We\u2019d found the perfect house, the house with levels. Dave took the day off work and we went to my bank. Dave was the loan officer\u2019s name too. Bank Dave was shiny and superbly neat, and his pale stocky hands flashed over his calculator like a professional dealer\u2019s over playing cards. He told my Dave it would be cheaper and easier if everything was, at least for the application process, in my name, because my Dave had some cleaning up to do. My Dave had no savings, none at all. He needed to clear out some debts, write some clarifying letters, tidy up old business. Then we needed to get an inspection and send Bank Dave a copy of the report.<\/p>\n
I wanted to tell Bank Dave that Dave was a good man who\u2019d stood behind a sick and troubled woman and then cared for their children, all on his own. This was why his credit score history wasn\u2019t perfect. He had good reasons.<\/p>\n
I also wanted to call everything off, right then and there. I wanted to stop, and regroup, and think this all through. But\u00a0paperwork has a momentum of its own, and I signed and signed and opened my folder and signed.<\/p>\n
\u201cStop,\u201d I said as we left the office. \u201cWe can take the stairs.\u201d \u201cYou okay?\u201d Dave said.<\/p>\n
Was he<\/em> okay?<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s big,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s just big. And all the old stuff. I\u2019m of course going to be thinking about all that. I\u2019m sorry about all that, Heather. I wish so badly I had more to offer you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey\u2019re here,\u201d I said. \u201cThe stairs.\u201d I worried that when I pressed the door open, alarms would ring throughout the bank, throughout the whole downtown.<\/p>\n I told myself once we had this house it was going to be eas\u00adier. We would be together and we would get better at things: money, dinner, trust. But I was anxious, I worried, I consis\u00adtently felt something bad was going to happen. Soon after we signed the loan application, a woman came to Dave\u2019s house. Dave was at work. The boys were in their bedroom playing Leg\u00adend of Zelda on the GameCube. I was cooking dinner, which I would likely eat by myself, though I\u2019d set the little round office table for four. My first thought when the doorbell rang was: This is Sarah. <\/em>When I opened the door, the woman took three steps back. She had a serious briefcase and no coat. She looked alongside the house, like she was expecting someone to be escaping.<\/p>\n She asked for David. She used his full name. I wondered if I was supposed to know her.<\/p>\n \u201cWhich one?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n She gave me a look that said, Don\u2019t get smart with me. <\/em>I told her there were two, a senior and a junior. \u201cI am the wife,\u201d I said. I felt I was incriminating myself.<\/p>\n She said she was the process server. Again she looked down the driveway. I was trying to remember if I knew what a process server was. What was the process? What was<\/em> \u201cbeing served\u201d?<\/p>\n She let me sign for Dave. The envelope was from a law office. It was, she said, an outstanding balance. It could be for anything, I thought, and I went inside, weirdly calm. I\u2019d been waiting for something bad to happen. Had I been hop\u00ading for a reason, any reason, to leave? I knew Dave had spent a few nights in jail. I knew he\u2019d had to be very careful or he\u2019d lose his driver\u2019s license permanently. It was so hard to square these facts about Dave with the kind, gentle man I slept with at night. Why hadn\u2019t he told me about lawyer debt? What was it for? I was terrified to buy a house with this man. I sensed I would be the one paying this lawyer bill. I was disappointed at how ungenerous I felt. I felt I was in over my head. I felt like I didn\u2019t love Dave enough, and that feeling was sickening. I felt like a deserter.<\/p>\n I set the envelope on the sock pile on his dresser. I turned off the noodles and told the boys they could eat whenever they wanted to, everything was ready. I slipped out and drove home, and then I tossed and turned all night.<\/p>\n I thought about leaving all the time. But I pressed forward. I\u00a0asked Dave to drink less. He said he was fine, it was fine, I was\u00a0worrying way too much. I arranged for the house inspection.