Holding Up the Universe(35)

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.





During dinner, no one really talks except Dusty, who wants to audition for his school’s production of Peter Pan. Marcus is screwing around with his phone under the table, and Mom’s not even yelling at him. I’m too busy pretending we’re all friends here and I don’t want to knuckle-punch my own father, and he’s too busy pretending Mistress? What mistress?

He finds me later in the bathroom when I’m brushing my teeth. He walks in and says, very low, “You shouldn’t have gone into my email. I’m sorry you saw what you thought you saw, but there’s the matter of respecting my privacy. There’s more to it than you know, so what you read there—it’s out of context. But I’m sorry.”

He says it nicely because Nate Masselin is a nice guy and it’s important for him to be liked, especially postcancer. I can tell he’s waiting for me to forgive him and move on the way everyone else does, and that pisses me off.

I take my time brushing, rinsing, wiping my mouth on a towel. Finally, I look at him. I’m taller than he is by a good inch, not counting my lion fro. I say, “You can’t use cancer as an excuse for shittiness anymore.” And of course I’m talking to me too, although he doesn’t know that.

I dream that I’m flying from airport to airport, and each one is mobbed with people. So mobbed, I can’t breathe or move, and every face is blank—no nose, mouth, eyes, eyebrows. I’m searching for someone I know, for anyone who looks familiar, and the more I search, the more my chest tightens and the less I can breathe.

But then I see her. Libby Strout. She’s lowered from the ceiling by a crane, larger than life, larger than anyone, and she’s the only one with a face.





SATURDAY




* * *





The locker room is enormous. It smells like feet and piss, or like Travis Kearns, whose main identifier is the fact that he sometimes reeks like a skunk because of all the weed he smokes. It’s pretty much the last place you want to spend a Saturday. But here we are, the seven of us and Mr. Sweeney (enormous belly, mullet, sideburns, slight limp). We spread out, and I purposely take a corner by myself because I don’t want to talk to anyone.

At noon, we break for lunch. Sweeney gives us forty-five minutes to eat outside on the bleachers we’ll be painting next weekend, and I take a seat away from everyone else. The bleachers are old and weatherworn, and just the sight of them makes me lose my appetite. Painting these bleachers is one more thing added to the shit pile that is my life. I pop the top on my soda and close my eyes. The sun feels good. Soak it in, brave soldier, I tell myself. While you can.