit?Isit?It’sstillgoingon!Rightnow!This,righthere,isParkertellingyouIcrashedyourcar—andyoubelievingher.ThisisParkertellingyouthestolenmathexamanswersinourroomweremine—andyoubelievingher.ThisisParker—bullyingthehelloutofpoor,kindheartedAugustaRosssoviciouslyandsotoxicallythatthegirlateawholebottleofTylenolandthentellingtheschooladministratorsthatitwasme—andyou,allofyou,believingher!”
Icouldhearmyvoicegoofftherails.StartingtosoundlikeJanisJoplin.Louderandscreechier—asifvolumeordesperationorhysteriacouldgetthroughtothem.
Thoughitcertainlyneverhadbefore.
Anewcrowdofpeoplewasstartingtogatheraroundus.Lucindaglancedaroundatthemuncomfortably.Sheloweredhervoice.“Sadie,let’salljusttrytomoveon.”
Whichmademewanttobangmyheadagainstthatbrickwall.
WhatdidanyofthemthinkIwastryingtodo?
“Whendidyoutexther?”IdemandedofLucindathen.
“What?”
“WhendidyoutextParkertoletherknowthattheshowwashappeningafterall?”
LucindalookedoveratParker,likeParkermighthintathowtoanswer.
“When!”Ishouted.
“Abouttenminutesago,”Lucindasaid.
Inodded.“GuesswhenParkergothere?Anhourago.She’sbeentauntingmeatmyownartexhibitionforoveranhour.Andguesswhatshesaidrightasshewalkedin?Shesaid,‘Guesstheystoodyouup.’”
Lucindastaredatme,takingthatin.
“Sheengineeredthis.Shecreatedit.Shesawyoutryingtobenicetome,andshetorpedoedusall.Again.”
ButLucindawasshakingherhead.“Sweetheart,I—”
“Youneverbelieveme,”Isaid.“Butit’sthetruth.”
JustasIsaidit,awomansteppedoutofthecrowdandwalkeduptousall,standingthere.“Hello,”shesaid,inachippervoice.
Itwassooddthatshewouldapproachusrightthen,mid-fight.Imean,Comeon,lady.Readtheroom.
Butsheclearlywasn’tputoffbythefamilysquabble.
Shejustplowedrightonahead.
ShestuckoutherhandtoshakeLucinda’sandthendidthesamethingtomydad,andthenshesaid,“Mr.andMrs.Montgomery,youprobablydon’trememberme…”
MydadandLucindashooktheirheadstoconfirm.
“Butmyname,”theladywenton,“isAugustaRoss.”
Okay,wemaynothaverememberedtheperson—butabsolutelynooneinourfamilycouldeverhaveforgottenthatname.
Lucindadroppedherpurseatthesoundofit,andAugustapolitelypickeditupforher.
“AugustaRoss?”Lucindaconfirmed.
“It’ssoluckyIranintoyou,”Augustawentonwithdeterminedbrightness.“I’vebeenwantingtoreachout.”
“Why,”Lucindaasked,“wouldyouwanttodothat?”
“Andit’ssoluckythatIarrivedjustwhenIdid,don’tyouthink?HereIwas,comingtoseetheartshowofmydearoldfriendSadie,andwhatshouldIhearasIwalkuptothebuildingbutSadieherself,shoutingmyname.”
Nobodyknewwhattosaytothat.Notevenme.
Iwasstillwrappingmyheadaroundit.AugustaRosswashere?TheAugustaRoss?
“Justtobringyouuptospeed,”Augustasaid,hervoicestillaggressivelybright.“Aftermysuicideattemptallthoseyearsago,myparentsmovedusacrossthecountry.Asyoucanimagine,theycutoffallcontactwithpeoplewe’dknownbackhere.Lifewashardenoughforawhile,andIjustdidmybesttoputitallbehindme.Blah-blah-blah—Igrewup,wenttoStanfordforarthistory,gotofferedafantasticjobwithRiceUniversity,andwoundupmovingbackherelastsummer.Overmyparents’objections,ofcourse.”
Safetosay,nobodyinmysadlittlefamilyhadanyideawhereallthiswasheading.
“Anyway,”Augustawenton,allchatty,“afterImovedback,Istartedbumpingintooldclassmatesandhearingthecrazieststoriesaboutthatwholeme-getting-bullied-to-the-brink-of-suicidething.Thecraziestofallwas—andIjustkeepfeelinglikethiscan’tbetrue—thatSadiewastheonewhogotblamedforthebullying.That’snotright,isit?”
IglancedatParker.Thesmugnesshadmostdefinitelyfadedfromhervibe.
“Well…”Lucindasaid,glancingatmydad.“Theschooltakesazero-tolerancestanceonbullying…”
“Astheyshould,”Augustasaid.“ButSadie,asIbelieveshewasjusttellingyou,isnotthepersonwhobulliedme.”
WealljuststaredatAugustainmuteastonishment.
“Thepersonwhobulliedme,”Augustawenton,“wasParker.”
“Parker!”Lucindasaid,asifAugustahadjustsaid“TaylorSwift.”
“Oh,yeah,”Augustawenton.“Thatwholeyear.Sheleftnotesinmylocker.Shepickedonmyclothes.ShetoldmeIwasugly,andnoonewouldeverloveme,andIshouldjustgiveup.Daily.Hourly,sometimes.Hooooo-boy—shewasvicious.”
Lucindatookastunnedstepback.
“Sadiewasalwayssupernice,”Augustasaid,noddingatmeapprovingly.“Infact,she’sstillnice.”
ThenAugustawalkedclosertomeandhandedoveralittlebundle.“Here’syourdressback,”shesaid.
Ilookeddown.“Mydress?”
“Yourruffledress,”shesaid,justasIsawthepolka-dotfabric.
Iputittogether.“You’rethecoffeegirl?Thatwasyou?”
“Youdidn’trecognizemethatday,”Augustasaid.“I’vechangedalot.”
Hadn’tweall?
“ButIrecognizedyou,”shewenton.“IwasjustcomingovertosayhiwhenParkerknockedmedown.Andthenyouwerehelpingmeupandgivingmeyourdress.Sweetasever.Ithoughtaboutsayingsomethingthen,butIwassolate.Igoogledyoulatertofindawaytobringyourdressback,andIsawthenoticeabouttheartshow.”
“Didyoumakeittotheairport?”Iasked.
Augustanoddedandheldupasparklyengagementring.“Idid.”ThensheturnedbacktomydadandLucinda.“Iwasgoingtowriteyoualettertosetthingsstraight.AndIreallyjustcameheretonighttosayhitoSadieandsupporthershow.ButthenIwoundupeavesdropping…andIcouldn’tresistjumpingin.”
Augustaturnedbacktome.“Parkerframedyouforit,huh?”
Inodded.“Theykickedmeoutofschool.”
“I’msosorry,”Augustasaid.“Ihadnoidea.Afterweleft,myparentsshieldedmefromeverysinglethingrelatedtothisplace.”
“Understandably,”Isaid.
“Anyway,”Augustasaid,turningbackwithfalsebrightnesstotheslack-jawedpairofmyfatherandLucinda.“Icouldn’thelpbutoverhearSadiesayingthatyouneverbelieveher.Buthere’salittleprotipfromsomebodywhoknowsbothofyourdaughtersprettywell.IfyouhaveachoicebetweenParkerandSadie?PickSadie—everytime.”Twenty-Seven
WASITAbigcatharticmomentwhenmyfamilyrealizedthey’dbeenwrongallalongonlytoburstintotearsofregretandbegmeforforgiveness?
Uh,no.
WeneverevengottoseeParker’sreactionbecausewhenwelookedover,shehadtakenoff—slippedherdisgracedandguiltyselfoffintothenightbeforeeverhavingtoownuptoanything.
AndthenLucindapromptlygotthevaporsandaskedmydadtotakeherhome.Iwoundupstuckoutsidemyownartshowholdingupthenear-to-faintingLucindaaswewaitedformydadtobringthecararound.
Therewerenoapologies.TherewasnoGreekchorusofremorse.
Butdiditfeelnicetohavemynameclearedatlast?
Itdid.Toolittleandwaytoolate—butnice,allthesame.
Plus,Igotmyfavoritepolka-dotwrapdressback.
Andinfact,AugustahadbarelylefttogointotheshowwhenMr.andMrs.Kimshowedupwiththemostenormous,elegant,fuchsia-coloredpottedorchidI’deverseen.Mrs.Kimwantedtohandittome,butmyarmswerebusyholdingupmyevilstepmother,soshewoundupsettingitlovinglyatmyfeet.
“What’swrongwithMarthaStewart?”Mr.Kimasked.
“It’salongstory.”
“Shouldn’tyoubeinside?”Mrs.Kimasked.
“That’sanevenlongerstory.”
“You’veworkedhard,”Mrs.Kimsaid.
“Weareveryproudofyou,”Mr.Kimsaid.
“Youdon’thavetogoin,”Isaidtothem.“Justcomingbyismorethanenough.”
ButMr.Kimshookhishead.“Wewantyoutowin.”
“Ihavenohopeofwinning,”Isaid.
“We’llseeaboutthat,”Mr.Kimsaid,andtheywentinanyway.
Myfathershowedupwiththecarthen,andIthoughtthatwouldbeit:cardoorsslamming,redtaillightsinthesuddendistance,meleftstandingonthesidewalkalone.Buttomydad’scredit,afterhehelpedLucindagetsettledinthepassengerseat,heturnedbacktomeandlingeredforaminute—offeringalittlemomentofclosure.
“Isittrue?Aboutyoublamingme?”Iasked.“OrwasParkerlying?”
Mydadlookeddownatthesidewalkashesaid,“Idon’tthinkshewaslying.”
“Youdon’tthinkshewas?”
“Ididsayallthatstuffonce,”hesaid.“ToLucinda.Lateatnight.Iwashorrifiedtohearthewordscomingoutofmymouth.IthinkIhopedthatsayingthemmightgetridofthem.ButIguessitjustgavethemadifferentlife.”
“Iguessitdid,”Isaid.
“Irememberworryingafterwardthatyoumighthaveoverheardus,”mydadsaid.“SoIwenttocheckyourroom.Butyouwerefastasleep.Ididn’tthinktocheckonParker.”
“Whydidn’tyoutellmeaboutMom?”
“Ididn’twantyoutoblameyourself.”
“Butyoublamedme.”
“Thatwasmyproblem.Iknewitwaswrong.Iknewitwasn’tfair.That’swhyImarriedLucindasofast.IknewIwaslettingyoudown.Ihatedhowquietthehousewas.Iwanted,honestly,asstrangeasitmustsound…tofindyouanothermother.Ithought,Let’shurryupandhealandgetbackonourfeet.”
“Youcan’treplacemotherslikeappliances.”
“Iwasn’tthinkingtooclearly.”
“Andnowyou’restuckwithLucinda.”
“IactuallylikeLucinda.”
“Ikindofdo,too.Occasionally.”
ThenIforcedmyselftoask:“Doyoustillblameme?”
Mydadrestedhishandsonmyshoulders.“Sweetheart…ofcoursenot.”
HisvoicesoundeddismayedthatIcouldevenask.ButhowcouldInotask?“Youdidonce.”
“Ididonce,”heconfirmed,“yes—butIwas…”—hesearchedforwordstodescribeitandfinallysettledon—“crazedwithgrief.”
Ilookeddown.
“Icouldn’tevenseestraight,”hesaid.“Iblamedeveryone.You,yes.Butyourmom,too,forbeingsodamnedstubborn.Andthedoctor,forexplaininghersituationsocasuallythatshecouldthinkputtingthesurgeryoffwasevenanoption.IevenblamedtheNormanRockwellmuseum.IhadfantasiesofdrivingtoMassachusettsandburningtheplacedown.Iblamedherfriends,hertravelagent,andmostofall—morethanalloftherestofyouputtogether—Iblamedmyself.HowhadInotinsisted?HowhadIletherjustignoreit?KnowingwhatIknew?DoingwhatIdoforaliving?Icouldhavestoppedher.Shecouldstillbehererightnow.Ourlivescouldhavebeensodifferent.Everythingcouldsoeasilyhavebeenokay.”
Inodded.“Shewasn’treallyonetobebossedaround,though.”
Mydadlaughedalittle.
Iwenton.“Youmakeitsoundeasywhenyousayyoushouldhavestoppedher.Buthowwouldyouhavedonethat?”
Heshookhishead.“Stolenherkeys?Tiedhertothenewelpost?Kidnappedherforthesurgery?”
“Shewouldn’thavetakentookindlytoanyofthat,”Isaid.
“Andthenwelosther,”hesaid,hisvoicegoinggravelly.“AndIdidn’tknowhowtogoon.”Hetookmyhand.“Thisisn’tanexcuse,”hesaidthen,“butit’strue.Icouldn’tlookatyouwithoutseeingher,too—gettingflashesofthetwoofyoudancingtooldies,orsprayingmewiththehosewhileyouwashedthecar,ordiscoskating.Idon’tknowhowtodescribeit,butmychestwouldseizeupsobadIthoughtImightsuffocate.Ithurtsomuch,itscaredme—andIwasafraidtofeelthatpain.SoIturnedaway.”
“Irememberthat,”Isaid.“Youavertingyoureyeswheneveryouhadtotalktome.”
Myfathernodded.“Iwasashamed.”
ThenIadded,“Youstilldoit.Tothisday.”
We’dbeentalkinglikethiswasallthedistantpast.Butsomuchofitwasstillgoingon.
“Iwanttoapologizetoyou,”mydadsaidthen.
“Forwhat?”
“Forlotsofthings.Butrightnow—forthewayIdisappearedafteryourmomdied.”
Ah.That.
“Iwasn’t…okay.”
“NeitherwasI.”
“Iwasdrinkingalot.Everynightinmyroom.”
“Iremember,”Isaid.“You’dlockthedoor.”
“Andyou’dsitoutsideinthehallway.”
Inodded.“Andcry.”
Mydadsqueezedmyhands,buthekepthisheaddown.“Icanstillhearthesoundofyoucrying.Inmyhead.Icanhearyoucallingforme,beggingmetocomeout.”
“Butyouneverdid.”
Mydadshookhishead.“Adoctorfriendgavemesomesleepingpills.I’dtakethemandpassout.ItwasthebestIcoulddo.It’snotanexcuse.Idon’texpectyoutoforgiveme.Ileftyoualonewhenyouneededme.IfIcouldgobackintime,Iwould.I’dripopenthatdoorandgatheryouupinmyarmsandsayeverythingyouneededtohear:You’renotalone.We’llbeokay.Iloveyou.”