<\/p>\n And at the same time I arranged to meet my old boyfriend, Dick, for lunch. Dick was not a Dave fan. Since meeting Dave, I\u2019d hung an American flag on my porch, taken archery lessons, and discontinued exclusive NPR listening. I had questioned mindless Bush-bashing. I had questioned the two-party sys\u00adtem. Dick felt Dave was not the right man for me; he had told me this on more than one occasion. Dick believed I was turn\u00ading into a conservative. Dick felt Dave had led me to isolate myself from my friends and from my real self. But Dick was also bright and sensible and he knew me and he cared. And I needed somebody to be honest, brutally honest, about my marriage.<\/p>\n He sailed up to the table at the New Holland Brewery. \u201cHello, there, Heather, you look beautiful. As always.\u201d He slid into the booth and put his folded hands on the table like we were at a summit.<\/p>\n Dick was tall, distinguished, white-haired, in a crisp black leather jacket. He believed he looked like Alan Alda, something I was entirely unable to confirm. There were half a dozen men in our town who looked just like him: tall, white-haired, aging well. Dave and I had joked about the ubiquitous Dick look\u00adalikes. I leaned across the table and gave his cheek a brushy kiss. He smelled good, like cigars and office furniture and toothpaste. He was sixty now. He smelled organized, effective<\/em>.<\/p>\n After we ordered, I said, \u201cI need to know if I should leave Dave or try harder.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLeave Dave?\u201d he said, aghast.<\/p>\n I told him about the legal notices, the bankruptcies, the pro\u00adcess server. I hadn\u2019t known how much debt there was. What if\u00a0there was more to come, more of the past yet to be revealed? Everything was going to be in my name.<\/p>\n Dick rested his hands on mine. He looked at me hard. I braced myself for the big I told you so. <\/em>\u201cHeather Laurie,\u201d he said. \u201cYou have to stay with this.\u201d Dave was a good guy, he said. Sure, his politics were a bit questionable, but he loved me, I obviously loved him, there were the boys, and I had married him. I couldn\u2019t cut and run so soon. I had to stick it out. For better or worse. \u201cYou took vows,\u201d he said. He made a winc\u00ading face. His hands were still folded on the table, but now his index fingers were pointing at me, like a church steeple.<\/p>\n When the sandwiches came, we ate. After a bit, Dick said, \u201cLet me ask you something a minute. See Marlene?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d I scanned the restaurant, happy for a topic change. I didn\u2019t see anyone I knew. I took his pickle without asking.<\/p>\n \u201cMarlene,\u201d Dick said. \u201cMarlene is right there, you see her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHeather.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou are looking right at Marlene Cappatosto. The woman who waved over here a second ago? Why do you pretend you don\u2019t see her? She thinks you hate <\/em>her. Why do you always snub Marlene? She has mentioned this to me several times. She\u2019ll see you and say hi and you walk past her as though you do not know her at all.\u201d<\/p>\n I thought of all the articles I had read. How complex recog\u00adnition was. How was I going to explain it? People would think I was mentally ill. \u201cI haven\u2019t ever seen her and known it was her and not said hello,\u201d I said. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t do that.\u201d I couldn\u2019t\u00a0imagine how to explain face blindness without sounding like a complete wacko.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s a nice person,\u201d Dick said.<\/p>\n I shifted around in the booth. \u201cI have a thing. It\u2019s a thing. I can\u2019t always recognize people.\u201d<\/p>\n He gave me a strange look. He said, \u201cOh, you do not.\u201d He frowned in a pursed way. \u201cYou knew who I was.\u201d He notched his face, as in Checkmate. <\/em>\u201cYou always think you have some\u00adthing. Remember the Lyme disease? Remember that? Remem\u00adber when you thought you had M\u00e9ni\u00e8re\u2019s? And the whole dengue fever thing?\u201d He laughed.