“We could do an MRI, and this would provide us with more information. Many prosopagnosics also have trouble recognizing cars and places. They often have topographical agnosia, which means they lose their way easily and don’t recognize their houses or places of work. They can have trouble with their hearing. We think prosopagnosia is the key to discovering how the brain processes objects in general. For so long, we’ve thought of the brain as one entity, but we’re learning now about all these separate machines, if you will, that are a part of its makeup, and the fact that these machines don’t interact with each other, that they aren’t even aware of each other.”
“Basically the face-processing area of my brain is either missing, defective, or unplugged? But if I do the MRI, there’s still no cure.”
“Yes.”
There’s nothing more she can do for me and I know that and she knows that.
She says, “I suggest telling people, at least your family. Let them know you have this. It will make things easier on you in the long run.”
I pick up the phone and text Libby.
I’m done.
And I am.
“One more thing, Jack. Most developmental prosopagnosics don’t expect anything from the face in the way that those with acquired prosopagnosia do. Just as a person born without sight has only ever known not seeing, those who are born with this don’t feel that lack in the same way. But for those who have acquired it, it’s not out of the ordinary for them to keep trying to use the face as the key to recognition. That’s the instinct.”
For some reason this is like a kick in the chest. I did this to myself. If I hadn’t climbed onto the roof that day … if I hadn’t tried to show off … if I hadn’t fallen … I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to a brain specialist. I should be heartbroken for six-year-old me lying on the front lawn, my world changed forever. But instead I just want to get out of here.
“Thanks, Dr. Klein. I should get home.”
She shakes my hand, thanks me for my time, apologizes that she couldn’t do more, as if it’s her fault. I want to tell her not to be sorry, that she’s not the one who pushed me off the roof way back when, but instead I say, “Good luck with the research.”
“Jack?”
I turn back. I see a woman there with glasses and sharp cheekbones and hair swept up off her neck. She says, “One person in every fifty is face-blind. It might help for you to remember that. You’re definitely not alone.”
On the drive back to Amos, I ask him questions about the test, and he answers them in this very short yes, no, yes, no kind of way. Then we’re quiet. He is far away, and I know what that feels like, to want to close yourself up. So I don’t force him to talk anymore. We just ride.
We ride for ten miles without saying a word. The silence covers us like a blanket. I’m staring out past the road into the great beyond, but after a while the blanket of silence starts to feel smothering, like it’s cutting off my circulation.
I almost tell him I was this close to getting tested too, but what comes out of my mouth is “I want to be a dancer. Not just a Damsel, but a professional dancer.”
To his credit, he doesn’t go veering off the road. He echoes, “A dancer.” And he’s still far away. But I can hear him tune in a bit.
“When I was little—not just young, but literally little—I took ballet. And I was great at it. I have this picture of me in a black leotard, standing in the most perfect fifth position you’ve ever seen. It was taken the night of our recital, my first ever, and I was glorious. Afterward my teacher told me, ‘You will never be a dancer. I can continue teaching you but it will only be a waste of your parents’ money. Your bones are too big. You don’t have the body for it. The sooner you learn this, the better.’ ”
“Wow. What a bastard.”
“It crushed me. For a long time I didn’t dance, no matter what my mom said. She offered to find me a different teacher, but something was ruined. I let that woman ruin it for me.” I stare at his profile, fixed on the highway. “But she can’t stop me from dancing. No one’s going to tell me not to dance anymore. No one should tell you what you can or can’t do either. Including you.”
We’re riding in silence again, but everything is lighter and cleaner. The mood has lifted and he’s back.
“My dad is having an affair.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. It’s Mrs. Chapman. At school.”
“As in Mrs. Chapman, chemistry teacher?”
“The very one.”
“Really?” Except for being young, there’s nothing about Mrs. Chapman that screams Take me for your mistress. “And you have to see her at school.”
“Yeah.”
“I mean, you have to run into her at school.”
“Yeah.”
“What a bastard.”
“I’m sorry that people give you shit about your weight. I’m sorry for anything I did to make it worse for you.”
“I’m sorry you have to date Caroline Lushamp.”
He laughs, and suddenly the car is warm and crackling with electricity.
“I’m not dating her anymore.” These five words surround us, taking over the air, until he says, “I’m sorry my friends can be assholes.”
“I’m sorry you can’t recognize the people you know. Maybe if you could, you’d pick better friends.”