Thenmydadpulledmeintoahug,andIcouldfeelthathewascrying.
“I’msorry,Sadie,”hesaid.“YourmomwouldhatemesomuchforhowIfailedyou.”
Myknee-jerkimpulsewastosay,Youdidn’tfailme.
Butofcoursehehad.Notjustthen,butafter—overandover.
SoinsteadIsaid,“Butyou’reherenow.Andyoubroughtherfavoriteflowers.”
Hisvoicewasalmostawhisper.“Ofcourse.”
Andthen,withhisbandagedhand,hebrokeoneoftheyellowmarigoldsoutofmybouquetandtuckeditbehindmyearwiththedaisy.
Didthisonemomentmagicallymakeeverythingbetter?
No.
Butitdidn’tmakethingsworse,either.
I’llgiveitthat.
AndnowwheneverIseeamarigold,Ithinkofmymom,ofcourse,asever—butIthinkofmydad,too.Apologizing.
AFTERHEDROVEawaywithLucinda,IpickedupmyorchidfromMrs.Kimandtheneyedthegalleryentrance.
Therewerestillforty-fiveminutesleft.
Acourageouspersonwouldreturnandstaytilltheend.ButIwasn’tsurehowcourageousIwas.Itwasonethingtonotleavemypost—itwasanotherthingtobeoutandthenforcemyselfbackin.
ImightbeafewgutsshortofthegutsIneededtodothat.
ButI’dbarelyhadtimetoconsiderthatbefore,inrapidsuccession,Igotthatprimalfeelingofsomeonewatchingme,turnedtoseewhoitwas,andcaughtafractionofaglimpseofParker,edgingaroundthecorner,outofsight.
Shewasstillhere.
Lingeringatthesceneofoneofhermanycrimes.
Itookafewstepsinthatdirection,thinkingshewasrunningawayandImightchaseafterher.ButthenIsawhershadowonthesidewalk.Shehadn’trunaway.Shewasjusthiding.
Hiding.
Iwould’veexpectedhertobeouthere,gloating.Cackling.Savoringthemiseryshe’dwrought.
Hidingmademewonder.Wassheashamedofherself?Couldsheevenfeelshame?Didshefeelguilty?Remorseful?Even—andIshookmyhead,evenasIthoughtit—sorry?
I’doverheardafewthingsaboutParker’slife,too,duringtheyearswhenwealllivedinonehousetogether.IonceheardLucindaonthephonetellingafriendthewholestoryabouthowParker’sdadwalkedoutverydramaticallyonenight—withhismistresswaitinginthecar.Parkerhadtriedtoholdontohislegtokeephimfromgoing,butheshookheroffthewayyoumightshakeoffaterrier—andhehadkickedsohard,ParkerslammedherheadagainstthemetaldoorstopandhadtogototheER.
Inmymoregenerousmoments,I’dsometimeswonderifherfather’sleavinglikethathauntedher.Ifshewasstillreckoningwiththatmomentsomehow.Ifshe’dratherdobadthingsandmakeherselfintoabadpersonthanhavetofacetheideathatshemight’vebeenunlovablejustasshewas.
Ormaybeshewasjustapsychopath.
Orevenasociopath.
Andyes—I’ddoneenougharmchairresearchonParkerovertheyearstoknowthedifferencebetweenthetwo.I’donceevenprintedoutaflowchart.IguessI’dknownhertoolongandtoowelltoholdouthopethatshemightchange.
Thatsaid,thismomentfeltlikeanopportunity.Allournormalstoriesaboutourselvesandourfamilyhadkindofgonethroughapapershreddertonight.Rightnow,witheverythinginshambles,itfeltlikeIcouldsaysomethingtrue.Andwhetherornotshewouldhearmeorunderstandmeoruseitagainstme,Idecidedrightthentogoaheadandsayit.
Formysake,ifnotforhers.
“Parker,”Isaid,watchinghershadowtoseeifshe’drunoffatthesound.“Iknowyou’rethere.”
Theshadowdidn’tmove.
Iwenton,“Idon’tknowwhatdrivesyoutogoaftermelikeyoudo.Ioncereadthatpeoplewhohurtothersthinkthereareonlytwochoicesintheworld—tohurtortobehurt.Andsotheyhurtotherssotheycanfeelsafe.Like,ifthey’rethebully,theycan’tbebullied.Ifthey’rethevictimizer,theycan’tbethevictim.Asifanythinginlifecouldeverbethatsimple.Butmaybethat’swhatitisforyou.Maybeit’sfaultylogic.Maybeit’ssomethingthatyou’llrethinkinthefutureandregret.Ormaybethere’s—Idon’tknow—somethingwrongwithyourbrain,andthisishowit’llalwaysbe.Me,alwayscastasthesquirrel,andyoualwayscastastheneighborhoodpyromaniacwhodousesthesquirrelwithlighterfluid…”
Ipausedthen,incaseshemighthavesomethingtosay.
Shedidn’t.
SoIwenton.“Theironyofitis…Ialwayswantedasister.”
Thismomentwasalmostover—Icouldfeelit.Andtheshadowwasstilllistening
Thensomethingbecameverycleartome:AsterribleasParkermademylife,shemadeherownevenworse.Nothingshecoulddotomewasassoul-crushingaswhatshedidtoherself.Inturningawayfromkindness,she’dchosenalifeoftorment.
MaybeIdidn’thavetopunishher.
Maybeshewasalreadypunishingherself.
Spoiler:Iwouldfindoutthenextdaythatmyportraitcameindeadlastinthecontest.Iwouldgetatotalofzerovotesfromthejudges.ButIreallywouldcomeawaywithawholenewunderstandingofwhatitmeanttowin.Andstandinginthatdarkstreetalone,talkingtoParker’sshadow,Iwasalreadygettingaglimmerofwhatthatwouldfeellike.
“Ijustwantyoutoknow,”Isaidthen,“thatitdoesn’thavetobethisway.Wedon’thavetobeenemies.Ibelieveyoucanchange,andIknowI’mnotvindictive.Ifyoueverdecidethatyouwanttostopactingthisway…Iwillgenuinelytrytoforgiveyou.”Twenty-Eight
THATNIGHT,ONtopofitall,Ileftthemostbananasvoicemailofmyentirelife.
BecausethatapologyI’dgottenfrommydad?Itdidn’tmagicallyfixeverythingaboutmychildhood—ofcourse.Wecan’tgobackintime.
Butitdidleavemethinkingalittledifferently.
Like,hearinghissideofthestorychangedmyunderstandingofthestory.
Hearinghimapologizeforthewayhe’dleftmeoutinthehallwayallthosenights?Ithadneveronceoccurredtomethatwhathappenedthenhadbeenanythingotherthanmyfault.
I’dalwaysfiguredthatmydesperateneedinessallthosenightshaddrivenhimaway.
Myfourteen-year-oldinterpretationhadbeentoassumethatI’dcausedthatmomenttounfoldthatway.ThatI’ddrivenmyfatherawaywithmyneediness.AndI’demergedfromthattimeinourliveswithawronglessonabouthowtheworldworks,thinkingthatifIwantedtobeloved—andwhodoesn’t?—Ineededtomakesuretoneverneedanybody.Ever.
Oh,thecomedy.
Allthistime,I’dbeendoublingdownonthewrongthing.
Ithoughtthattheonlywaytobeclosewastostayfaraway.
ExceptforwithJoe,ofcourse.Whowouldn’ttake“faraway”forananswer.
Amontageofmemorieskickedoffinmyhead.Joecominguptotherooftotellmemylockwasbroken.Joeofferingtobemymodel.JoetakingmeforaVesparide.Joeguidingmethroughapanicattackandthenorderingusapizza.JoesopatientwhileIranmyhandsalloverhim.
Andonandon.
Iftherewasanyoneonthisearthwhowasnotputoffbyneediness,itwasJoe.Hehadasuperpowerforseeingmeatmyworst—andnotturningaway.
NowonderI’dfalleninlovewithhim.
He’dbypassedallmyusualrules.
Ofcourse…thenhe’ddisappeared.Fullghosting—withadashofhostility.
Whyhadhedonethatagain?
Istillwasn’ttotallyclearonit.
ButIthoughtaboutDr.Nicolesayingthatmybrainwasanunstableecosystemthesedays.AndIthoughtabouthowdesperatelyI’dtriedtohidethatfromeverybodywhoknewmeforfearthatitmightmakemeseempathetic.Orridiculous.Or—godforbid—needy.
ThemoreI’dlikedJoe,thelessI’dwantedhimtoknowwhatwasgoingonwithme.
Butifthatmentalmontagehadjustmadeanythingclear,itwasthatJoedidn’tturnawaywhenIneededhim.Hecamecloser.
BeforeIknewit,Iwaspickingupmyphonetocallhimandleavethelongestvoicemailinthehistoryofvoicemails.
ISATOUTSIDEontheroof,andlookedupatthestars,anddecidedtobehonestaboutmylifeatlast.
Here’sthefull,uneditedtranscript:
“Hey,Joe.ThisisSadie.I’mleavingyouonelastmessage.Don’thangup!It’sanicemessage.Youtoldmenottocontactyouanymore—andIwon’tafterthis,Iswear.ButIjustreallyneedtosayonelastthing,andit’s:Thankyou.I’mcallingtothankyou.Sincerely.Idon’tknow…whatexactlyhappenedwithus.ButIdoknowthis.Theshowhappenedtonight,andourportraitdidnotwin.Whichisnosurprise.Itgotzerovotesfromthejudges…buttheydidn’tlightitonfire,either,sothat’ssomething.Ilikeit,personally.Ithinkyouwill,too,ifyoueverseeit.”
Isighed.
“WhyamIcallingyou?WhyamIreallycallingyou?Somecrazyshenaniganswentdowntonightattheshow,andnowI’muphereontheroofthinkingaboutwhatreallymattersinlife,andwhoIwanttobe,andhowIwanttolive.AndI’vedecidedtosharethefascinatingnewswithyou…aboutme…thatpartofthereasonI’vebeenfallingapartsomuchlately—partofthereasonyoukeepfindingmeweepingincornersandhallways—isthat…”Icoughedalittle,thenwenton:“Wow,it’ssostrangetosayoutloud…butthe,little,uh,brainsurgeryIhadnottoolongago…itleftmewithaconditioncalledacquiredapperceptiveprosopagnosia.Alotofsyllablesthere,huh?Itbasicallymeansfaceblindness.ItmeansthatIcan’tseefacesanymore.Icanseeotherthings.Allotherthings,infact—justnotfaces.Eversincethatsurgery.Whichwassixweeksagonow.Thedoctorsreallyhopeditwouldresolveatsomepoint,butithasn’tyet,anditmightneverresolve,theytellme.Oritmight.Imaybeshould’vetoldyouaboutthissooner.ButI…didn’twantto,youknow?Ididn’twanttosayitoutloud.Ididn’twantittobetrue.Ididn’twantpeopletofeelsorryforme—ortobebrokenorchangedordifferent.Ididn’twanttonotbeokay.Ithought,ifIjustpretendedtobefineandnotneedanyoneoranything,thatwouldbeenough.That’showI’vealwaysmanaged.I’vebeenpretendingtobeokayprettymuchsincethedaymymomdied.ButI’mnotokay,Joe.That’sthetruth.I’mabsolutely,astonishingly…notokayrightnow.AndIdon’tevenknowsometimeswhatokayevenis.Butmyneuropsychologistsaysyoucaneitherpretendtobeokayoryoucanactuallybeokay,butyoucan’tdoboth.Sothisismyfirststep,Ithink.Tostoppretending.Tostartbeinghonestaboutmylifeinthebravest,boldestwaypossible:onavoicemailthatnoonewilleverlistento.”
Ipausedasecond.ThenIwenton.“I’msorryI’vebeensuchamess.Theselastweekshavebeensostrangeandsohard…butIwantyoutoknowthat,forme,youwerethebestthingaboutthem.Allthetimesyourescuedme,allthetimesyoulookedafterme.Youwereagenuineforceforgoodinmylife.I’mgrateful.I’llalwaysbegrateful—nomatterwhathappenedorwhereyouareorhowitended.So.Thankyou.ThankyouforbeingafriendtomewhenIreally,reallyneededone.Andthankyouforthemostphenomenalkissinthehistoryofalltime.AndIthinkI’minlovewithyou,bytheway—oratleastIwas.Beforeyoughostedme.Butdon’tworry.I’llgetoverit.”
Wait—
DidIjustsay“inlovewithyou”?Outloud?
IstartedtryingtohitEnd,butmyfingerwassopanickeditjustkeptuselesslyslappingthephone.“Shit!Shit!Shit!”Isaid,stillrecording,asIfailedtohangup.
Finally,mid-flail,Iadded,“Okay,then.Bestwishes!”
Andwiththat—onattemptnumberfourthousand—IfinallylandedthepadofmyfingeronEnd.Andweweredone.
Thesilencethatfollowedwasbrutal,asthosefinalsecondsofthatmessageechoedaroundinmyhead:“IthinkI’minlovewithyou,bytheway.”Thenagasp—and“Shit!Shit!Shit!”Then,ofallthings:“Bestwishes!”
Bestwishes?Bestwishes?
That’showIendedthemosthumiliatingvoicemailinhumanhistory?Bestfriggingwishes?
ButthenIhadacomfortingthought:
Itwasfine.Itreallywas.
He’dneverlistentoit,anyway.Twenty-Nine
IWENTTObedthatnightfeelingatpeacewithmychoices.
ButIwokeupthenextdayfeelingniceandangry.
HadIreallyjustcalledtheguywhoghostedme—andthankedhim?
Thankedhim?
Whereexactlywasmyself-respect?
Youdon’tthankpeoplewhoputyourheartinameatgrinder.Youdon’tthankpeoplewhoabandonyou.Youdon’tthankpeoplewhostareatyoucoldasiceandthenturnawaywhenyoubegthemforhelp.
Thatwasmyplan?Toabsolvehimofallresponsibilityandthenpleasantlymoveon?
Hehaddumpedmeandlefttownfornoapparentreasonwithoutevenanexplanation—andhe’dactedlikeIwastheproblem.
Notcool.
AndIthoughtitwasagoodideatoleavehimagratefulvoicemailforthat?
Yes.ApparentlyIdid.
Whichmademeevenangrier.Atbothofus.
BecausehowwasIsupposedtogetoveritifIwasconsumedwithrage?
Ormaybegettingconsumedwithragewaspartofgettingoverit…
Finethen.Nomoremoping,nomoreweeping,nomorepiningforthefutureI’dlostholdof.
Itwastimetobeokay.Forreal.