<\/p>\n I tried to explain. It was true, I had overreacted to mosquito bites and what was probably seasonal allergies. But sometimes I knew people. Sometimes I didn\u2019t. Often, I didn\u2019t know <\/em>if I knew them or not. It was a real thing. Very rare, from what I had been reading, and most often caused by a stroke in midlife, but I had it. I knew who he was because he came up in clothes I knew to be his, and he sat down at my booth: he acted like someone who knew me. I wasn\u2019t stupid, I figured it out. But not the same way he did. I couldn\u2019t recognize the human face. I often said hello, I told him, to other men in town, thinking they were him. \u201cA lot of men look like you,\u201d I said. \u201cThis hap\u00adpens to me all the time.\u201d<\/p>\n Dick shook his head. \u201cNo,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ve never heard of any\u00adthing like that before. Come on,\u201d he said. He put down fif\u00adteen bucks, excused himself, took his coat from the back of his chair, and went and sat with Marlene and the other women.<\/p>\n I always forgot why Dick and I broke up, and then I always remembered.<\/p>\n A cop car trolled behind us on our way to the final inspection. As always, Dave drove extremely slowly. The boys, on their scooters, outpaced us.<\/p>\n \u201cYour seat belt,\u201d I said to Dave. I was tapping his arm with my fingers, not nicely. I was like a crow. With my feet, I was trying to get the beer bottles under the passenger seat. Dave had been drinking in the car on the way home from work. We\u2019d had our worst fight yet: he was on my car insurance and I wanted him to get his own. I vowed to stay calm, not to bring this up now.<\/p>\n \u201cI can see the fear in your eyes. You don\u2019t want to live with us.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a cop,\u201d I said. \u201cThese bottles are driving me crazy.\u201d When had things gotten this bad? Why was he drinking? And why did I join him late at night, nearly every night?<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s okay,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cYou know it isn\u2019t. How can you drink in the car? You can\u2019t. You can\u2019t do this.\u201d Beer bottles were rolling around loose on the backseat floor. I had pushed them under my seat and they\u2019d come out the other side. \u201cWe can\u2019t move in together if you drink like this.\u201d I meant something much wiser. I meant this to come out in a loving We\u2019re a team, I\u2019m in this with you<\/em> way. The cop turned down a side street, but I did not relax.<\/p>\n We pulled into the driveway of the perfect gray house. My split-level. The boys circled the car on their scooters. Dave cut the engine. He took my hand. He said he was sorry in a soft voice. In a different voice, he said he didn\u2019t know what the\u00a0drinking was about. He said, \u201cI have to do something about it. I don\u2019t know what it is. No one in my family has this. No one I even know.\u201d<\/p>\n I got out of the car and went inside, where the realtor was beaming with his clipboard. \u201cIsn\u2019t this a wonderful time?\u201d he said. \u201cIsn\u2019t this an exciting day?\u201d I sent the boys around back to explore the creek, the tree house, the shed.<\/p>\n The inspector was upstairs inspecting. Dave had been on the roof and seen something he didn\u2019t like in the chimney; now he was trying to get the working fireplace to light. I leaned over him. I was worried on all sides.<\/p>\n \u201cI do not get it,\u201d Dave said. \u201cI hate to think the guy is lying, but this thing hasn\u2019t been used in . . . I don\u2019t know how long. I don\u2019t get it. I think it\u2019s broken. This is just not a working fire\u00adplace.\u201d Dave\u2019s head was in the fireplace itself and his body was on the hearth. From where I stood, the man had no head. I sat on the hearth and patted his leg. I felt sick.<\/p>\n \u201cEasily fixed, no doubt,\u201d the realtor said. \u201cWe can give the seller a list of everything you need fixed before closing; that\u2019s typical\u2014supertypical.\u201d<\/p>\n The inspector yelled, \u201cI\u2019ve hit the mother lode! You\u2019re gonna wanna see this!\u201d<\/p>\n We found the inspector on the pull-down stairs that led up into the attic, his upper half swallowed by that space. We each took a turn peering in. Every cranny of the attic was insulated with spray-injected foam. There was controversy, apparently, whether or not it posed a toxic threat.<\/p>\n \u201cWhoa,\u201d Dave said. \u201cExcessive.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you think about this stuff?\u201d I asked the inspector.<\/p>\n \u201cThey went all out,\u201d he said. \u201cWhoever put it in, they went whole hog with it. That\u2019s for sure.