Read Online The Faces of Strangers by Pia Padukone - Free Book Online
Authors: Pia Padukone
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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 Noraâs bed and walked out of the room. Nora had waited until her motherâs 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 canât shed it until you recognize who you have become. She needed some kind of protection from the elements, from herself, even, so sheâd cracked open the covers and learned how to combat this feelingâthis 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 wasnât sure she could get that. She didnât know how to talk about her situation. She couldnât very well introduce herself to some stranger that didnât 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 canât do this. She swallowed hard, pushing back tears that were poised to spill. Itâs 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 someoneâs face onto your brain. It wasnât 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 of the sink where sheâd left it this morning, and she polished her face with it. A new person appeared, clean of the mask of makeup. It was so surprising to her how different she looked without it, completely new, washed out, as if sheâd just been born. But that thought made her start crying all over again. How can I not even recognize myself, she asked through blurry vision as she stared menacingly at the mirror, engaging with it, pushing herself to recollect some aspect of who she was, what she looked like. She used to think her features were so striking, but clearly they werenât. Clearly her features looked to her naked eye like anyoneâs features, because she didnât even look like herself. Not to her, anyway. When was this going to stop? Would this eventually turn into a dull headache that might only pierce the edges of her memory? Her memory was the one thing she had. Other than faces, she remembered everything. Vacations, graduations, those mundane family moments that suddenly seemed so precious. It was faces that escaped her entirely.
* * *
She felt daunted by the dayâs task of attending this group, already drained by the prospect of conjuring features, memorizing jaw formation and the way dimples poked like divots into faces. She would have to concentrate extra hard when someone addressed her, her eyes keen for signs of nail biting or cuticle peeling that might tip her off on his or her identity. She had promised her mom and Dr. Li that she would
She rolled over now and hugged her knees to her chest. I canât do this. She swallowed hard, pushing back tears that were poised to spill. Itâs 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 someoneâs face onto your brain. It wasnât 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 of the sink where sheâd left it this morning, and she polished her face with it. A new person appeared, clean of the mask of makeup. It was so surprising to her how different she looked without it, completely new, washed out, as if sheâd just been born. But that thought made her start crying all over again. How can I not even recognize myself, she asked through blurry vision as she stared menacingly at the mirror, engaging with it, pushing herself to recollect some aspect of who she was, what she looked like. She used to think her features were so striking, but clearly they werenât. Clearly her features looked to her naked eye like anyoneâs features, because she didnât even look like herself. Not to her, anyway. When was this going to stop? Would this eventually turn into a dull headache that might only pierce the edges of her memory? Her memory was the one thing she had. Other than faces, she remembered everything. Vacations, graduations, those mundane family moments that suddenly seemed so precious. It was faces that escaped her entirely.
* * *
She felt daunted by the dayâs task of attending this group, already drained by the prospect of conjuring features, memorizing jaw formation and the way dimples poked like divots into faces. She would have to concentrate extra hard when someone addressed her, her eyes keen for signs of nail biting or cuticle peeling that might tip her off on his or her identity. She had promised her mom and Dr. Li that she would
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