Theangerwasveryhealing—burningthroughmewithapurifyingfire.
Sueapproved.
Whenshereturnedfromherkidnappingelopementafewdayslater,wegavetheJoedebacleonelast,longheartyeveningofprocessing,decideditwasaluckynearmissforme,madealistofguysWittcouldsetmeupwith,andspenttherestofthenightbrainstormingwhatthehell,now,Ishoulddowithmycareer.
Suevotedfor“textiledesigner”becauseshethoughtIhadawaywithcolor.Butwealsoconsideredinteriordesigner,knitting-storeowner,andboutiquehotelierintheSwissAlps.
TheotherbignewswasthatSue’sparentswerethrowingheranelopementparty.
“They’renotmadthatyougotmarriedwithoutthem?”
“Nope,”Suesaid,likethatquestionhadbeenbananas.“Theylovehim.Mymomknittedhimasweaterwithaheartonit.”
Apparently,Sue’smomthoughtthekidnappingelopementwasveryromantic.AndshethoughtWittwasasweetboyandagoodprovider.AndshewasahugefanofCanada.
Turnedout,Mrs.KimandSuehadbeenplanningalittlewelcome-homeweddingcelebrationduringSue’sentirecross-Canadatrainride—textingpicturesofflowerarrangementsandtablesettingsbackandforth—andhermomalreadyhadeverythingworkedoutfortheFridaynightafterthenewlywedsreturned.
“Wow,”Isaid.“Betweenmeandyourmom,youbarelyhadtimetoenjoyyourkidnapping.”
“Imanaged,”Suesaid.
“Witt’sjustluckytogetanytimewithyouatall,”Isaid.
Sueagreed.
“Bytheway,”shesaid.“Mymomwantstoknowifwecanborrowyourrooftop.”
“It’snotmyrooftop,”Isaid.“It’sherrooftop.”
“Soit’sokay?”
“Ofcourseit’sokay.”
“Good,”Suesaid.“Becauseit’sallalreadyarranged.”
ONTHEFRIDAYoftheKims’party,threeastonishingthingshappenedallatonce.
One:IgotaletterfromtheNorthAmericanPortraitSocietylettingmeknowthateventhoughmyportraithadnotwonthecompetitiononthenightoftheshow,ithaddrawnthehighestbidofthenightintheauction—raisingoverathousanddollarsfortheirscholarshipprogram.
TheemaillistedthewinningbidderasoneMr.YoungKim.
WhojusthappenedtobeoutonmyrooftopasIwasreadingtheemail,helpinghiswifearrangebanquettablesfortheparty.
Iwalkedouttoconfronthim,Peanuttrailingafterme.
“Mr.Kim,”Icalledout,myvoicefullofbothscoldingandaffection.“Whatwereyouthinking,biddingonmyportrait?”
HeandMrs.Kimwereunfoldingatableclothtogether,anditflutteredinthebreezebeforetheysmootheditdownandturnedtome.
Theymadetheirfacesveryinnocent.“Welikeit,”Mr.Kimsaid.
Apparently,Mr.andMrs.Kimhadeachtakenanauctionpaddleastheywalkedinforapremeditatedplanofbiddingeachotherupallnight.Butthenanotherladycameinandstartedbiddingthemup.Andthenanother.“Itgotbloodthirsty,”Mr.Kimsaid.“Butwewonintheend.”
(Later,inafitofcuriosity,Icalledthegallerytoaskforthenamesoftheotherbidders.Thereceptionistlookeditupdisinterestedlyandreportedback:“LookslikeitwasonepatronbythenameofThomas-Ramparsad,andanotherbythenameofRoss.”Ultimately,itsoldfortwiceasmuchasanyotherportraitintheroom.)
“Whatwereyouthinking?”Idemanded.
Mr.Kimshrugged.“Weloveit.We’regoingtohangitinthelobby.”
“Thelobby?”Iasked.“Ofthisbuilding?”
Mr.Kimnodded.“Mrs.KimsaysitlooksalittlelikeKoreantopstarGongYoo.”
Didit?Huh.Man,IwishedIcouldseethispainting.
Mr.Kimshrugged.“AndyouknowhowshelovesGongYoo.”
“But,Mr.Kim,”Isaid,stillstruggling,myheadjustshakingitself.“Allthatmoney…”
“Don’tworryaboutit,”hesaid.
“I’lltryreallyhardtogetfamoussomedaysothatpaintingwillbeworthsomethingintheend.”
Mr.Kimwavedmeoff.“It’salreadyworthenough.”Thenhegavemeabigtriumphantsmile.“Besides.Itwasforcharity.”
“I’msosorry,”Isaid.“ButtheNorthAmericanPortraitSocietyisnotreallyacharity.”
ButMr.Kimsmiledtolerantlyandshookhishead,likeIwasmissinghispoint.“Notthem,”hesaid.Thenhepointedatme.“You.”
“Me?”Iasked.
Thenhegavemeawink.“Wejustreally,reallywantedyoutowin.”
Withthat,Mr.Kimstartedtowalkoff—butthenherememberedsomethingandturnedbackaround.
“Suetellsusthat515isbotheringyou?”
Ifeltmyshoulderstighten.ThatwasParker.“Yes,”Isaid.“Alot.”
“Goodnews,”hesaidtothat.“Herleasehasbeencanceled.”
“Canceled?Why?”
Hegavealittleshrug.“Sheviolatedtheterms.”
Icouldn’tresistasking.“Whattermsdidsheviolate?”
Mr.KimlookedstraightatPeanut.Thenhesmiledatme.Thenheshrugged.“Nopets,”hesaid.
“Nopets?”Iasked.Wasthatarule?Iheldverystillinacaught-red-handedkindofway.
“It’srightthereinthecontract,”Mr.Kimsaid,shakinghishead,like,Oh,well.“Contrabandpetsaregroundsfortermination.”
IdecidedtojustpretendPeanutdidn’texistandtonodconversationally,like,Interesting
ThenMr.Kimsaid,“GoodthingI’veneverseenanyotherpetsinthisbuilding.Haveyou?”
Mr.andMr.KimhadaHavanesenamedCosmo.“Never,”Isaid.
“That’sright,”Mr.Kimsaid,nodding.“Andlet’skeepitthatway.”
THESECONDCRAZYthingthathappenedwasthatamysteriouspackagearrivedforme.ItwasalargecylindricaltubewithaletterinsidethatfelloutwhenIopenedoneend.
Iknewthehandwritinginhalfasecond.
Itwasfrommydad,onhishospital’sstationery:
DearSadie,
Ibroughtthiswithmeonthenightofyourshowtogivetoyou—butinallthehubbub,Iforgot.Iknowyou’llknowwhatitistheminuteyouseeit,butifyouhaveanyquestionsorjustwanttotalk,I’mhere.
Ifeellikeourvisittheothernightwasagoodone,andIhopeyoudo,too.
Proudofyou,sweetheart.
Love,
Dad
Well,thatwasintriguing.
Ittookmeaminutetopullthecontents—arolled-upcanvas—outofthetube.ButonceIspreaditoutonatable,Isawhewasright.
Thiscanvasneedednointroduction.
Itwastheportraitmymotherhadbeenpainting—ofme—whenshedied.Theportraitshe’dbeenplanningtosubmittoherownartshow.
I’dneverseenitbefore.
Iheldmybreathatthesight.
Itwasme.Atfourteen.Lookingstraightahead,leaningforwardoverapicnictable,chinrestingonmyhands.Thewholeportraitseemedtobelitfromwithin.Thedappledsunlight.Theshineoftheeyes.Theglowoftheskin.Ihadbeensoawkwardatfourteen—andmymomdidn’tshyawayfromthat,orpaintmybracesawayortrytomakemesomethingdifferent.ShejustpaintedmeexactlyasIwas.Butglowing.AsIreallylooked—butbathedinsunlightandwarmthandalovablemischievousness.
Solovable,thiskidonthecanvas.
Itwaslikegettingaglimpseofthepastthroughhereyes.
Wasthishowshe’dseenme?Iwondered.Justliketherealme—butbetter?
Ilookedatmyfourteen-year-oldface,soclear-eyedandbright.Irememberedsittingforthatportrait—howIdidn’twanttostaystill.Howwe’dgonemorningaftermorningtotheparknearourhouse.Andthiswastheresult:she’dsomehowcapturedallthesunlight,allthespringbreezes,allmyexuberanceandnaughtiness,andallherwarmandtolerantloveformerighthereonthisonecanvas.
Lookingatit,Ilostalltrackoftime.Therewassomuchlifeinthatportrait—somuchofmymominit—thatitfeltforjustaminutelikeshemustbeherewithme.AndIheardmyselftalktoher,asIwaslostinthesight:“Youshouldn’thavewaited.Youshouldn’thaveputthingsoff.Whatwereyouthinking?Ididn’tneedavacation.Ijustneededyou.AndIso,so,sowishIcouldseeyouagain.”
ThereweretearsallovermyfacelongbeforeIcameto.
AndjustasInoticedthetears,Inoticedsomethingelse.
Thethirdcrazything.
I’djustspentsomeundeterminedamountoftimestaringataportraitofmyface.
AndIcouldseethatface.
Icouldseeitall.Themouth,thebraces,theirisesoftheeyes.Allthepieceswerethereandintherightorder—allsnappedtogether,exactlywheretheyshouldbe.
Andthen,beforeIcouldtalkmyselfoutofit,Isnucktothebathroommirrortotakeapeek…butIclosedmyeyesatthelastmomentandthenfoundmyselfstandinginfrontofthemirror,afraidtoopenthem.
Dr.Nicolehadwarnedmethatwhen—if—thefacescameback,Iwouldn’tnecessarilygetthemallback—ornotallatonce.Onthespectrumofprosopagnosia,morefamiliarfaceswereeasiertosee.Thetheorywasthatthemorevisualimpressionsthebrainhadofaface,themorelikelyitwastobeabletoputthepiecestogether.
“It’sokay,”Itoldmyself.
Nofuturewasevercertain.Noneofuseverknewwhatmighthappennext.Ididn’tneedtoknowhowmanyotherfacesIcouldsee—orcalculatewhere,exactly,myfusiformfacegyruswouldsettleonthespectrumofface-blindtosuper-recognizer.
Itwasgoingtobewhatitwas.
I’djusttakeitonegratefulstepatatime.
Icoveredmyfacewithmyhandsandthenopenedmyeyestopeekthroughmyfingers.SlowlyIpulledmyhandsaway.
AndthereIwas.
Myface.Straightaheadinthemirror.Notasseparatepieces,butasawhole.Notasunconnectedeyesandlipsandnostrils,butasme.“Hello,stranger,”Isaidoutloud.
AndthereIwas.Me.Peeringcuriouslyatthemirror.
AllputbacktogetherasifI’dneverbeenapart.Thirty
THEELOPEMENTPARTYwasquiteashiftfromthelast—andonlyother—partyI’dattendedonthisroof.
Inthespaceofasingleday,Mrs.Kimoversawatotalrooftoptransformation.She’dbroughtinaband,setupadancefloor,hungathousandbulblights,andplacedelegantdinnertablesalongthewestsideoftheroof,overlookingthebayou,sowecouldeatdinnerwhilewatchingthesunset.
WhenIsayelegantdinnertables,Imeanlinentablecloths,crystalstemware,hotelsilver,candlesinfadedbrasshurricanes,copiousarrangementsofmagnoliaflowersandeucalyptus…
Thinkofthemostgorgeousoutdoortablespreadyou’veeverseeninadecormagazine—andthentripleit.
Mrs.Kimhadstyle.AndSuewasheronlydaughter.
Shetookmyhovel’srooftopandturneditintothemostelegantplaceonearth.
So…quitedifferentfromthelastpartyI’dbeentouphere.Wherepeopleweredoingtheworm.
Alsodifferent:Iknewitwashappeninginadvance.
Ididnotarrivewearingsomeoneelse’scoffee-spilledclothes.
Infact,Suehadevenlentmeoneofmyfavoritedressesofherstowear.Apalebluebiascutmaxidresswithlayersofrufflesatthehem.BluebecausethatwasSue’sfavoritecolor.Rufflesbecausetheylookedliketheywerejustlongingforareasontogouptoarooftopandgivethemselvestothewind.
Miracleofmiracles:Itfit.Like,somethingaboutthewayithuggedmearoundtheribsandthencuppedundermybuttjustmademefeelslinky.Intheverybestway.
NoPajankettonight.
ItwasallforSue,ofcourse—tocelebratethebeginningofhermarriedlifewithWitt.ButIdecidedIcouldalsoquietlycelebrateanewbeginningformyselfaswell.
Imean,ithadbeenahellofaspring.
I’dfacedsometoughtruthsaboutlifeandmyselfandmyfamily.I’dfailedmiserablyattheonlycareerI’deverwantedtosucceedin.I’dfallenmadlyinlovewithtwopeopleandthenlostthemboth.I’dlosteverything,inaway.
Butthenfoundotherthings.Inotherways.
Thepointis,Iwasready.
Readytofacetheparty.Andtherestofmylife.Andalltheimpossiblefaces.
ThoughIwasn’tsureexactlyhowmanyofthemI’dbeabletosee.
ASTHEGUESTSclankedtheirwayupthespiralstairsandfilleduptheroof,I’dguessmyfacial-recognitionratewasfiftypercent.Ican’tsayforsure,butthepatternseemedtoberelatedtofamiliarity—to,maybe,thenumberofimpressionsmybrainhadalreadystored.
IfIknewthepersonjoiningusontherooftop,thefeaturessnappedrightintoplace—fastandeasy,likenormal.WhenIsawSueandMrs.Kim—lookingpositivelyetherealintheirtraditionalhanbokdresses—Isawtheirlovelyfacesrightaway.IcouldseeWittandMr.Kimjustfineintheirsuitsaswell—theirfacesjustsensiblyrestingontheirheadsasifthey’dneverbeengone.
IfIdidn’tknowthepersonatall,though—Witt’sgrandmother,forexample—thefacesstayeddisjointed.IfIknewthepersonalittlebit—anacquaintance,say…thefacemightstartoutunreadablebutthenslideintoplacealittlelater,likeitresistedforaminuteandthenfinallygavein.
Itwasunbelievablytrippy.
Butitwasalsoprogress.
Iconfess,I’dbeenhopingtoputonthatdress,walkoutonthatroof,andseeeveryfacewithtotaleaseinablazeoftriumph—justexactlylikeoldtimes.
Butitwasn’texactlylikeoldtimes.
Insomeways,itwasbetter.Becauseseeingfamiliarfacesagainwasajoy.Andnotseeingunfamiliarfaces?
Itwasfine.