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe have to think. We were not expecting this,\u201d I said. The realtor shook his head.<\/p>\n \u201cWe didn\u2019t say no. We just have to think. I\u2019m not sure. I\u2019m just not sure.\u201d<\/p>\n Reeling, I retreated downstairs. I discovered that the doors to the garage and the half-bath were split, splintered. I knew this kind of damage, intimately. It was damage done in anger, fury. I called for Dave.<\/p>\n Keys jangled, and a man burst in.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat the fuck are you doing in my house?\u201d<\/p>\n I shook all over. I leaned against the wall, inching toward the bathroom, where Dave and the inspector now stood. Was I supposed to know this man? Had I seen him before?<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re allowed to be here.\u201d I said this to the floor with great confidence. I looked up, looked him in the eyes. He was like a person on fire. He was thrumming with rage. And then I knew: I could live with Dave and his drinking, I could live without dinners, I could live with a town full of Republicans, I could live with the lunar stuffing between the walls, but I couldn\u2019t live in a house where this man had lived. I said to the man\u2019s shoes, \u201cWe will never buy your house!\u201d<\/p>\n The inspector said, \u201cVanderSluis? We went to high school together? Mike Van Lente. Hey, how\u2019s it going?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re inspecting now, I heard that. You got laid off? Why are you in my house? Isn\u2019t the realtor supposed to be here?\u201d<\/p>\n I slid out of the vestibule and ran up the stairs, through the kitchen, out the front door. I ran to the car and got in fast, like I\u00a0was being chased. I had recognized that man\u2019s face. He had the look, the male version of my mother\u2019s face. I knew that I could not live in this house where he had lived. Rage felt soaked into the walls. This house would never smile on us; inside of it, we would only be unlucky, uneasy, and unkind.<\/p>\n The boys found me in the car, hopped in the back. I rubbed my face, refused to cry in front of them. \u201cSo, what\u2019s happen\u00ading?\u201d Jacob said softly, nervously, slowly. I heard his feet clink\u00ading the beer bottles on the floor of the backseat.<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019re not getting it,\u201d Junior said. He breathed out dramati\u00adcally. \u201cI knew it.\u201d He slammed his body back onto his own seat. Then he got out and slammed the door so hard it bounced back open. He ran down the street.<\/p>\n Jacob said to me, after a bit, \u201cWhatever. You know that\u2019s David.\u201d Then he leaned over the seat. He said, \u201cI\u2019m going to go, though, okay, Heather? I need to do some things and stuff. . . .\u201d<\/p>\n Then he took off down the sidewalk, sliding around on the snow, catching his brother at the corner. I watched them hitting each other, reenacting the drama that had played out in the vestibule, that was playing out between me and their father, under the surface. Through the windshield, the house looked dark, closed and empty, but not the right kind of empty, not the kind I wanted so much to fill.<\/p>\n The house fell through. The status quo prevailed. Married but not living as married. A family that wasn\u2019t functioning like a family. Fine and not at all fine.<\/p>\n A giant manila envelope came in the mail. Wisconsin post\u00admark. No return address. It was a letter from my cousin Patty, Katy\u2019s daughter. Enclosed were photocopies of Katy\u2019s skele\u00adton drawings, and family recipes. I had forgotten I had written Patty back when I first contacted the scientists about schizo\u00adphrenia and face blindness. She was the only one who had answered.<\/p>\n Let me answer your questions one at a time. No, no one in the <\/em>family has mental illness as far as I know. Aunt Florence had a severe paranoid reaction in Europe and had to come right back <\/em>home, but do not bring this up to anyone\u2014she doesn\u2019t want anyone to know, especially your mother. I was in a mental ward for six months due to a breakdown brought on by exhaustion after I had my two children and working so much. My mother (Katy) died of agoraphobia and emphysema\u2014she couldn\u2019t leave her bedroom the last three years of her life. People always said your mother was peculiar, but there was no mental illness in the family.