Holding Up the Universe (19 page)

I hold the door open as everyone files out into the parking lot. We won by thirteen points, and Keshawn is carrying Natasha like she's his NBA trophy.

As Libby brushes past, I think of sunshine. It's her shampoo or her soap, or maybe it's just her. I think,
Did she smell like sunshine before she was cut out of her house, or did this come after, once she was back out in the world?

She looks up at me and says, “You should really tell someone what's going on with you.”

“I already did.” I'm irritated because now here's this girl saving my ass. Like I am a person in need of saving. Which, apparently, I am.

“Someone other than me. It's not like you're the only one who has this. I know that may be what it feels like to you, but statistically it's not
that
rare. At least, it's not as rare as being so super-fat you got stuck in your house. Have you been on the Prosopagnosia Research Centers site? Because they have this wallet card you can carry with you and give to people to explain what you have. I'm not saying that's the answer, but maybe it's a start.”

I call Caroline as I'm driving away. “Hey, beautiful.”

“Come over.”

“I can't.”

“What do you mean you can't?”

“I've got work.”

“Later, then.”

“I'm busy tonight. I'll take you out tomorrow night. We'll do it up big. We'll paint the town. A night you'll never forget.”

“What are you busy with? Or should I ask
who
?”

“I'm building Dusty's Christmas present.”

“It's
September.
”

“I'm
building
it.”

She goes completely quiet.

“Caroline? Babe?”

“I wish you'd never grabbed that girl. That Libby Strout.”

“Believe me, that makes two of us. I like to think I'm above that kind of shitty behavior, so you can imagine how disillusioning it's been for me.”

“All this detention time is eating into
us
time. It's beginning to ruin my life.”

Uh.

I want to say
Can you put nice Caroline on the phone?
but instead I say, “Sorry, babe. I promise I'll make it up to you.”

My dad and I are driving home on National Road, heading past the college, when this wave comes over me, and I feel the hollow in my heart that's been there ever since my mom died. Loss does that, hits you out of the blue. You can be in the car or in class or at the movies, laughing and having a good time, and suddenly it's as if someone has reached directly into the wound and squeezed with all their might. I can see my dad and me driving home, this same direction, that night we lost her. We pass us on the road, and I can see our faces through the windshield. We are ghosts.

I look at my dad now, and he glances at me. “What is it, Libbs?”

I almost say it.

It's her. Always. It's the suddenness of life changing in an instant that makes me anxious when I sleep and makes me tell myself to breathe when I'm awake.

“It's nothing.”

I lay my fingers on my wrist, so that it looks like my hands are just resting on my lap, when what I'm doing is checking my pulse.
Breathe. Stay steady. No reason to get worked up.

“It was nice of Bailey to come over. She was always a sweet girl.”

“She is.”

“You know you can have friends over to the house anytime you want.”

“So can you. Mom wouldn't want you to be alone.” I can almost hear her.
Give me a respectable mourning period, Will, but don't stop living your life.

“I'm not alone.” He gives me this crazy-looking grin.

“I won't be here forever.”
No one ever is.

“I'm good.”

I don't fully believe him, though. And then I decide to let both of us off the hook. “Have you ever heard of face blindness?”

“Face blindness?”

“Prosopagnosia. It's when you can't tell faces apart, so you don't recognize your family or friends.”

“Is this for a school project?”

Jack Masselin asked me not to tell and, against my better judgment, I intend to honor that. “Yes,” I say.

Instead of checking inventory or filling orders, I sit at the Masselin's office computer and search for
Prosopagnosia Research Centers.
The site says they're located at Dartmouth, Harvard, and University College London, headed by a man named Brad Duchaine. I've heard of it and him, but I've never really explored the site, so I spend some time on there, reading more about this thing I almost definitely for sure have.

Not surprisingly, prosopagnosia can create serious social problems…

Reports of prosopagnosia date back to antiquity…

One of the telltale signs of prosopagnosia is great reliance on non-facial information such as hair, gait, clothing, voice…

Most of this I know by now. I visit a few of the links to Face to Face, the biannual newsletter, and then I take the Famous Faces test, which tests my ability to recognize celebrities. The president, Madonna, Oprah. Even though I've taken tests like this before, the only one I get right is Martin Luther King, Jr., and that's just because I guess.

I click on the contact page.

If you believe that you are prosopagnosic or have other types of recognition impairments and are interested in becoming involved with research, please contact us using our form. We will try to get you involved with studies that we are conducting or we can put you in contact with researchers in your area.

I open the email client, and it's logged in to my dad's account. There, right there, where anyone can see it, is a new, unopened email from Monica Chapman. Sent eleven minutes ago. While I was sitting here researching my damaged brain. Subject:
Re: Jack
.
As in me. As in my dad and Monica Chapman are in some way discussing me.

I stare at the subject line, at her name, at my dad's name, at my name.

If I open it, here's what will happen: I'll know more than I already do, which means I'll only be adding to the secrets I'm already carrying around.

And then I open it.

And wish I hadn't.

I saw Jack, and he seems so angry. Has he ever talked to anyone? I know he's got Levine after school, but maybe you should think about getting him some one-on-one help. I can suggest somebody. The counselors here are actually pretty good, but I know other ones as well. We'll figure this out. You don't need to do it on your own. I love you. M.

I look down and my hands are shaking. I wait to spontaneously combust, like Knight Polonus Vorstius of Italy, who burst into flame after drinking too much wine.

When I don't, I write:

Dear M. If Jack is angry, it's because of you and us. The only thing that's going to help him is removing us completely. Maybe I should stop being so selfish. If I really loved you, I would end my marriage or at least come clean to my wife. I owe her that. Maybe I owe you that too. Maybe our love is the biggest love there's ever been, although I doubt it. But whatever, I just need to stop being such a pussy. No wonder he's so angry. Love, N.

I don't send it, but I leave it open for my dad to see.

I do a search for books on prosopagnosia and the brain, and I order every one of them, charging his credit card. I sign in to my email account and write a letter to Brad Duchaine.

My name is Jack. I'm a high school senior and I'm almost positive I'm face-blind. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up. Everyone in my life is a stranger, and that includes me. Please help.

I send it, and immediately want to take it back. But now it's out there. So all I can do is wait and hope that maybe, just maybe, this man can tell me what to do.

I still have the copy of
We Have Always Lived in the Castle
that some Good Samaritan sent to the hospital. I keep it on the little table beside my bed and use the letter that was sent with it as a bookmark.

I want you to know I'm rooting for you.

Sometimes we need to hear that, even from a stranger. I think of all the people I'm rooting for—my dad, Rachel, Bailey, Iris, Jayvee, Mr. Levine, Principal Wasserman, Mr. Dominguez, my classmates in the Conversation Circle, maybe even Jack.

And then I get out my Damsels application, read it through to make sure I've answered every question and filled out every line, tuck it neatly into my backpack, and dance.