Itwasmanageable.
ThelasttimeI’dbeenonthisroofataparty,Iwaspositivelynauseatedwithfear.
Buttonight?Iwasokay.
IfIrecognizedaperson,great.IfIdidn’t,thatwasokay,too.
Thatwastriumphantinitsownquietway.
Beforetheparty,I’dcomeupwithathrowdownphraseincaseIstartedtopanic,anditwentlikethis:“Helpmeouthere.Ihaveafacialrecognitionproblem.Havewemetbefore?”
Wanttoknowwhatthehardestpartofthatphrasewas?Thewordhelp.”
Which,asweknow,hadneverbeenmything.
ButIwasn’taskinganyoneforanythinghard,Itoldmyself.Iwasn’taskingforhelpwithtrigonometry,orclimbingElCapitan,orstormingthebeachesofNormandy.Allanyonehadtodowasansweroneeasylittlequestion.
This,Iremindedmyself,likeallhardthingsinlife,wasanopportunity.
Achanceformetopracticeaskingforhelp.
And:Havewemetbefore?Youcouldn’tbuyabetterstarterphraseforthat.Apersoncouldfulfillthatrequestwithonesyllable.
That’swhatItoldmyself.Nobigdeal.
IpracticeditoverandoverwhileIwasgettingdressed,andthenI’dwalkedacrosstheroof—asreadyasI’deverbe—whilearguingwiththenervousnessinmychestinawaythatwouldmakeDr.Nicoleveryproud.Thiswasdoable.Nodryheavingoutbehindthemechanicalroomnecessary.
Icouldjust…breathe.
AndadmireMrs.Kim’smagazine-worthytables.Andfeeltheraysofthesettingsunwarmingmyskin.Andenjoymyskirt’srufflesswishingaroundmycalves.Andswayalittlebittothemusicoftheband.
Ifthat’snotatriumph,Idon’tknowwhatis.
ONASCIENTIFIClevel,itwastotallyfascinatingtowatchthefusiformfacegyrussomewhereinbetweenfunctioningandnotfunctioning—seeingitdoitsthinginrealtime.Itkeptpromptingmetothinkabouteverythingmymiraculousbodydidallthetimewithouteverneedinghelporacknowledgment.
Whichmademefeelgrateful.Scientificallyandotherwise.
Therewasoneconfoundingvariable,though,inmydata-gathering.Onetotallyunfamiliarfacethatshouldhave—byallestablishedpatterns—beenunintelligible…showedupontherooftopfullyintact.
Icouldseeitloudandclear.
Aguyinadarkbluesuitarrivedmaybehalfanhourin…andIrecognizedhimrightaway—eventhoughI’dneverseenhimbefore.
IsidledmywayovertoSueandelbowedheruntilIhadherattention.
“What?”shesaid.
“Tellmewhothatis,”Isaid,tiltingmyheadinthebluesuitguy’sdirection.
Suepeekedover.“Ohgod,I’msorry!”shesaid.“Mydadinvitedhim.”
“Tellmeit’snot—”
“It’sJoe,”Sueconfirmed,withano-sense-fighting-itnod.
“No,no,no,”Isaid.HadIjustbeenboastingabouthowokayIwas?
“Mydadloveshim,apparently,”Suesaid.“He’shelpedhimmovefurnituresomanytimes,mydadnicknamedhimHelpful.Didyouknowthat?”
“Idid,”Isaid.
“Mydadinvitedhimasasetup!Foryou!Icleareditallupandexplainedthatbeingwillingtohelpmovefurnituredoesnotdefinitivelymakeanyoneagoodpersonandthatasetupwasuselessbecausehe’dalreadydumpedyouandbrokenyourheart.Butbythenitwastoolate.”
He’dalreadydumpedmeandbrokenmyheart.
Wow.Hesurehad.
WhileJoegreetedtheKims,uphereinthebreeze,againstabrilliantpinksunset,Iletmyselfwatchhim.
Seeingmymom’sportraithadbeenbittersweetbliss.Seeingmyownrealfaceinthemirrorhadbeenarelief.SeeingSueandtheKimsandvariousfriendsfromartschoolhadbeenallvaryinglevelsoffun.
Thiswassomethingdifferent.
Firstofall,Iwasn’tseeingJoeagain
Ican’tevencapturehowmind-bendingitistoseesomeonefortheveryfirsttime—andrecognizehim.
Imean,Ihadkissedthisguy!Twice!
ButI’dneverseenhimbefore.
AmemoryofJoe’snakedtorsoashethrewmedownonmybedrumbledthroughmymemorylikethunder.
Ishookitoff.Fine,fine—I’dseenhimbuthadn’tseenhim.Itwasabrainglitch.Notnews.Wegotit.
Buthere’swhatwasshocking:howdreadfullygood-lookinghewas.
Hedidn’tjusthaveaface.Hehadareally,reallygoodone.
Strong,straightfeatures.Anglesandedges.Achin!AnAdam’sapple!Plusanose,twoeyes,and—here,aclose-upmemoryflashedthroughmymind—thatmouth.
Astonishing.
Anddreamy.Andheartbreaking.
And…theoppositeoffun.Giventhathe’dalreadydumpedmeandbrokenmyheart.
Myawarenessofhisattractiveness—andthefireworksoflongingitwassettingoffinmybody—cameintofocusandpermeatedeverythingIsawbeforeI’dhadtimetotellmyfusiformfacegyrusno.Imean,themanhadasilkpocketsquare!AndhecouldtieadoubleWindsorknot!Andthatbluesuit!Itlookedsogood,itmademeangry.Nooneshouldeverbeallowedtolookthatgoodinasuit.Whotailoredthatthing?
Agony.
Mr.Kimmusthavesaidsomethingfunnythen,becauseJoesmiledandlookeddown.Istared,mesmerized,atthescruffofhisneckasheleanedforwardandnodded.Heshookhandsonemoretimeandthenturnedtojointheparty,walkingafewstepsbeforeIlookedaway.
ButseeingafewofJoe’sstepswereenough.
Confirmed:DefinitelyJoe.Withthatheartbreakinggait.
NowonderI’dfallenforhimsohard.
“Justignorehim,”Suesaid—watchingmewatchhim—like,Yougotthis.“Andstayclosetome.”
Ignorehim.Ignorehim.
Suetookmyhandthenandwalkedmeovertoherverydashingcousin,Daniel.Shegesturedbackandforthbetweenus.“Daniel?Sadie.Sadie?Daniel.”
Danielwasfaceless,buthehadgreathair.
Suewenton.“Sadieismybestfriend,andshehasasituationtonight,soI’mputtingyouinchargeofflirtingwithherfortherestoftheparty.”
AndDaniel,blesshim,gaveano-problemnodandsaid,“Yougotit.”
Suewas,ofcourse,thestaroftheevening—sostayingclosetoherwaseasiersaidthandone.Fortunately,Danielwashappytoadoptme,andhetookmeallaround,introducingmetohiscousinsandfriends.SoIspentthehorsd’oeuvresportionoftheeveningnursingaglassofchampagneandheartilydoingthatthingwhereyounever,everlookattheonlypersonyouwanttolookat.
Thatthingwhereyoupretendtonotevenbeawareoftheonlypersonyou’reawareof.
ThatthingwhereyougiveanOscar-levelperformanceofbeingtotally,utterly,blissfullyfinebecausethepersonwatchingyoufromacrossthepartyneverkissedyousenselessandthenbrokeyourheart.
Didthatevenhappen?Becauseyousureashelldon’trememberit.
You’retoofabuloustorememberit.Youandyourrufflydressandyourflirtynewrooftopcompanionarefar,fartooawesomeforathinglikebeingdumped—andthenghostedandthentreatedwithcontempt—toevenmatter.
Danielturnedouttobehighlyaccomplishedatflirting—andthenitdidn’ttakethatlongbeforehisfacedelightedmebycomingintofocus.
“Oh,hello,”Isaid,withafrissonofdelightwhenithappened.“Thereyouare.”
“HereIam,”Danielagreedgamely,withnocluewhatImeant.
“YouarecuterthanSuesaid,”Isaid.
Atthat,Daniellaughedandgavemeasidesqueeze,andthat’swhenIlookeduptoseeJoewatchingus.
“Saysomethingfunny,”IsaidtoDanielrealquick.
“Likewhat?”Danielasked.
AndthenIburstoutlaughinglikethatwasit.
ThenDaniellaughedbecauseIwaslaughing.
Whenwesettled,Danielsaid,“So.Thatguywho’sbeenwatchingyouthisentiretime?Areyoutryingtomakehimjealous?”
Joehadbeenwatchingmethisentiretime?Thatfeltlikeasadlittlevictory.
“Yes,please,”Isaid.
“Let’sgodance,then,”Danielsaid,noddingattheemptyfloor.
“Idon’tthinkit’stimeforthatyet,”Isaid,glancingoveratMrs.Kim,notwantingtomessupherschedule.
“Oh,it’sdefinitelynot,”Danielsaid.Thenhegavemeanod.“Evenbetter.”
Andthat’showIwoundupslow-dancingwithSue’scutecousin,addinganotherkindoftriumphtotheevening,untilthecaterersstartedservingdinner.IthenmademywaytowardthetablestofindmyplacecardanddiscoveredthatMrs.KimdidnotgettheJoememo—andshehadseatedusrightnexttoeachother.
TheplacecardswereinKoreanandEnglish.TheEnglishonminereadSadie.AndtheoneinfrontoftheemptychairnexttomereadHelpful.
Mr.Kim,youadorabletroublemaker.
Joewalkedupnexttome,readhisownplacecard,andrealizedthesamething.
Weturnedandmeteyes.
DidIsayhewasheartbreakingfromacrosstheroof?
Upclose,hewasworse.
Thoselips.Thatjaw.Thoseeyes.I’dseenthemallbefore—inpieces.Andheretheywere,miraculouslytogetherandaddinguptofarmorethanthesumoftheirparts.
“Sadie,”Joesaid,acknowledgingmewithanod.
“Joe,”Iacknowledgedback—notinghowodditwastoknowthatforsure.
Andsoherehewas.Themanwhohadcharmedmerelentlesslywithhissweetnessandhisthoughtfulnessandhisuncannyabilitytorescueme.Themanwho’dshownupwhenIwasatthemostlostI’deverbeeninmylife—andcajoledmeintocrushingonhiminawayIhadn’tcrushedonanybodyinyears.Orever.
Andthenhe’dchangedhismind.
Facedwithanentiredinnerseatednexttohim,Iwantedtoslumpdownintomychair.
ButIdidn’t.
Istoodtaller,damnit.
Istoodstraighter.
IsummonedallthedignityIcouldaccess,tookmyseat,turnedtoWitt’sgrandmotheronmyoppositeside,andthenmadethebest,mostscintillating,mostrelentlessoctogenarian-themedchitchatofmyentirelife.
ITTURNSOUT,Iamreallygoodatignoringpeople.
Whoknew?Anotherunmarketableskill.
IignoredJoethroughthesaladcoursewithgusto.Andthenthroughthemaincoursewithdetermination.Andthenallthroughdessertwithamiserablekindofglee.IfIhadtopasshimabreadbasket,Ididn’tevenrotatemytorso.Ifhedaredtoaskmeforthesugar,IedgedittowardhimwiththesideofmyhandandthenleanedbackintowardGrandmaKellneranddemanded,“Tellmeallaboutyourgarden.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
IhopeGrandmaKellnerenjoyedtheattention.
ItreatedherlikeamoviestaronOscarnight.
WasIdyinginside?
Onehundredpercent.
SeeingJoewaslikebeingstruckbyemotionallightning.
ButcanwealsoappreciatehowIwasrackingupthetriumphs?Iwasn’tweeping.Orhyperventilating.Orvomiting.
Iwashandlingmyself.Poised.Gracious.Andignoringmyhemorrhagingheartlikealegend.
AllIhadtodowasmakeittotheendofdinner—when,withanyluck,Joewouldsuddenlyrealizethateventhoughhe’dbeeninvited,hewasn’treallywelcome
Withanyluck,he’dbejustaseagertoleaveasIwastoseehimgo.
ThenIcouldrelax.
ThenIcoulddancethenightawaywithDanielandhisadorablefriends.
ThenIcouldletthiswholeweirdchapterofmylifegoatlast—andmovethehellon.Thirty-One
BUTJOEDIDN’Tleave.Hestayed.
Helurkedaroundthepartylongafterdinnerandwellintothedancing—watchingmewithsuchpurposeasIboogieddefiantlywithSueandDanielandalltheircousinsthathefeltlikeapredatorstalkinghisprey.
Ididn’tcarethathewashere.
Ididn’tcarethathewashere,damnit.
Hecouldn’tjuststaremedownintogivingupallmyjoy.
Ihadmovedon.Andbouncedback.Andifhedidn’tunderstandwhathe’dlost,thenIwasbetteroffonmyown.
Iwasfine,Iwasfine,Iwasfine.
Butyoucandanceyourassoffwithbold,hysterical,can’t-touch-thisenergyforonlysolong.
Eventually,youhavetotakeabreather.
AssoonasIsteppedoffthedancefloor,Joemovedinforthekill.
Ididn’twanttotalktohim.Thatshouldhavebeenperfectlyclear.Whatothermessagecouldignoringhimallnightpossiblyconvey?Andyettherehewas,assoonasI’dseparatedfromtheherd,movingtowardme—withpurpose.
ButIdidn’thavetojuststandfrozentherelikeagazelleandlethimpounce.Iwasn’tsomepreyanimal.AssoonasIsawhimmakinghiswaytowardme,Istartedmakingmywaytoward…what?Wewereonaroof.Itwasn’tlikeIcouldcatchacitybusanddisappearintothenight.
ButIhadtotry,anyway.
Iheadedofftowardthefarcorner,likemaybeifIcoulddartaroundbehindthemechanicalroomandbreakhislineofsight,hemightloseme.
AsIspedup,hespedup.
I’dgottenprettygoodatspeed-walkinginthesepostsurgeryweeks,soforaminutethere,Iwasactuallystartingtolosehim…untilhebrokeintoarun.
“Sadie!”hecalled,likethatmightslowmedown.
Wrong.Itspedmeup.
“Sadie!Wait!”hecalledagainasIroundedthecorner.
Roundingthecornerdidhelp—foraboutonesecond.
Until,assoonasIgotthere,Irealizeditwasadeadend.Adarkdeadendwith—actually—afabulousviewofthedowntownskyline.
Ididn’tcometothissideveryoften.
Isloweddown,defeated,andthenwalkedtothefaredgeoftheroof,leaningagainsttherailingasifgazingattheviewhadbeenmyurgentpurposeallalong.