<\/em><\/p>\n To the contrary, it sounded like every female member of the family suffered some form of mental illness, and child\u00adbirth was a specific trigger. The sheaves of drawings were the same kind hidden in my mother\u2019s bedroom closet, the ones she\u2019d forbidden us to look at. There was one of a snake eat\u00ading a blood-drippy heart, the snake wrapped in other snakes. Dave asked me to put the drawings away. He was worried that\u00a0spending time with them would upset me. But I liked them. I liked the boldness and weirdness. I liked being in the pres\u00adence of the strange, dark, unstoppable creative impulse.<\/p>\n I was in the tub with a glass of wine when the phone rang. I wrapped myself in a towel and answered.<\/p>\n \u201cYour mother is very hurt, very hurt, Heather, by your say\u00ading you do not love her, and you must make amends, you really must. She\u2019s your one and only mother!\u201d<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t recognize the voice at all. Had I ever heard it before? It was old and forceful, midwestern, Germanic, terrifying. I pretended to know whose it was.<\/p>\n \u201cLove is a two-way street, and she\u2019s your one and only mother. My circle is praying for the two of you to heal. It would be wonderful if you and me and your mom could go to church all together when we are up there. I can\u2019t get her to go down here! She thinks she\u2019s sinned too much! Oh, Heather! So much healing. So much\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho are<\/em> you?\u201d I said finally. My voice sounded polite and afraid.<\/p>\n It was Bernie. She was visiting my mother in Orlando, and they were driving up to see me. They would arrive Monday. Hadn\u2019t I gotten the letter?<\/p>\n They\u2019d gone to kindergarten together, my mother explained when she got on the phone. Bernie, she said, was her best friend. She\u2019d talked about her thousands of times. They were looking forward to Michigan and nice cool weather. Wasn\u2019t she lucky to have such a good friend? My mother\u2019s voice was loud and clear, high and fake, like she was acting in a bad play. Or being held hostage.<\/p>\n \u201cHow do you two know each other again?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cBernie is my best friend!\u201d she yelled dramatically, and I could tell she had an audience.<\/p>\n \u201cHave I met her?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou were very little. I think very small.\u201d<\/p>\n I asked my mom if it was hard to talk right now.<\/p>\n \u201cYou<\/em> are so perceptive! I\u2019m so proud of my beautiful daugh\u00adter! I can hardly believe I\u2019ll be seeing you in a couple of days!\u201d<\/p>\n When I suggested a hotel, my mother said that would be impossible: Bernie was a minister\u2019s wife and could only stay in homes, because that\u2019s what she was used to; plus, she was on a tight budget. But we would pay, I said. No, my mother said. It wasn\u2019t possible. They wouldn\u2019t be any trouble. Her voice was loud and strained, taut with forced cheerfulness.<\/p>\n When we were little, my mother regularly gave us emer\u00adgency words, white dog<\/em> or pineapple. <\/em>If we were ever in trouble, we were to work them into a conversation with her, staying on the line as long as we could. Our captors would not know, would not suspect, but she would get help. I wanted, now, to ask my mother if she needed rescue, if she wanted to use a code word, if she remembered the secret system.<\/p>\n \u201cAngel,\u201d<\/em> I wanted to whisper into the phone now. \u201cPurple <\/em>cucumber<\/em>. Schmatzhagen.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n The last time my mother had visited me in Michigan, I had just moved in, classes had just begun. I was nervous and new. I\u2019d left her alone in my house with a painting project to keep her occupied, and strict instructions: Don\u2019t take the dog out, don\u2019t go anywhere, don\u2019t engage the neighbors in conversa\u00adtion; just stay inside. I\u2019d be back a little after four. When I came\u00a0home, I found she\u2019d taken down every painting, everything I had on the walls: the Haitian blue woman, the 1950s Virgin Mary print, the Renoir reproduction in its lacy gilt frame, the painting of fish taking other fish for a walk on leashes under\u00adwater. She\u2019d put the paintings behind the sofa and pressed two furnace filters against them. She\u2019d tacked sheets over my bed\u00adroom windows. I\u2019d found the trash full of food: she\u2019d thrown away my tube of garlic paste, canned coconut soup, couscous, jars of condiments, chutneys and pastes and olives and sun-dried tomatoes.