LITMIR.BIZ

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face, this entire temperament was like an arranged marriage to a person she would have to spend the rest of her life with, sight unseen. She shut her eyes, turned her wheelchair away from the mirror and buried her face in her hands. She didn’t want to look at herself anymore. She didn’t want to look at anyone.

      Everything felt drained—her brain, her heart, her tear ducts. There was a tentative knock at the door, and when it was pushed gently open, Harvard walked in, wafting that burnished flowery aroma.

      Nora looked up. “Nicky...?” she asked.

      He nodded. “Here’s how I see it, Nor. I figure that now we’re even. You’re face blind. I’m left-handed. The playing field has finally been leveled.”

      “How is that leveled?” Nora said. “Being left-handed is not an affliction.”

      “I can’t tell you how many wrestling matches I’ve lost because of it,” Nicholas said.

      “Last I checked, being left-handed wasn’t classified under brain damage. And when’s the last time being left-handed ever caused social suicide? ’Cause that’s what this is, you know. I’m fucked.”

      “It’s not that bad. It’ll get easier. It’s just hard now ’cause it’s new. Look, I got you this,” Nicholas held out a small black notebook toward her. “I thought it might help.”

      “What is it?” Nora took it from him. The pages inside were blank except for the first one, which had Nicholas’s name on top.

      Nicholas Grand

      5ʹ10ʺ

      Hazel eyes

      Broad shoulders

      Handsome

      Stunning smile

      “You’re too young to be resorting to the Personals section. What is this?”

      Nicholas grinned. “It’s a face book. You make notes on people. That way, you can put the descriptions to the faces.” Years later, when that ubiquitous social media site would seemingly take over the world, Nora would remark that if only her brother had taken his idea to the internet, he might have been the millionaire by his thirtieth birthday.

      “And I see this one has been written extremely objectively,” Nora said, arching an eyebrow.

      “Well, you can amend those based on whatever helps you remember.” Nicholas grinned.

      “Thanks, Nicky.”

      “We can go back out and start working on it together,” Nicholas said, nodding toward the door. “Starting with Jason. How about ape-like?”

      “I know Mom and Dad did it to help, but I didn’t ask for all that.” Nora sighed, waving her hands in the direction of the dining room. “I didn’t even ask to come home from the hospital. I would have been fine sitting propped up in that bed for the rest of my life, with the doctors shining their little penlights in my face, whispering all around me like I had lost my hearing. Gesturing toward me as though I had gone blind. No, asshole, I can hear and see just fine. The problem is that I can’t remember your face.”

      “The mind is funny,” Nicholas said. “Your brain is probably exhausted from everything that’s happened. You’ll be okay, Nor. We’ll all help you.”

      She looked at his sweatshirt. “What happened, did you get into Harvard while I was in the hospital, boy genius?” Nicholas looked sheepish.

      “No, this is the one Claire gave you. I stole it while you were in there, ’cause it smelled like you.” He raised his arms above his head and peeled it off, offering it to her. She accepted it and buried her nose in it.

      “Now it smells like you.”

      “Really? What do I smell like?”

      “Pert Plus and flute oil.”

      He sniffed under his arms. “Add it,” he said, nodding toward the notebook. Nora scribbled down the observation onto Nicholas’s page. “What about me? What do I smell like?”

      Nicholas leaned toward her and breathed in. “Raisins.”

      “I don’t even like raisins.”

      “I know. That’s what’s ironic.”

      “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize Jason. That was some mind fuck.”

      “It’s okay. It’ll take time. Though if you ask me, Jason is definitely worth forgetting.”

      “I guess that’s one way of relegating an ex-boyfriend to the recesses of your mind. Or literally forgetting about him altogether.” Nora smiled at her brother, but she could feel tears building in the back of her eyelids, threatening to weaken her resolve, forcing her to screw her eyes shut and bury her face in her hands. Nicholas held her tight, and while she tried to hold her tears in, they burned her eyes as they trickled out from behind her fingers.

      * * *

      The ironic thing was that when Nora was in high school, she’d known every single person in her graduating class of five hundred. She’d started introducing herself to everyone and, by the middle of her freshman year, waved to everyone in the hallways. That overfriendliness had begun as a defense mechanism at first. Saying hi to everyone seemed less obnoxious than saying hi to no one, so she began associating herself with them all—the cheerleaders, the football players, though she’d never been to a school game. She waved to the kids who dressed in black trench coats and who played that fantasy card game Magic on the sixth floor outside the English department. She waved to the theater kids, and the preppies, and even the teachers—the ones she’d had the years before. The ones she’d inherit the following one. She’d felt strange doing it at first, waving and acknowledging everyone. But that had been in high school. That had been before the accident.

      Shortly after she’d been brought home from the hospital, her parents had given her space, encouraging her to take all the time she needed to heal. They let her postpone her return to college until she felt ready. But at the end of what would have been the second semester of her junior year, on a dark overcast Saturday afternoon, Stella had silently placed a few books on Nora’s bed and walked out of the room. Nora had waited until her mother’s footsteps had faded away down the hall before she vaulted herself out of her desk chair and limped over to read the titles. Facing Your Fears, Understanding Facial Recognition, Face Prosopagnosia Down. Nora had seen it as a personal affront. This is what you have, the books were calling. This is your new label and you can’t shed it until you recognize who you have become. She needed some kind of protection from the elements, from herself, even, so she’d cracked open the covers and learned how to combat this feeling—this feeling of helplessness, of unfamiliarity. There were tricks and tools you could use. But a lot of it relied upon good friends and people that you could trust inherently. And at the time, she wasn’t sure she could get that. She didn’t know how to talk about her situation. She couldn’t very well introduce herself to some stranger that didn’t have any specific identifying demarcations and expect them to become friends with her.

      She rolled over now and hugged her knees to her chest. I can’t do this. She swallowed hard, pushing back tears that were poised to spill. It’s too difficult. I want mandatory name tags. My brain hurts. It was exhausting, having to focus even harder on everything all the time, to have to imprint someone’s face onto your brain. It wasn’t the way it used to be, where you made casual eye contact upon meeting someone. Now she was forced to devour faces with her eyes.

      After a few silent moments of crying, she sat herself up and went into the adjoining bathroom. Her face was tan from the summer, but crying had whitewashed it so it appeared pale and gaunt. She squeezed her eyes shut and examined herself in the mirror. Thank goodness for that beauty spot right on the crown of her cheekbone. But she would never forget her own self, would she? She gripped the edges of the ceramic basin with both hands, feeling as though she herself might sink through the tiles. Her mascara was bleeding down her face; she looked like a sad clown in a Marcel Marceau sketch. A limp washcloth hung from the edge

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