Noescapenow,IthoughtasIheardJoe’srunningfootstepsapproachingbehindme.
Itookalong-overduedeepbreath,feltitswirlinmylungs,andwilledittogivemepeace.
Andthen…Joeshowedupnexttomeattherailing.
IfelthimlandbeforeIturned.
“Hey,”hesaid,alittlebreathless.
IpretendedIdidn’thearhim.Likethatglitteringskylinehadsoenrapturedmethatcommonplacethingslikehumaninteractiondidn’tevenregister.
Buthewasn’tdeterred.“CouldItalktoyouforaminute?”heasked,standingsocloseandlookingatmesohard,Ihadnochoicebuttorespond.
Hewantedtotalktome?Hadn’tthisnightbeenagonizingenough?“Doyouhaveto?”Iasked.
Hefrownedlikehewasn’tsurehowtoanswer.
“Whyareyouevenhere?”Iasked.“Sue’snotyourfriend.”
“Mr.Kiminvitedme.”
“Thatwasanaccident.”
“Okay,”Joesaid,nottoointerestedinMr.Kim.“ButI’malsoherebecauseIgotyourvoicemail.”
Iheldstill.Mybestwishesvoicemail.
JoewaitedforaresponsewhileIkeptmyeyesonthecity.
“Didyoulistentoit?”Ifinallyasked.
“Yep.”
“Allofit?”Iasked.
“Yep.”
Whywashebringingthisup?“And?”
“And…Ididn’trealizeyouweregoingthroughsuchahardtime.I’msorry.”
Wow.Solittleandsolate.Imademyvoiceflat.“It’sfine.”
“Thankyoufortellingme.”
“Ithoughtforsureyou’dignoreit.Likeyouignoredallmyothervoicemails.”
Joeletthatdiggoasheedgedclosertome.
SoIturnedtowardhim.Hewantedtodothis?Fine.Wecoulddothis.Butoncewewerefacingeachother,IrealizedtherewasalotmoretothatverbthanI’devernoticedbefore.
“So…”hesaid.“Canyounotseemerightnow?”
“Icanseeyou,”Isaid,maybeatadmoreirritatedthanIneededtobe.“You’restandingrightthere.”
“Myface,Imean,though.”
Isighed.“Icanactuallyseeyourfacetonight.Forthefirsttimeever.”
Joefrowned.“Forthefirsttimeever?”
IthoughtmaybehewashavingahardtimewiththeideathatI’dbeenlookingstraightathimalltheseweeks—hadtouchedhim,talkedwithhim,evenkissedhim—andhadneverseenhisface.Itwasatrickythingtocomprehend,tobefair.Iwasjustabouttolaunchintoawholeneurologicalexplanationofhowacquiredfaceblindnessworkedwhenhejumpedin.
“Youneversawmebeforeyoursurgery?”heasked.
Ithoughtback.“Therewasthatonetime.Intheelevator.WhenIoverheardyoutalkingaboutyourone-nightstandwiththebulldog.”
Joeshookhishead.“ButI’velivedinthisbuildingfortwoyears.”
Okay.“ButIonlymovedinnotlongbeforethesurgery.SoIwasnew.”
“Butyou’vebeenusingthatspaceontheroofasastudioforayear.”
Ifrowned.“It’sweirdthatyouknowthat.”
“Iknowthat,”Joeexplained,“becauseIhelpedyoucarryupyourartsupplieswhenyoufirstmovedin.”
Ithoughtback.“Youdid?”
“Allthistime,youdidn’tknowthatwasme?”
Ishookmyhead.“Wasthatyou?”
“Areyousureyouweren’tface-blindallalong?”
Igavehimalook,like,Veryfunny.ButthenIthoughtaboutit.“Iremembertheguyfromthatday.Buthehadahugecrazybeard.”
“Yeah.Thatwasme.”
“Hellofabeard,bro.YoucouldparkyourVespainthatthing.”
“Mywifehadjustleftme.I’dabandonedallgrooming.”
“Hencethebaseballcap.”
“Exactly.”
ButIwascallingit:“Idon’tthinkyougettomockmefornotrecognizingyoufromthatday.Youwerebasicallyninety-eightpercentbeard.”Iremindedmyselftostaybitter.Wewerenotfriends.
“I’mjustamazedthatyoudidn’tknowwhoIwas,”hesaid.“Thatwholetime.”
Iconceded.“IdidnotknowyouwereArtSupplyGuy.”
“Isaidhitoyousometimes,even—butnothing.”
“Didyou?”
“I’mjustthinkingabouthowitwasn’tuntilafteryougotfaceblindnessthatyoustartedtorecognizeme.”
“Irecognizedthebowlingjacket,”Icorrected.“Notyou.”
“Howareyoudoingnow?”heasked.Likehereallywantedtoknow.
HowwasIdoingnow?“Better,maybe?”Isaid.“Ihadswellinginmybrainrightneartheareathatrecognizesfaces.TheykepttellingmeImightgettheabilitytoseethembackoncetheswellingwentdown…butitkeptnotgoingdown.Untilrecently.”
“Anddidyougettheabilityback?”
“Sortof?”Isaid.“Partly.Icanseesomefaces,butnotothers.”
“Butyoucanseemine.”
“Weirdly,yes.EventhoughI’veneverseenyoubefore.”
“Butaswe’vejustestablished,you’veseenmealot.”
“Apparentlyso.”
“Iguessyourbrainremembersme,evenifyoudon’t.”
“Iguessitmust.”
“Well,”Joesaidthen,likemaybehewaswindingitdown,“Ireallyamsorry.IwouldhavebeennicertoyouifI’dknown.”Andthen,likeanafterthought,headdedthemostwrongthingI’deverheardanyonesay.“Evenafteryoudumpedme.”
EvenafterI—what?Whatwashesaying?“Ididn’tdumpyou,dude.Youdumpedme.”
JoelookedatmelikeIwasnuts.“Ididn’tdumpyou.”
“Youfullydid,”Isaid.“Youghostedme.”
“Ighostedyou,”Joeadmitted,“butonlyafteryoudumpedme.”
Wait.
Holdon.
“Joe,”Isaid.“Ididnotdumpyou.I’mmadlyinlovewithyou.So,A,Iwouldneverdothat.AndB,Iwoulddefinitelyremember.”
ButJoesteppedcloser,lookingintomyeyesinwonder.“You’remadlyinlovewithme?”
Ilookedaway.“Was,”Icorrected.“Pasttense.Was.”
“Whydidyoubreakupwithmeifyouweremadlyinlovewithme?”
“Ididn’tbreakupwithyou!”
“Youtoldmeyoulikedsomeoneelse.”
Someoneelse?Fine.Okay.Fullconfessiontime:“Ididlikesomeoneelse—briefly.Andby‘like,’ImeanIbrieflydecidedIhadadesperate,obsessivecrushonmyveterinarian.Andokay,whatever,ImayhavespentsometimegooglingNordiclocationsforourdestinationweddingandfantasizingabouttakinghislastname.ButIreallythinkitwasmoreabouttryingtomanufacturesomethingtolookforwardtoduringthecraziestlowpointofsomeverycrazyweeks.Itwasneverreal,youknow?Itwasjustafantasy.”
ButJoewasshakinghishead.“Yourveterinarian?”
“Yes,okay?Mydashingveterinarian.”
“Who?”
“Who?Areyou,like,goingtogivehimtroubleorsomething?Itdoesn’tmatter—”
“Who?”Joedemanded.
Iblinkedforasecond.“HesavedPeanutforme,okay?Hebroughthimbackfromdeath’sdoor.HisnameisDr.—”
Andthen,inunison,webothsaid,“OliverAddison.”
Ifrowned.“Youknowhim?”
ButJoehadalreadyslappedhisforeheadandspunaroundtostartpacingtheroof.“OliverAddison?”hesaid,almostmoretohimselfthantome.“Youdumpedmeforyourveterinarian,OliverAddison?”
Myvoicegotquieter.“Soundslikeyoudoknowhim.”
Imean,obviouslyhedid.WhatexactlyhadIdone?WasthisJoe’sex-bullyfromhighschool?Orhisbestfriendfromcollege?Ormaybehissecrettwinbrother?
Hewasclearlysomebodyimportant.Joewasstillpacingaround.
“What’sgoingon?”Iasked.
Joewastakingdeepbreathsnow.Thenhecameovertomeandputhishandsonmyshoulder.“YoubrokeupwithOliverAddison…”
Inodded.
“Athisvetclinic…duringaworkday…outinthesideyard…”
Inoddedagain.Howdidheknowthis?Weretheyfriends?
“Andyoutoldhimthatyoulikedsomebodyelse.”
Anothernodfromme.
“Wasthesomebodyelsethatyouliked”—evenashewassayingit,hewasshakinghishead—“me?”
Isighed.Washereallygoingtomakemesayit?ImetJoe’seyes.“Yes.Obviously.Ofcourseitwasyou.”
Joeletgoofmyshouldersanddroppedhishead,inagesturelike,Unbelievable.
Thenhereachedbehindhisneckandrubbeditabsentmindedlyashelookedaroundtherooflikenothingmadeanysense.
Agesturethatlookedoddlyfamiliar.
Ifeltcompelledtoexplain.“Brokeupistoostrong!”Isaid.“Iwasn’tevendatingDr.Addison!Honestly!Wejusthadaplantogoonadate.Weneverreallywent.Hestoodmeup,actually.ItwasthatdaywebumpedintoeachotheratBeanStreetandIwascoveredinspilledcoffee—remember?Andhenevercalledafterthatorapologized,soIcouldn’ttechnicallyhavedumpedhimbecauseweweren’tevendating.Butafter—youknow—afterthatepic,life-changingkisswithyou…Ijustwantedtomakethingsreallyclearwithhim—thatnothingwasgoingtohappen—becauseIreally,reallylikedyou,andIwantedtokeepalltheboundariestotallyclear.”Icouldfeelmychestwellingup,butIkeptgoing.“Ifeltlike…”Itookabreath.“Ifeltlike,withyou,I’dfoundsomethinggenuinelyspecial…andIjustwantedtoprotectthat.Youknow?”
IwasdonewiththespeechbeforeIrealizedhowmuchI’daccidentallyconfessed.
Damnit.
Joetookastepcloser.“Sadie,”hesaid,meetingmyeyes,“thepersonyoudumped…wasme.”
Hadn’twebeenoverthis?“I’mtellingyou,Ididn’tdumpyou!”
“Sadie,”Joesaidagain,waitingthistimeuntilhehadmyfullattention.“IamDr.OliverAddison.”
Butthatdidn’tmakeanysense.
“Um,”Isaid,likeIwasawkwardlycorrectinghim.“You’reJoe.”
“I’mnotJoe,”Joesaid.“You’vebeencallingmeJoeforweeks,butthat’snotreallymyname.Myname,”hesaidagainforposterity,“isDr.OliverAddison.”
Hewasgoingtohavetogivemeaminuteformybraintoexplode.
“I’msorry.Wait.AreyouJoe—orDr.Addison?”
“Iamboth,”Joesaid.“Thosetwopeoplearethesameguy.”
Nowitwasmyturntopacearoundlikenothingmadeanysense.
“Holdon,”Isaid.“You’resaying…you’resayingtheguywholivesdownstairs—theguywhofedmedinnerathisplacewhenIgotlockedout,andtalkedmethroughapanicattackduringaparty,andkissedmesenselessnotthatlongago…thatguyisthesamepersonastheguyatthevetclinicwhorescuedPeanut?”
Joenodded.“Thesameguy.”
“You,”Isaid,pointing,“arebothJoeandDr.Addison?”
Joenoddedagain.
“Howisthatpossiblethatyou’reonlyoneperson?”
“HowisitpossiblethatyouthoughtIwastwopeople?”
Ifrowned.Goodquestion.
Joegavemeaminutetotrytopuzzleitout.
“Thisisn’tthefirsttimethishashappened,”Isaid,thinkingofHazelsOneandTwo.“Apparently,thebrainisanecosystem.Ifonepartisn’tdoingitsjob,itcanthrowotherthingsoff,too.”
Butthismuch?Really?
Wetriedtotakeintheimpossibilityofitall.
“But…Joehasglassesandfloppyhair.”ImimedwithmyhandthewayJoe’shairfloppedoverhisforehead,evenwhilesuddenlynoticingthattheJoeIwastalkingtowasnotwearingglassesanddidnothavefloppyhair.Infact,hehad…Dr.Addison’shair.“AndDr.Addisonhas”—Ireacheduptotouchit—“thishair.”
Verygently,atmytouch,Joenoddedsomemore.“Noglassesatwork.Justcontacts.Buttheymakemyeyestired,soItakethemoutbeforeIgohome.”
Iwastryingsohardtomakeitmakesense.“Andyouslickyourhairbackforwork,butyoudon’tbotherwithitathome?”
“Itdoesn’tstayneatverylong,”Joesaid.
Iwasvacillatingbetweenstruggleandacceptance.“Butaren’tyou”—andIfelthowgoofythewordswere,evenasIsaidthem—“afreelancesnakesitter?”
“YouthinkthatI’masnakesitter,andthat’sallIdo?”
ItriedtopictureJoeinawhitevetcoat.“Soyou’reaveterinarianwho…doessnake-sittingasasidehustleandalso…rescueshomelessbulldogs?”
“Broadlyspeaking,sure—thatworks.”
“Butyoudon’tlooklikeaveterinarian.”
“Igetthatalot.Hencethelabcoat.”
Ishookmyhead,like,Whatdoesthatmean?
“Mostvetsjustwearscrubs.ButwhenIstarted,nobodyeverthoughtIwasthevet.SoIdecidedtocultivateamoreprofessionallook.Icommittedtothecoat.Andthecontacts.Andthehair.”
“Yousuredid.”
“There’sapsychologicalcomponenttohealthcare.Peopleneedtofeellikeyou’requalifiedbeforethey’lldowhatyoutellthemto.Peopleneedalotmorebossingaroundthanyou’dthink.”
“So…”Isaid.“IonlyeversawDr.Addisoninhislabcoat,andIonlyeversawJoeinhisbowlingjacket.”
“Iworeotherjacketssometimes,”Joesaid.
ButIshookmyhead.“Almostnever.It’showIrecognizedyou.”
“That’swhyyoucalledmeJoe?”Joeasked.
“WhyelsewouldIcallyouJoe?”
“Ithoughtyouwerekidding.Ithoughtyouweremakingfunofthejacket.”
“Iwasmakingfunofthejacket.ButIalsothoughtyouwereaguynamedJoe.Whoreally,reallylikedbowling.Enoughtobuyareproductionvintagebowlingjacketandhavehisnameembroideredonit.”