<\/p>\n Back then, I\u2019d felt censored, over-mothered, oppressed. We\u2019d fought bitterly; she\u2019d left early. Now I understood that these actions were her way of keeping me safe, leaching out the bad energy. But I didn\u2019t want her coming up here, going through my papers, taking my savings bonds and bank state\u00adments for \u201csafekeeping.\u201d I didn\u2019t want her cutting the buttons off my dresses. I didn\u2019t want her running around in my fragile new marriage. Most of all, I didn\u2019t want her scaring my step\u00adsons again.<\/p>\n \u201cIf you don\u2019t want us, just say, Heather. I\u2019m not going to come where I\u2019m not wanted. I very much want to see you. If you feel otherwise, please, just say. The trip is an expensive one for me. Please. Just say how you feel.\u201d This was her natural voice.<\/p>\n \u201cI can\u2019t wait to see you!\u201d I said, and I hung up the phone, desperate childish schemes running through my head: I could leave town, I could stay down at Dave\u2019s. She and Bernie could stay at Dave\u2019s while he and the boys stayed here. I could go to a hotel. They could just stay in a hotel. How bad could it be? A couple of days.<\/p>\n That weekend I got out extra blankets and put them on the sofa. I made up the twin bed in the guest room with fresh sheets. I found soap, new soap. I made a grocery list. School was starting in a few days. I tried to get my syllabi organized for classes, but I couldn\u2019t think what books I\u2019d ordered. I couldn\u2019t imagine students reading those books, whatever they were, and me talking about them. To what end?<\/p>\n The evening before school started, the last Sunday in August, was a cool night with a warm breeze. I was walking down Col\u00adlege Avenue, carrying my quinoa salad in a yellow Pyrex bowl draped with a blue linen towel. I wanted to feel effective and Martha Stewart\u2013ish. I wanted to feel participatory and welcom\u00ading. I was on my way to a potluck dinner for new women fac\u00adulty. I did not want to go. I wanted to go to parties but I hated going to parties. I had no idea why. As I crossed the street, a strange old station wagon pulled in the spot beside me. A man got out and smiled a dopey smile. I stepped back and looked at the guy, trying to figure out if this was someone I knew. He wasn\u2019t looking at me as though he knew me, or otherwise. It took him a while to speak.<\/p>\n \u201cHey, sweetheart.\u201d He opened his arms wide. He was hold\u00ading a tall boy in his hand. In a paper bag. I knew the outline of a tall boy.<\/p>\n \u201cDid I scare you?\u201d Dave said. It was Dave, it was Dave, it was Dave. Of course it was Dave. I shifted my salad to my other hip.<\/p>\n \u201cWhose car is this?\u201d I looked inside, holding my salad as\u00a0one would a toddler. There were empty beer bottles on the floor, the seat. Dave, Dave, Dave.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, sweetheart, I accidentally bought a car on eBay,\u201d he said. \u201cEnded up high bidder.\u201d He laughed and shook his head. \u201cGreat car, though. Great car. Single owner, old lady. Low miles. I\u2019ve been looking for one just like it.\u201d He sounded warm and fuzzy, hell-bent on happiness.<\/p>\n \u201cMy mother is on her way up. I\u2019m late for a school thing. Welcome new women faculty. I told you about it.\u201d I wanted to say a lot more.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, sweetheart.\u201d He frowned, but in a deliberate way. It was not a convincing frown.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy are you drinking?\u201d I said. I sounded mean as a rat.<\/p>\n He looked into my eyes. He said in a kind voice, thought\u00adful, \u201cThat\u2019s a hard one to piece together. As I have said before . . .\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThings have to be pieced together,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n I was approaching the apartment where the potluck was being held, wondering how long I would have to stay to not be weird or rude, when a woman came toward me, saying hello.<\/p>\n \u201cHi, I\u2019m Heather. I\u2019m in the English Department,\u201d I said. \u201cAre you looking for Jenn\u2019s? I think this is it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, of course, I know,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019m Jane Small. In His\u00adtory. Our offices are down the hall from each other? In Lub\u00adbers? This is my fifth year here. We have met.