I can see beauty. The more symmetrical the face, the more average the person looks to me because there’s this sameness to them, even if other people think they’re hot. A person has to have something unique about them. Libby’s face is symmetrical, but her beauty has nothing to do with sameness. I recognize it as she swings the door open and climbs into the car. She’s graceful, especially for someone so large. She kind of swoops in like Tarzan, kicks off her shoes, and wiggles her toes. Her toenails are purple too.
I say, “You look great.”
She cocks her head at me. “Are you flirting with me, Jack Masselin?”
“I’m just stating the obvious.”
She pulls her hair off her neck, and I want to say Don’t do that. You’ll disappear before my eyes. But then you can tell she rethinks it—maybe she remembers that I’ve told her this before—and lets it fall back around her shoulders.
Then she hands me something wrapped in Christmas paper and about fifty bows. “Happy birthday. If you can’t tell, I like Christmas paper best.”
“You didn’t have to do anything.”
“I wanted to. Open it.”
I tear off the wrapping and the bows go flying. She picks one up and sticks it to her hair, right over her left ear. She picks up another and sticks it to the knee of my jeans. I pick one up and stick it to the end of my nose and then stick one on the end of her nose.
She says from behind the bow, “Open, please.”
It’s a book. We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson. At first, I’m thrown. I wonder if she knows. She must know I was the one who sent this to her at the hospital. I look at her, but she’s got this wide, open smile on her face, and I can see that no, she doesn’t know.
I flip through the book. It’s not the same copy I sent her years ago, but it’s still well worn and well read.
“I wasn’t sure what to get you because what do you get the boy who has everything, including face blindness? So I thought I’d get you something I love. It’s my favorite book. You don’t have to read it, but the girl, Mary Katherine—Merricat, they call her—she reminds me of, uh, me, I guess. And … I don’t know. I thought you might relate to her too.”
“I’ll read it.” I smile at her. “Thank you.”
She smiles at me. “You’re welcome.”
And we’re having what feels like a moment. Suddenly, the air isn’t just filled with bows; it’s filled with some sort of electric current that links her seat to mine.
She does the impossible—slices through the current by speaking first. “So are you ready for this?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
At first I’m amped. I talk her ear off, telling her about every online test I’ve taken and this guy with prosopagnosia named Bill Choisser who lives in San Francisco and is an old bearded dude who wrote a book about face blindness, which he’s posted on the Internet for all to read. All about the impact being face-blind has on school, work, relationships, life.
But the closer we get to Bloomington, the quieter I get. I can feel the air going out of me. What am I going to find out? Will Dr. Amber Klein be able to help me? Should I be going to New Hampshire instead to see Brad Duchaine? What if this whole trip is a waste of time? What if they tell me I’ve got some serious illness? What if I find out it isn’t face blindness, but cancer of the brain?
“I can almost feel you thinking right now.”
I look at her.
“Did you forget I was in the car with you?”
I’m so deep in the forest of my mind that yeah, I almost did.
“Sorry.”
We pass a sign: BLOOMINGTON … 10 MILES. I feel my stomach drop and land somewhere around the gas pedal.
“Does this thing have a radio?”
“Does it have a radio. What do you think, woman? Christ almighty.” I hit a button and music fills the Land Rover, taking up all the space around us. I try to concentrate on the words, on the melody, but then she starts searching through songs, and this feels like my brain—fragments of words, fragments of melodies, fragments of moments, fragments of things.
Finally, she finds a song she likes, and then she cranks it.
“Disco? Are you fucking kidding me?” I reach for the radio, but she smacks my hand away. I reach around her hand, and she smacks it again, and then it’s not about turning off the music, it’s about touching her, and our hands are flirting. Finally, she grabs my fingers and holds on to them. And that electric current is sparking out of my thumb, my pinky, and the fingers in between. I cough because What the fuck is happening? I say to the car, “I’m so sorry this had to happen to you, baby. I’m sorry you ever had to hear this. I’m sorry I ever had to hear this. I’m sorry I’m still hearing it.”
Libby hollers, “What? I can’t hear you over my own singing and this amazing beat!”
Now she’s singing as loud as she can AND dancing. She lets go of my hand and yells, “Spontaneous dance party!” and goes on singing, but now she’s dancing bigger and broader, like she’s onstage somewhere.
“I love to love, but my baby just loves to dance, he wants to dance, he loves to dance, he’s got to dance.”
“What the f—?”
“The minute the band begins to swing it, he’s on his feet to dig it, and dance the night away. Stop! I’m spinning like a top, we’ll dance until we drop …”
It’s pretty much the corniest song I’ve ever heard, but Libby is into it. She’s grooving all over the seat, shaking her shoulders, shimmying toward me and away. She winks at me and belts it out louder, and she’s a terrible singer. So I start singing along with her, kind of self-defensively.