“Okay,”Joesaid,likenowwe’dgonetoofar,“that’salotofmentalleaps.”
Therewasn’tmuchtosaytothat.
JoeandItookaminutetostareateachotherindisbelief.
Howwasthishappening?
“Youneverdumpedme,”Joesaidinamazementasitsankin.Then,correcting:“Imean,youdiddumpme.Butyoudumpedme…forme.”
“Andyouneverghostedme.Or—youdid,butonlyafterIhadbrokenupwithyou…withoutrealizingitwasyou.”
Joenodded.“It’slikeanM.C.Escherdrawing.”
Inodded,too.“It’slikeaRubik’sCube.”Thenafterapause,Iadded,“YoumusthavethoughtIwasnutstokeepcallingandtextingyoulikethat.”
“Ireally,reallywantedtorespond,”Joesaid,hisvoicemoretendernow.“Ihadtolockmyphoneoutonthebalcony.”
“IguessIshouldcallyouOlivernow,”Isaid,lookingupintohisfaceandtryingouthisnameforreal.
“I’llbeJoeforyou,ifyouwant.”
AndthenIcouldn’tresist.Ireacheduptotouchthatfacethathadcausedallthistrouble,andmypalmcuppedhisjaw.ThenIranthepadsofmyfingersuptotouchallthepiecesofit—cheekbones,nosebridge,brow—soneatlyputtogethernow,satisfyinglikeafinishedjigsawpuzzle.
Heheldhisbreathatthetouch.
Icouldfeelhisstubbleagainstmypalmlikesandpaper.Itraceddownhisneckandletmyhandrestonhiscollarbone.“So…Ithoughtyouwerebreakingmyheart,butIwasalsobreakingyours.”
Heclosedthedistancebetweenusashenodded.“Andtheguyyouliked…theoneyoudumpedmefor.TheoneIwassobitterlyjealousofthatIcouldn’tsleep…”
“Thatwasyou.”
“Thatwasme.”
“Ilikedyoubothalot,”Isaid,“ifit’sanyconsolation.”
“It’sallconsolation,”hesaid,hiseyesrunningallovermyfacelikehestillcouldn’ttakeeverythingin.
Thenhiseyescamebacktolookintomine—andstayedthere.Anditdidn’tfeeluncomfortabletolookintothem.Itfeltgood.Andsowegazedateachotheraswewaitedforitalltomakesense.
Itwascrazy.Itwasimpossible.
Andyetherewewere.StandingattherimofthisrealizationlikeitwastheGrandCanyon—astonishedandbreathlessandawestruck.Icouldseehimbreathingdeep,andthenIrealizedIwas,too.We’dhadthestoryallwrong.Anditmighttakesometimetoputitright.
Onethingwasclear:Hewashererightnow,andsowasI.
Andwewerebothsogladtobewrong.
WasheleaningclosertomeorwasIleaningclosertohim?Somehowourfaceswerejustinchesawayfromeachother.Myhandsliddowntorestagainsthischest
“Sadie,”Joesaidthen,“Inoticedyoufromthestart.SincethatdayIcarriedallthosecanvasesuptotherooftopforyou.”
“Thankyouforthat,bytheway.”
“Butitreallygotreal,”Joewenton,hismouthsoclosetomineitwasjustaswoonaway,“whenIsawyourSmokeyRobinsonimpressioninthegrocerystore.”
Thatbrokethetrance.Holdon.“What?”
Joenodded.
“Thatwasyou?Youboughtmethatcheapwine?”
“Youowemeeighteenbucks.Plustax.”
“Whydidn’tyoutellme?”
“Whywoulditoccurtometotellyou?”
“ButthenightItoldyouabouttheGoodSamaritan.YoumusthaverealizedIdidn’trememberyou.Butyoudidn’tsayanything.”
“Itwasawkwardatthatpoint.Besides,youwerehavingamoment.”
“Wereyou”—itwasallclickingintoplacenow—“theonewhopushedmeoutofthecrosswalk?”
Joenodded.“Ofcourse.”
AllIcoulddowasrepeat.“Ofcourse?”
“Youwerewalkingawayasithappened.”
“Andwhatwereyoudoing?”
“Me?Iwascheckingyouout.”
IthadbeenJoe?Inthecrosswalkthatnight?“Yousawmefreeze—andthenyouranintothestreettosaveme?”
“Well,yeah.Youwereabouttogetkilled.”
“Butyoucouldhavebeenkilled!”
“Ididn’treallyweightheprosandcons.”
“Yousavedme?”
“Nickoftime.Weweremovingsofast,wetrippedonahunkofasphaltatthecurb.ButIcushionedyourfall.”
“Isthathowyouhitthelamppost?”Itappedmyownshoulder.“Yourscar?”
Joereachedaroundtorubthescaronhisshoulderlikehe’dforgotten.“Yeah.Scrapeditonabolt.Tenstitches.”
“Soyouwenttothehospital,too?”
Joenodded.“Laterthatnight.AndthenIwanderedaroundthehallstofindyouandmakesureyouwereokay.”
Joehadn’tjustrescuedme.He’dsavedmylife.
Foraminute,allIcoulddowasshakemyhead.
ThenIfinallysaid,“YouweretheGoodSamaritan,too.”Nowonderhedidn’tlooklikeastranger.
Joenodded.
“Howisitpossible,”Isaid,gazingatthesightofhiminwonder,“thatyouwereeverywhere?Allalong?”
Joeshrugged.“Youcan’tseewhenyou’renotlooking,Iguess.”Thenhetightenedhisholdonmygaze.“Anyway.You’retheonewhowaseverywhere.”
Itwasnonsense,butIknewexactlywhathemeant.
Atthat,Igrabbedholdofhistie,pulledhimdownclosetome,andpressedmymouthtohis.
Thesecondwetouched,hisarmscamearoundmyribcageandclampedtight,andmineroseuparoundhisneckanddidthesamething.Icradledthebackofhisheadwithmyhandsasheranhisoverme—back,shoulders,neck,hair.Allarmsandhandsandexploringandholdingon.
Bothofusjustdrunkontheblissofbeingineachother’sarmsatlast.
Afterafewminutes,hepaused,breathless,tomeetmyeyes.“Ireallyneedtothankyouforleavingthatvoicemail.”
Imethisrightback.“Ireallyneedtothankyouforsavingmylife.”
WHENWEFINALLYwalkedbacktotheparty,itwaswindingdown.
Danielwasstillthere,andwhenhecaughtsightofus,rumpled,wind-blown,clearlytogether,secretlyholdinghands…hegavemeanodofappreciation,like,Missionaccomplished.
Mr.andMrs.Kimwavedgoodnightatusfromtheirtable,asiftheyalreadyunderstoodeverythingthathadhappenedandweresendingmetheirfullapproval.
ButSuewanteddetails.Shewalkeduptousandputherhandsonherhips.“Where’veyoutwobeen?”
“Oh,”Isaid,wavingabsentlytowardourpersonalcorner,“justoverthere.”
Shenarrowedhereyes.“Youlooksuspiciouslyhappy.”
Joecoughed.Ismiledandlookeddown.
“What’sgoingonthere?”sheasked,pointingatourclaspedhands.
Webrokethemapart,likewe’dbeencaught.
“Whatjusthappened?”Sueasked.“Didyoutwo—?Areyoutwo—?Hey,Iknowit’sveryprettyandromanticuphere,but—”
“Funnystory,”Ijumpedinbeforeshegottoooutragedatthenotionofmejustgivingintoamanwhohadcruellyghostedme.“Andthisisgoingtosoundsocrazy…”
“Nothingcouldbecrazierthanwhat’sgoingthroughmyheadrightnow,”Suesaid.
“Wannabet?”Joesaid.
“Remember,”Isaid,“howIwastotallycrushingonmyveterinarian,butthenhestoodmeupforourfirstdateandthenIwoundup—howtoputit—transferringmyaffectionstoJoefromthebuilding?”
“Yes,”Suesaid,like,Hurryupandgettothepoint.
“Turnsout,”Isaid,“asimpossibleasitsounds…”
Sueputahandonherhip,like,Moveitalong.
“They’rethesameguy.”
Suefroze.Thensheshookherhead.
SoInoddedmine,tryingtohelphergetthere.“Thedashingveterinarian,whosefaceIcouldn’tsee…andthedoucheyguyinthebuilding—”
“Hey!”Joeprotested.
“WhosefaceIalsocouldn’tsee…”
IletSuecatchup.“Werethesameguy?”shefinishedforme.
JoeandInoddedather.Thenhegrabbedthemomenttotakemyhandagain.
“Howisthatpossible?”Sueasked,stillshakingherhead.
“Mybrain’sbeenalittlewonkylately,”Isaidwithashrug.
“Thisisn’twonky,”Suesaid.“Thisis…”Butthenshedidn’tknowwhatitwas.
“Dr.Nicolekeptwarningmeaboutstufflikethis,”Isaid.“Abouthowthefivesensesreallyworktogether,andifoneofthemissuddenlyaltered,itcanthrowyourwholeperceptualgameoffforawhile,especiallyifyouthrowinourhumanloveaffairwithconfirmationbias.”
IwasgearinguptodoawholeTEDTalk,butSuewaspullingoutherphone.“What’sthevet’sname?”shedemandedasshestartedgoogling.
“Dr.OliverAddison,”Dr.OliverAddisonsupplied.
“Areyougooglinghim?”Iasked.
“What’smorelikely?”Suesaid,scrolling.“Thatyouthoughtonepersonwastwofullydifferentpeople—orthatthisguy…”—shegesturedwithherphone—“issomekindofscammertryingtolureyouintohissexdungeon?”
“Likely?”Istarted.
ButthenbeforeIcouldreferherbacktotheintricateworkingsoftheecosystemofthebrain,Suesaid,“Oh,”andheldupherphoneforustosee.
AndtherewasDr.OliverAddison.Inaphotoonthevetclinic’sMeettheStaffpageontheirwebsite.Inthatwhitevetcoatandtie,withhishairbackinthatIvyLeaguedo.Lookingutterlydashing,legitimatelycrush-worthy,andexactlyliketheguystandingnexttome.
ItwashittingSuenow.“YouareJoefromthebuilding?”sheaskedhim.
Joenodded.
“Andyouarealsothisguy?”
Joenodded.
Sueturnedtome.“Youthoughtthisoneguywastwodifferentpeople?”
Inodded.“Ialsodidittoabaristainthecoffeeshop.”
Suewasturningitallaroundinherhead.“Sothenighttheveterinarianstoodyouup…”
IlookedoveratJoe.
“Ididn’tstandyouup,”hesaid.“Iwasjustlate.”
“So,”Isaid,“whenIcameoutofthebathroomandbumpedintoyou,weweren’tjustbumpingintoeachother?Youwerethereforourdate?”
Joenodded.
“Andthat’swhyyounevertextedorcalledtoapologizeforstandingmeup?”
“Right,”Joesaid.“BecauseIdidn’tstandyouup.Wehadanepicfirstdate,ifyouremember.Panicattackandall.”
IthoughtofJoestrokingmeontheback,andthenIsaid,“Waitasecond.Whenyouwerehelpingmethroughthatpanicattack,wereyoupettingmelikeadog?”
Nohesitation.“Yes.”
“Sodoesthatmeanyour‘friend’withpanicattacksis—”
Joenodded.“AnIrishsetter.Withanirrationalfearoffireworks.”
Iputmyheadinmyhands.
Suewaslovingthis.“Sothewholetimeyouwereonadatetogether,youthoughthewasstandingyouup?”
“Yes.AndIwassupermad,”Isaid.IlookedatJoe.“EventhatdaythatIdumpedhim—Imeanyou—andhe—you—seemedsoweirdlyupset,andIwaslike,Idon’tknowwhythisdudewhostoodmeupanddidn’tevenapologizeevencares.”
“Buthowdidyounotputittogether?”Suewantedtoknow.“Thereweren’tanyhintsalongtheway?”
EverythingthatDr.Nicolehadexplainedaboutconfirmationbiascameback—abouthowwethinkwhatwethinkwe’regoingtothink.
“Thereweretonsofhints,”Isaid.“Ijustdidn’tnoticethem.”
Joewaslookingatmelikehewascuriousaboutthis,too.
“Therewasavetattheclinic,andtherewasaguyinmybuilding.Whywouldtheybethesame?Theyhaddifferentclothesanddifferenthair,andoneworeglasses,whiletheotherdidn’t.Isawthemindifferentplacesfordifferentreasons.Ididn’thavethatonebigthingweallrelyon—theface—toputtheminthecategoryof‘sameperson,’andthefactorsIwasrelyingonwerealldifferent.SoIassumedtheyweredifferent.AndthenonceImadethatassumption…onceIhaddecidedtheyweredifferentpeople…anyevidencetothecontraryjust…didn’tregister.”
“Butwhatabouthisvoice?”Suesaid,stillstruggling.“Youdidn’trecognizethatitwasthesame?”
“I’mbadatvoices,”Isaid.
“Butalso,”Joeofferedhelpfully,“whenyousawmeintheclinic,Iwould’vebeenusingmoreofaprofessionalvoice.”
Ithoughtaboutmydad’sdoctorvoice—howhemadeitalittledeeperandalittlelouderwhenhetalkedtopatientssohecouldassumetheroleofwisepurveyorofknowledge.Maybethatwaspartoftheprofessionalmedicalpersona—soundinglikeyouwereincharge.
“Youchangeyourvoicewhenyou’reatwork?”Sueasked,likemaybehewasapervyscammerafterall.
“Idon’tchangeit,exactly,”Joesaid.“Ijust…”Hepausedlikehe’dneverreallytriedtoarticulatethisbefore.“Ijustleanonthepartsofitthatsoundthemostcompetentandincharge.Soit’smaybeashadedeeper—orlouder.I’msureashellnotcursinginfrontofpatients.Oractingsillyandgiggling.Youknow.I’mbeingaprofessional.”
“Plus,”Iaddedhelpfully,“yourclinicplaysoldiesonthespeakersystemtwenty-fourseven.”
“That’strue,”Joesaid.“Iwould’vehadtoprojectabitoverSinatra.”
“Evenwhenshedumpedyouatwork?”Suechallenged.“Wereyouusingaprofessionalvoicethen?”
“No,”Joesaid,hisshoulderssinkingabitatthememory.“Thatwasdefinitelymyrealvoice.”