\u201d She smiled. \u201cMany times.\u201d<\/p>\n I opened the door and followed her up the stairs. I didn\u2019t really believe her. Jane Small? I didn\u2019t think so. That was not\u00a0my idea of Jane Small at all, not even close. I thought Jane was a much thicker-boned person, older, less happy.<\/p>\n Inside, I beelined for the kitchen and concentrated on helping Jenn lay out the plates. She had beautiful plates. I said hello to Beth Trembley, who turned out to be Janis Gibbs from History. They looked a lot alike. I filled my little plas\u00adtic glass with some wine. I scanned the room. Jenn\u2019s home was the upstairs of a house, an apartment. It was nice. She had a pretty scarf over her television set. I knew people did this to add color where there would otherwise be black plastic, a blank screen. It made me nervous, though. I moved from the television to where a woman was standing alone by the stairs. She looked nervous, afraid, and I knew she must be new. New woman faculty member. I went up to her. \u201cHi, I\u2019m Heather,\u201d I said. \u201cWelcome to Hope.\u201d<\/p>\n She said, loudly, her voice stiff, \u201cI\u2019m Jane! Jane Small from History, we have worked together for years. I am just down the hall from you.\u201d On the word \u201chall\u201d she pointed her arm out. She held it out there. I got the idea the arm was saying Go away <\/em>and Why can\u2019t you get this? <\/em>She said, loudly, dropping the arm at last: \u201cYou know me.\u201d<\/p>\n The party stopped on the loud words, in the way a party like this always does. Something was said, something with sharp edges, and it rose over everything else, and it rested on top of the party for a moment, like a sheet of aluminum.<\/p>\n And then it fell. The party readjusted itself, and the chatter rose again and wove around the room, women\u2019s voices, Three Mo\u2019 Tenors on the stereo, Jenn in the kitchen calling, in her voice like silver water, \u201cAlmost ready, folks! Almost ready!\u201d<\/p>\n I stared at Jane. She looked nothing like the woman I had met on the sidewalk. She had on a jacket outside? Or maybe she had changed her hair?<\/p>\n I slipped out of Jenn\u2019s apartment before dinner; I didn\u2019t say good-bye. On my way home, I walked past Dave\u2019s apartment. I looked up in the windows. There was Jacob in the dining room with his sword, frozen in a stance, the weapon over his head, shining. He looked so serious and straightforward, like he was going to carve the place to pieces. I almost wished he would.<\/p>\n I felt perched on the edge of my own life. I\u2019d been fooling myself. I had no idea what I was doing. I felt as though not one of us\u2014Dave, Junior, Jacob, me\u2014knew what the hell was going on and what made sense.<\/p>\n And so, finally, I called for help.<\/p>\n _______________<\/span><\/p>\n This excerpt reprinted from YOU DON\u2019T LOOK LIKE ANYONE I KNOW: A True Story of Family, Face Blindness, and Forgiveness<\/span> by arrangement with Riverhead Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA), Inc., Copyright \u00a9 2010 by Heather Sellers <\/em><\/p>\n We\u2019d found the perfect house, the house with levels. Dave took the day off work and we went to my bank. Dave was the loan officer\u2019s name too. Bank Dave was shiny and superbly neat, and his pale stocky hands flashed over his calculator like a professional dealer\u2019s over playing cards. He told my Dave […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":22,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[3],"tags":[24],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-Nk","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3058"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/22"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3058"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3058\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10582,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3058\/revisions\/10582"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3058"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3058"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3058"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}Heather Sellers<\/a><\/h6>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"