“Butnoneofthatmattered,”Isaid.“That’sthepoint.Ihadalreadydecidedwhohewas.Youwouldneverjustbehangingoutwithsomeoneandthinktoyourself,Hey,maybethispersonisalsothesamepersonassomeoneelse.Thatthoughtwouldneveroccurtoyou.Andofcoursenot!Becauseit’simpossible!Unlessyourbrainisalittlehaywire.”
Suenodded,likeshewasgivingupthefight.“SowhenyoudumpedthevetforJoe…”
Inodded.“Iwasdumpinghimforhim.”
“ButIdidn’tknowthat,”JoesaidtoSue.
“Ofcoursenot,”Isaidinsupport.
“Soaftershebrokeupwithme,Iwantedtostayasfarawayfromheraspossible—gooffandlickmywounds.Butshekeptshowingupatmyplaceandtextingmeandwantingtohangout.”
“That’sterriblebreakupetiquette,”Sueagreed.
“Right?”Joesaid.“Thedumperissupposedtogivethedumpeealittlespace.”
Iwinced.“Butinstead,Idemandedthatyoucomeasmydatetomyartshow.”
Joelookedatmewithaffection.“Ithoughtyouweresomean.”
“Itwasmean!”Iagreed.“Byanynormalstandard,itwasobjectivelysupermean!”
Joeshrugged.“Exceptthatweleftnormalstandardsbehindalongtimeago.”
“Exactly.”
Suelookedatusgazingateachother.“So,okay.You’veclearedthisallup.Whatnow?”
JoeandIturnedtolookateachother.AndIsuddenlyfeltsoawashwithgratitudeforthismoment—foreverythingwe’dbeenthrough.ForthefactthatI’dcalledJoeandleftthatvoicemail.AndthatMr.Kimhaddecidedtomatchmakeus.AndthatJoehadchasedmeacrosstherooftoptotrytogetthestorystraight.Wecouldhaveletitallgolongbeforenow.Wecouldhavetriedlesshard.Wecouldhavegivenupinthefaceofallourmisunderstandings.
Butwedidn’t.
Ittakesacertainkindofcouragetobebraveinlove.Acourageyoucanonlygetbetteratthroughpractice.
Standinghereonthisrooftop,withthewindrustlingmyskirtandtheskyfloatingaboveus,IwassogratefultoJoeforgivingmeareasontotry.
“It’slikethat,isit?”Suesaid,takingitallin.
“Yeah,”Isaid,myeyesstilllockedonJoe’s.“It’slikethat.”
“Guessyouguysdon’twanttostayandhelpcleanup,then?”
“Notespecially,”Isaid.“No.”
“Finethen,”Suesaid.“You’reexcused.”Epilogue
ONEYEARAFTERthatparty,Mr.andMrs.Kimkickedmeoutofmyhovel.Theyweremakingarooftopgardenandneededitforapottingshed.
“You’rekickingmeout?”Isaid.
ButMr.Kimwasn’thavingit.“GomarryHelpful.You’repracticallymarried,anyway.”
“MaybeIwill,”Isaid,andthenIhelduptheengagementringonmyfinger.
Iwasn’tspendingmuchtimeatmyplacebythen,anyway—nowthatI’dhelpedJoerefurnishhisapartment.
Imean,thatVikingstoveofhiswasasignificantdraw.
Andso,ofcourse,wasJoehimself.
Oh,andyouheardthatright.I’mstillcallingOliver“Joe.”
HejustlookslikeaJoetome.
Andwereallyaregettingmarried.
Iadmit:theideaofJoe’swantingtobeafamilywithmehastakenthepressureoffPeanuttodefyalllawsofnatureandliveforanothertwentyyears.
It’salsotakenthepressureoffLucindatobeanythingotherthanherlimitedself.ShestilldefendsParker.ButsometimesIcanseeherside.Whatmothercouldpossiblygoagainstherownchild?
ParkergottransferredtoAmsterdamfortwoyears,anyway.SofornowIhavemyfatherandLucindatomyself,andwehavedinnertogetherfromtimetotime.
Turnsoutit’seasiertobelessmadatpeoplewhenotherpartsofyourlifearehappy.
SometimesJoeandItrytoplacebetsonParker’sdestiny.Willshealwaysbeevil,orwillshegrowoutofit?He’sabitmoreoptimisticthanIam,buthedeferstomyexpertise.
Shemightgrowoutofit,though.Whoknows?
Peoplecandefinitelychange.Isuredid.
AndifParkerdoes,I’llcheerforher.
I’llalsoloseahundreddollarsonthatbet.Buthappily.
IT’SSOSTRANGEtomenow,lookingbackonthatupside-downtimeinmylife,howmanygoodthingscameoutofit.Ifyou’daskedmeatthetime,I’dhavetoldyoueverythingwasruinedforever.
Butofcoursethefactitwasallsohardispartofwhatmadethingsbetter.
Itforcedmeintotherapyforawhile,forone.
Itforcedmetorethinkwhatmakingartmeantinmylife.
ItforcedmetoreevaluatesomeideasthatI’dneverquestionedaboutwhoweallareandwhatitallmeans.Becausethingsweresooverwhelming,Ihadnochoicebuttoacceptsomehelp.AndthenIfoundoutthatlettingpeoplehelpyouisn’tsobad.
It’sdefinitelythekindofthingyoucangetusedto.
Imean,awomanwhodidn’tbelieveinhelpsomehowwoundupmadlyinlovewithacompulsivehelper.
Isn’titluckywhenwe’redrawntopeoplewhocanteachusthingsweneedtolearn?
Likehowtoletotherpeoplemakeustea,forexample.Orruntothestorewhenit’slate.Orwalkthedogonarainynight.
Sometimes,now,I’lllieonJoe’ssofaandsay,“Couldyoukindlyhelpmeoutandbringmethosecookies?Andthefuzzyblanket?Andabigcupofmilk?Andmybook?”
Andhe’llflarehisnostrilsatmelikeI’mannoyingbutadorable,andI’llbelike,“Hey.Thisiswin-win.”
PeanutisalsolearningthingsfromJoe.BecauseJoe’stryingtobreakhisParisiancrepeaddictionsohecankeepPeanutintopgeriatricshape.Andhe’swillingtohand-feedPeanutsliversofribeyetodoit.
It’sworking,too.Peanuttakesthreewalksadayandhasthedownyfurofateenager.He’lloutliveusall.
It’ssofunnytomenowthatImetJoesomanytimesbeforeIeveractuallysawhim.SometimesIstudythatfaceofhiswhilehe’ssleepingandwonderwhyeverysingleencounterIeverhadwithitdidn’tsetoffbuzzersandflashinglightsandconfettishowers.
HowcouldIeverhavewalkedrightpasthim?
Dr.Nicolewassoright,ofcourse.Weseewhatwe’relookingfor.
KnowinghowmuchIusedtobemissinghastaughtmetopaybetterattention.Topausefromthehustlemoreoftenandjusttakeitallin.
Ofcourse,I’mnothustlingquiteasmuchnowasIusedtobebecauseI’mnolongerquiteasbroke.
Thatnightofthecontest?Whenmypaintinggotzerovotesfromthejudges?Itreallywasanuglyduckling.AscoutfromafineartgallerynamedEllerySmithwastherethatnight,andshelovedmypainting.Infact,theverythingthatthejudgesandtheotherartistsandthepatronsalldislikedaboutit—namely,theface—wasthethingthatshelikedthemost.
Shelikedthemysteryofit.Howharditwastoread.Howfullofemotionitallwas.Shesaiditleftherfascinated.Shecouldnevergettiredoflookingatit.Itraisedmorequestionsthanitanswered.
Shegotintouchaweekorsolatertoseeifshecouldrepresentme,andsixmonthsafterthatIwasdoingashowinhergalleryoftensimilarportraits.Allofwhichsoldforthreethousanddollarsapop.
Seriously.Mr.andMrs.Kimgotabargain.
Theydidhangthepaintinginthelobby,bytheway.AndwhenIsawithangingthereforthefirsttime,Idecideditdidn’tlooklikeGongYooorJohnDenverorDannyDeVito.
Itdidn’tlookexactlylikeJoe,either,tobehonest.
Butitfeltlikehim.Itfeltlikemyexperienceoftryingtoseehim.ItlookedlikeallthemysteriesandemotionsthatsurroundedthemanIfellinlovewith—beforeIhadanyideawhohewas.
Artistically,itwasgood.
AnditmademewonderifmaybethesewerethekindsofpaintingsIshouldhavebeendoingallalong.IfI’dbeentryingsohardtobeexactlylikemymotherthatIhadn’tleftroomtoexploreortoplayortobealittlemorelikeme.
Theexperienceofpaintingtheportraitsisdifferentnow,ofcourse.Becauseitdoesn’ttakethatlongbeforethefacesofstrangerscomeintoview.I’vegotonlyaboutthreeimpressionsbeforeIseethemlikeeveryoneelsedoes.
Idrawthefacefirstandtrytocaptureallthatmystery.AndIviewthatearlytimeasachancetoseetheworldlikenootherartistIknowdoes.
Thesuperpowerlady?FromFacebook?
NowIknowexactlywhatshemeans.
Seeingtheworlddifferentlyhelpsyouseethingsnotjustthatotherpeoplecan’t—butthatyouyourselfnevercouldifyouweren’tsolucky.Itletsyoumakeyourownrules.Coloroutsideyourownlines.Allowyourselfanotherwayofseeing.
Mostofthetimenow,ifIseesomeoneIknow,thefacecomestogetherprettyfast.Butnotalways.Ifit’sbeenawhilesinceI’veseenthatperson.OrifI’mtiredorpreoccupied.I’vewalkeduptoJoeinMaria’sgrocerystoremorethanonceandputmyarmsaroundhim—onlytorealizeI’vejustfreakedoutatotalstranger.
Ithappens.
ButIfindtheantidotetothatisjustkeepingasenseofhumor.Andstayinghumble.Andlaughingalot.Anddoublingdownonsmiling.We’realljustmuddlingthrough,afterall.We’realljustdoingthebestwecan.We’reallstrugglingwithourstruggles.Nobodyhastheanswers.Andeverybody,deepdown,isalittlebitlost.
KnowingIdon’thaveitallfiguredout—facingthatsomehowinsomewayeveryday—forcesmetobecompassionatewithmyself.WhichhasmademesogoodatcompassionthatIcanhanditouttootherpeoplelikeI’mhandingoutchampagneataparty.Whensomeonegivesmethewrongchange.Ormessesupmyorder.Orflipsmeoffintraffic.
Iseeyou,humanity,Ithink.
We’reallsolimitedanddisappointingandso,sowrong.Muchofthetime.Maybeevenmostofthetime.We’reallsosteepedinourownconfirmationbias.We’reallsobusyseeingwhatweexpecttosee.
Butwehaveourmoments,too.
Momentswhenweseethattireblowoutandstoptohelp.Momentswhenwepayforthepersonbehindusinthedrive-through.Orofferupourseattoastranger.Orcomplimentsomeone’searrings.Orrealizewewerewrong.Orapologize.
Sometimeswereallyarethebestversionsofourselves.Iseethataboutus.AndI’mdeterminedtokeepseeingthataboutus.BecausethatreallymightbethetruestthingI’lleverknow:
Themoregoodthingsyoulookfor,themoreyoufind.ANoteAboutProsopagnosia
Therearetwodifferenttypesoffaceblindness,orprosopagnosia.
ThetypethatSadiehasinthisstoryiscalledacquired.Itresultsfromsomesortofdamagetothefusiformfacegyrus—fromsurgery,forexample,oralesion,oratraumaticbraininjury—anditresultsinachangeintheabilitytoperceivefaces.
Theothertypeofprosopagnosiaisdevelopmental,andit’stypicallyaconditionpeoplehavehadalltheirlives.It’smorecommonlyassociatedwithmemorythanwithperception.Peoplewithdevelopmentalprosopagnosiacangenerallyseefacesinthemoment—theyjusthavetroublerememberingthemlater.Thistypeisbyfarthemostcommon—uptooneinfiftypeoplehaveit—butmanypeopledon’trealizetheyhaveit.Becausethere’snonoticeableshiftfrombeforetoafter,manypeoplewhohavethistypeassumethat’sjusthoweveryoneis.
Ifyou’reinterestedinlearningmoreaboutfaceblindness,agoodplacetostartisFaceBlind.org,ajointwebsiteoftheProsopagnosiaResearchCenterofDartmouth,Harvard,andtheUniversityofLondon.Thereyoucanreadmoreaboutit,accessonlineteststomeasureyourownabilitytoperceiveandrememberfaces,andevenvolunteertoparticipateinresearch.Author’sNote
Oneyear,formybirthday,Igotahistoricalromancenovelasagift.
AfteryearsofstudyingcreativewritingandSeriousFictioninschool,Ihadneverreallyreadromancebefore.ButIpushedpastthedecidedlynonliterarycoverandopenedituptothefirstchapterto“takealook”atit.
Threehourslater,Iwasinthecar—drivingtothebookstoretogetanotherone
Ifeltlikeapersonwho’dspentherentirelifeeatingboneless,skinlesschickenbreast…andIhadjustdiscoveredchocolatecake.
Thatbookwasdelicious.Itwasblissful.Itwaslifechanging
Itredefinedreadingforme.Andfun.
Itwasthebiggestwritingepiphanyofmylife.
Imean,IknewIlovedlovestories.I’dbeenraisedonNoraEphron,afterall.Butthoseweremovies.Movieswereentertainment.Books,inmyheadatleast,werework—notplay.
Afterthatfirstgatewayromancenovel,Ispentthenextseveralyearsreadinghistoricalromancesinablissfulhaze.
DidIsay“reading”them?Sorry—Imeant“devouring”them.
Iputducttapeoverthechestyman-candyonthecovers—butIkeptreading.Inthebubblebath.Atstoplights.Whilestirringspaghettisauceonthestove.
Thereyouhaveit:Ifellinlovewithromancenovels.
Foralongtime,ifyou’daskedmewhythatwas,I’dhaveshruggedandsaid,“Becausethey’refun?”Butnow,aftermuchoverthinkingit,I’vefiguredout—atleastinpart—whythey’refun.
It’sbecauselovestoriesreallyareunlikeanyotherkindofstory.
Allstorieshaveanemotionalenginethatdrivesthem.Mysteriesrunoncuriosity.Thrillersrunonheart-thumpingadrenaline.Horrorstoriesrunonfear.
Andthefuelforthoseemotionalenginesisanticipation.Wepiecethecluestogetherandpredictwhat’sgoingtohappen,andwefeelemotions—sometimesverystrongones—aboutwhatwe’repredicting.
Storiesusedifferentscenariosindifferentwaystocreatethatanticipation,butmostnovelsuseafairbitofwhat’scallednegativelyvalencedanticipation.Asenseofworry.Aconcernthatthingsmightgetworse.Youknow:You’rereadingalong,pickingupthebreadcrumbsofforeshadowingthewriter’sdroppedforyou,andyou’relike,“Ohgod.Thatkid’sgoingtogetarrested.”Or,“Ugh.Thatman’sgoingtohaveaheartattack.”Or,“Betyouathousanddollarshe’scheatingonhiswife.”
Butguesswhatkindofanticipationromancenovelsuse?
Positivelyvalenced
Romancenovels,rom-coms,nontragiclovestories—theyallrunonablissfulsensethatwe’removingtowardsomethingbetter.Percentage-wise,themajorityofclueswritersdropinromancenovelsdon’tgiveyouthingstodread.Theygiveyouthingstolookforwardto.
This,righthere—morethananythingelse—iswhypeoplelovethem.Thebanter,thekissing,thetropes,eventhespice…that’salljustextra.
It’sthestructure—that“predictable”structure—thatdoesit.Anticipatingthatyou’reheadingtowardahappyendingletsyourelaxandlookforwardtobetterthingsahead.Andthere’sanameforwhatyou’refeelingwhenyoudothat
Hope.
SometimesIseepeoplegraspingforabetterwordthanpredictabletodescribearomance.They’llsay,“Itwaspredictable—butinagoodway.”
Iseewhatthey’regoingfor.ButI’mnotsureitneedspointingoutthatoverthecourseofalovestory…peoplefellinlove.Imean:Ofcoursetheydid!Idon’tthinkit’spossibletowritealovestorywheretheleadsgettingtogetherattheendisasurprise.Andevenifitwere,whywouldyouwantto?Theanticipation—theblissful,delicious,oxytocin-laden,yearning-infused,buildingsenseofanticipation—isthepoint.It’sthecocktailofemotionsweallcametheretofeel.
Iproposewestopusingthehopelesslynegativewordpredictabletotalkaboutlovestoriesandstartusinganticipation.
Asin:“Thislovestoryreallycreatedafantasticfeelingofanticipation.”
Structurally,thematically,psychologically—lovestoriescreatehopeandthenuseitasfuel.Twopeoplemeet—andthen,overthecourseofthreehundredpages,theymovefromalonetotogether.Fromclosedtoopen.Fromjudgytounderstanding.Fromcrueltocompassionate.Fromneedytofulfilled.Fromignoredtoseen.Frommisunderstoodtoappreciated.Fromlosttofound.Predictably.
That’snotamistake.That’saguaranteeofthegenre:Thingswillgetbetter.Andyou,thereader,gettobethereforit.
It’sagiftthelovestorygivesyou.
Butnotypeofstorygetsmoreeyerollsthanlovestories.“They’resounrealistic,”peoplesay,astheystartanotherzombieapocalypsemovie.
Whatisthat?Isitself-protection?Self-loathing?Fearofvulnerability?Isitpretendingwedon’tcaresowearen’tdisappointed?Isitsomesad,unexaminedmisogynythatweasaculturereally,reallyneedtoworkon?
Ithinklovestoriesaredeeplymisunderstood—inpart,atleast,becausetheydon’tworklikeotherstories.
Lovestoriesdon’thavehappyendingsbecausetheirauthorsdidn’tknowanybetter.Theyhavehappyendingsbecausethoseendingsletreadersaccessarareandpreciouskindofemotionalblissthatyoucanonlygetfromhavingsomethingthatmatterstolookforwardto.
Yes,miseryisimportant.
Butjoyisjustasimportant.Thewayswetakecareofeachothermatterjustasmuchasthewaysweleteachotherdown.Lightmattersjustasmuchasdarkness.Playmattersasmuchaswork,andkindnessmattersasmuchascruelty,andhopemattersasmuchasdespair.
Moreso,even.
Becausetragedyisagiven,butjoyisachoice.
Romanticfictionthrivedduringthepandemic,andtherewerelotsoftheoriesaboutwhy.Peoplethoughtwewerelonely.Weneededescape.Wewantedsomelaughs.
Alltrue.
ButIthink,morethanthat,it’sbecauseloveisaformofhope.
Weallsenseitdeepdown,Isuspect—pastthesnarkandthetough-guyexteriors.Loveishealing.It’snourishing.It’sunapologeticallyoptimistic.It’sthethingthatleadsusbacktothelight.
SoIwritestoriesabouthowlovedoesthat—aboutpeoplehealingfromhardthings,andtryingtoconnect,andworkinglikehelltobecomethebestversionsofthemselves,despiteitall.Aboutthegenuineemotionalcourageittakestoloveotherpeople,andaboutthejoythatcouragecanofferus.Ihopethisstorymadeyoulaugh.Andswoon.Ihopeitkeptyouupwaytoolatereadingandgaveyouthatblissed-out,longing-laden,tipsyfeelingthatallthebestlovestoriescreate.Ihopeitgaveyousomethingtothinkabout,andmaybeanewperspective.ButwhatIknowforsureisthatreadinglovestoriesisgoodforyou.Thatbelievinginloveisbelievinginhope.Anddoingthat—choosinginthiscynicalworldtobeapersonwhodoesthat—reallyisdoingsomethingthatmatters.Acknowledgments
Ialwayspanicwhenit’stimetowriteacknowledgmentsbecauseI’mterrifiedofleavingsomeoneout.LetmenotforgettothankmyfriendDaleAndrews—foundingmemberofourlegendaryRomanticBookClubofTwo—forreading(andloving)earlydraftsofbothTheBodyguardandHelloStranger.
ManygratefulthanksalsotomyfriendofmanyyearsKarenWalrond,whosojoyfullytookthetimetoteachmeaboutthecultureofherhomecountryofTrinidad—evenhelpingmethinkthroughDr.Nicole’swardrobeandbakingmesomehomemadecoconutbread.Somuchgratitude,also,tomydearfriendSueSim,forconsultingwithmeontheKoreanAmericancharacterofSueKim(whoIwoundupnamingafterher).Thereal-lifeSueisoneofmyall-timefavoritepeople,andshegraciouslymetmeforcoffeemanytimes—eventhoughwekeptgettingdistractedandtalkingaboutourkids.ManygratefulthanksaswelltoSue’sdad,Mr.YoungKim,forlettingmeborrowhisname.
Imustalsothankmyfriend(andvet!)Dr.AliceAnneDodge,DVM,forlettingmespendadayobservingbehind-the-sceneslifeinherclinic.MyfriendsVickyandTonyEstrerakindlyletmeborrowtheirlastname.ArtistGayleKabakerletmeinterviewheraboutportraitureandlifeasaworkingpainter,andIalsofoundmuchinspirationintheworkofSargyMann,anartistwhokeptpaintingevenafterentirelylosinghissight.Theworkofface-blindartistChuckClosewasalsofascinatingtolearnabout,andIowemuchtotheBBCarticle“Prosopagnosia:TheArtistinSearchofHerFace.”
Scienceisnotexactlymyareaofexpertise.HugethankstoLaurenBillings(halfoftheChristinaLaurenwritingduo),whosawapostaboutmyresearchingscience-ystuffforthisstoryandDM’edmetosay:“YouknowIhaveaPh.D.inneurobiology,right?”ThanksalsotoPaulaAngusandEliseBatemanforsharingresourcesaboutneurologyandmemory.IalsolearnedmuchaboutthebrainfromneuroscientistJillBolteTaylor’sbookMyStrokeofInsight.DeepgratitudetoDr.ErinFurrStimming,professorofneurologyatUTHealthHoustonMcGovernMedicalSchool,forlettingmeinterviewher—andalsoreferringmetoDr.MarkDannenbaumoftheDepartmentofNeurosurgeryofMcGovernMedicalSchoolsoIcouldasksomeveryunscientificquestions(like“Isitkindoflikeicefishing?”)aboutbrainsurgery.Bothweresogenerouswiththeirtimeandsodelightfultotalkto.
Mymostextensiveresearch,ofcourse,wasonprosopagnosia.IknewverylittleabouttheconditionwhenIstarted,andIhadalottolearn.Forthat,IowemuchtoneurologistDr.OliverSacks’swritingsaboutprosopagnosia,aconditionthathehimselfhad.IalsolistenedtoeveryepisodeofJeffWaters’spodcastFaceBlind—somemanytimes—andfounditprofoundlyhelpful.
IcouldnotbemorethankfultotwopeopleIreachedouttocoldafterhearingtheminterviewedtogetheronapodcastaboutfaceblindness.Dr.JoeDeGutis,assistantprofessorofmedicineatHarvardMedicalSchoolwhoalsoco-runstheBostonAttentionandLearningLab,madetimetotalkwithmeandpatientlyansweredmanyquestions.ThecharminganddelightfulsciencewriterSadieDingfelder,whometJoewhilelearningaboutherownprosopagnosiainhislab,alsotalkedwithmeatlengthaboutfaceblindness.Sadie’sWashingtonPostarticle“MyLifewithFaceBlindness”wasamassivelyhelpfulresource,andI’msohappythatwhenIdescribedmyideafortheplotofthisbooktoherandasked,“Couldthathappen?”sherepliedwithsomuchenthusiasm,“Thatcouldtotallyhappen!”I’malsobeyondgratefultoherfortakingtimetoreadanearlydraftofthisbook.
NodiscussionofprosopagnosiawouldbecompletewithoutmentioningtheveryhelpfulwebsiteFaceBlind.org,runjointlybyDartmouth,Harvard,andtheUniversityofLondon—whereyoucanlearnmuchmore,andevenparticipateinonlineresearchstudies.
SomanyadoringthankstothegoodpeopleofSt.Martin’sPress—inparticular,mybrillianteditor,JenEnderlin;coverdesignerOlgaGrlic;unstoppablepublicistKatieBassel;geniusmarketersBrantJaneway,EricaMartirano,andKejanaAyala;andthelovelyChristinaLopez.Hugethanksalsotomyfantasticagent,HelenBreitwieserofCornerstoneLiterary,whohasstuckwithmefromtheverystart.
Manyhugstomyfamily.Myastonishinglyenthusiasticandsupportivehusband,Gordon,andmyendlesslyhelpfulandencouragingmom,DeborahDetering,arealwaystiedforMostHelpfulSuperstarswhenitcomestogettingmybookswrittenandoutthere.Thankstomyfunkids,AnnaandThomas,forjustbeingsuchdelightfulhumans.Muchgratitudetomytwosisters,ShelleySteinandLizzieFletcher,fortheirsupport,andtomydad,BillPannill,formemorizing“TheWalrusandtheCarpenter”withmewhenIwasakid.
Andlast—butneverleast:Thankyou
Ifyou’rereadingthis,thankyou!Thisismytenthnovel,andI’mwillingtobetthere’snowriteronearthmoregratefulthanmeforeverytinybutterfly-wingflapofhelp,wordspreading,andrecommendationthatreaders—andbookstoresandotherwriters—do.Mycareerhasbeenthedefinitionofalong,slowburnandthere’snothingaboutitthatItakeforgranted.
Writerscanonlywritestoriesiftherearepeopleouttherewhowanttoreadthem—andI’msogratefultoyouforbeingoneofthosepeople.Andforhelpingfindmoreofthem.Andforallowingmetospendmylifeobsessingoverstoriesandpracticingtheirsoul-nourishing,page-turning,life-changingmagic.ALSOBYKATHERINECENTER
TheBodyguard
WhatYouWishFor
ThingsYouSaveinaFire
HowtoWalkAway
HappinessforBeginners
TheLostHusband
GetLucky
EveryoneIsBeautiful
TheBrightSideofDisasterAbouttheAuthor
KATHERINECENTERistheNewYorkTimesbestsellingauthoroftennovels,includingTheBodyguard,ThingsYouSaveinaFire,andHowtoWalkAway.Katherinewriteslaugh-and-crybooksabouthowlifeknocksusdown—andhowwegetbackup.ThemovieadaptationofKatherine’snovelTheLostHusbandhit#1onNetflix,andHappinessforBeginnersissoontobeaNetflixoriginalmoviestarringEllieKemper.KatherinelivesinherhometownofHouston,Texas,withherhusband,twokids,andtheirfluffy-but-fiercedog.JoinhermailinglistatKatherineCenter.com!,orsignupforemailupdateshere
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Foremailupdatesontheauthor,clickhereContents
TitlePage
CopyrightNotice
Dedication
ChapterOne
ChapterTwo
ChapterThree
ChapterFour
ChapterFive
ChapterSix
ChapterSeven
ChapterEight
ChapterNine
ChapterTen
ChapterEleven
ChapterTwelve
ChapterThirteen
ChapterFourteen
ChapterFifteen
ChapterSixteen
ChapterSeventeen
ChapterEighteen
ChapterNineteen
ChapterTwenty
ChapterTwenty-One
ChapterTwenty-Two
ChapterTwenty-Three
ChapterTwenty-Four
ChapterTwenty-Five
ChapterTwenty-Six
ChapterTwenty-Seven
ChapterTwenty-Eight
ChapterTwenty-Nine
ChapterThirty
ChapterThirty-One
Epilogue
ANoteAboutProsopagnosia
Author’sNote
Acknowledgments
AlsobyKatherineCenter
AbouttheAuthor
CopyrightThisisaworkoffiction.Allofthecharacters,organizations,andeventsportrayedinthisnovelareeitherproductsoftheauthor’simaginationorareusedfictitiously.
FirstpublishedintheUnitedStatesbySt.Martin’sPress,animprintofSt.Martin’sPublishingGroup
HELLOSTRANGER.Copyright?2023byKatherineCenter.Allrightsreserved.Forinformation,addressSt.Martin’sPublishingGroup,120Broadway,NewYork,NY10271.
www.stmartins.com
CoverdesignbyOlgaGrlicCoverillustrationbyKatieSmith
TheLibraryofCongresshascatalogedtheprinteditionasfollows:
Names:Center,Katherine,author.
Title:Hellostranger/KatherineCenter.
Description:Firstedition.|NewYork:St.Martin’sPress,2023.|
Identifiers:LCCN2022058238|ISBN9781250283788(hardcover)|ISBN9781250283795(ebook)
Subjects:LCGFT:Novels.|Romancefiction.
Classification:LCCPS3603.E67H452023|DDC813/.6—dc23/eng/20221209
LCrecordavailableathttps://lccn.loc.gov/2022058238
eISBN9781250283795
Ourebooksmaybepurchasedinbulkforpromotional,educational,orbusinessuse.PleasecontacttheMacmillanCorporateandPremiumSalesDepartmentat1-800-221-7945,extension5442,orbyemailatMacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com
FirstEdition:2023