Faceless

by Alyssa Sheinmel

  “Hey,” Chirag says, catching up with me. “Guess you’re still turning everything into a race, huh?” He smiles, like that’s the reason I hurried out of the car.

  Chirag pulls the restaurant door open. How nice it must be, to be able to open a mirrored door like it’s no big deal at all. How delightful to catch a glimpse of yourself in the glass, and the only differences you notice are whether the wind has messed up your hair or whether that pimple you’ve been battling has finally disappeared.

  “Let’s get something to eat,” Chirag says, and he holds his arm out as though he’s about to take my hand—my right hand—and pull me into the restaurant. I duck past him, out of his reach. My right hand is unscarred, but if I let him hold it, he might try to take my left hand one day.

  I still remember the very first time I ever spoke to Chirag, almost a whole year before we started dating. We were in the same sophomore English class, debating For Whom the Bell Tolls. After class, he came up to me and apologized for getting so heated about it. He sounded so serious and solemn, genuinely sorry that he’d gotten worked up. And all the while, I was thinking, that’s what he calls heated? He’d never even raised his voice. Instead, he just made a smart, thoughtful argument that I happened to disagree with. It made me wonder what fights looked like in his house.

  “No problem,” I told him. “Hemingway has that effect on men, right? Everything is life or death.”

  “Even deciding what to drink,” Chirag agreed, and he smiled, showing his bright white teeth.

  It was then that I noticed that his skin was the color of caramel, and for the first time, I wondered what it might taste like. I had a crush on him after that, even as I kissed the occasional other boy at a party or giggled with Serena when she made lists of which of the boys at our school she thought would make the best boyfriend.

  Serena’s list was made up of mostly super-tan surfers and super-fit football players, and I don’t think it occurred to her that I might like a different type of guy than she did. She didn’t put Chirag on the list, and I didn’t tell her that I wished she would. I liked him too much to laugh about it during study hall.

  Our first date—we didn’t actually call it our first date at the time, but later we both agreed that it was when our relationship officially began—wasn’t exactly the sort of scenario that invited hand-holding. It was in January of our junior year, the height of the rainy season, after last period on a Wednesday when we were the only two people on the track behind school. It wasn’t actually raining at the time, but the sky was threatening to open up any second, and our coaches had canceled practice. After a few laps, we found ourselves running in step and we discovered that we were listening to the same song. Soon, we both took out our earbuds so that we could talk, although we were totally out of breath.

  During lunch the very next day, Chirag invited me to eat with him on the bleachers even though it was drizzling. As the rain shifted from a drizzle to a downpour, Chirag stood up, grabbed our food in one hand and grabbed me with the other and we ran inside. My hand fit into his so easily and perfectly that I wondered how I’d ever walked with it just hanging on its own by my side before. I’d never held a boy’s hand before. I’d held my parents’ hands, and Serena and I held hands all the time in middle school. This was something else entirely. This was like my hand had finally found its way home.

  It bothers me now that I can’t remember whether Chirag was holding my left hand or my right. I try to picture us running down the metal bleachers and across the track to get inside, but I can’t remember which side of him I was standing on. Halfway there, he dropped my hand and we turned it into a race: who could get into the building faster. I won, though I think it was mostly because Chirag was holding our lunches under his jacket, trying to keep our food from getting soaked.

  He probably didn’t even want to hold my hand today, not really. He doesn’t know this girl whose parents sleep in the same bed, who no longer likes the taste of buttercream or the smell of lilacs; this girl who laughs at her own rude jokes and hasn’t gone for a run in over three months.

  If it were me, I wouldn’t want to hold hands with a stranger.

  The maître d’ seats us at a table right smack in the center of the dining room. Everyone in the restaurant has a perfect view of me. Like I’m on display.

  I haven’t actually been to a restaurant since the accident. Now I wonder if it’s rude of me: Will seeing me make all the other patrons lose their appetites? Maybe freaks like me shouldn’t be allowed to eat in public.

  Chirag says, “No one’s looking.”

  I nod. That’s the second time tonight that Chirag knew what I was thinking without my having to say a word. A few months ago, I would have texted Serena under the table, excited to share proof that I’d found the perfect boyfriend.

  But nothing is like it was a few months ago. The last time we came to this restaurant, it was with a huge group of friends. I didn’t insist on sitting next to Chirag—I didn’t want to be clingy—but halfway through the meal, Chirag came to sit next to me and ate off my plate, insisting that his mother’s cooking was better even as he gobbled up every last morsel. After the waiters cleared our table, I leaned against Chirag and continued a conversation with the girl sitting on my other side as he talked to someone across the table. It was all so easy. Later, Chirag told me what a cool girlfriend I’d been.

  But it’s impossible to be a cool girlfriend when you’re uncomfortable in your own skin. Actually, in someone else’s skin. I shudder, wishing for a second I could take it off like a shirt that doesn’t fit, a dress that hangs all wrong. Then the other patrons in this restaurant would really have something to stare at.

  Chirag continues, “They probably think you had plastic surgery or something.”

  Quietly, I say, “I did have plastic surgery.”

  “Not that kind of plastic surgery. You know, the regular kind. The kind people do just for fun. You know, famous people. Or women with very low self-esteem.”

  “And men,” I interject, feeling for a second like I used to, challenging my boyfriend.

  Chirag nods. “And men.”

  “So I should feel comforted that all these strangers probably think that I have very low self-esteem, not that I was in a terrible accident?”

  “It sucks either way, I know.” Chirag puts his hands in the center of the table and presses his palms against the surface, like he can’t quite figure out how to reach for me. I put my own hands in my lap, bend my legs under my chair. Following my lead, Chirag moves his hands back to his side of the table.

  The waiter stops at our table and asks what we’ll be having tonight. Chirag orders a ton of stuff, remembering all my favorites.

  “I’m really not that hungry,” I interrupt.

  “Screw that,” Chirag says, rattling off a few more dishes. When the waiter disappears, he adds, “We’re celebrating.” I raise my eyebrows, and Chirag shakes his head. “Don’t say that we don’t have anything to celebrate.”

  I bite my lip, preparing for yet another person to tell me what a lucky girl I am: You survived, you found a donor so quickly, you ended up in one of the handful of hospitals where they have the ability to do this surgery. But instead, he says, “I have to make up for missing your birthday.”

  I nod, the tiniest of smiles playing on the edges of my lips. He’s trying so hard. I continue sitting on my hands, determined not to reach out to him, even with my good one.

  The food comes, and it’s delicious. “At least I still like Indian food,” I say without thinking, heaping my fork with rice and masala sauce.

  “What do you mean?”

  I tighten my grip on my fork. “Nothing. It’s not important.”

  But Chirag figures it out anyway. “Do things taste different to you now?”

  “Some things,” I answer. I don’t look at him, focusing on the food in front of me instead. I really am like a creature from one of his movies, someone a mad scientist took apart and then put bac
k together again, not quite the same as she was before. “I’m sorry,” I add quickly. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s gross.” If I could blush, I’d be bright pink right now.

  “It’s not gross,” Chirag says. “It’s cool.”

  “Cool?” I echo, like the word has lost all meaning.

  Chirag shakes his head quickly. “I didn’t mean, like, that it wasn’t a big deal. You know what I meant, right?”

  I don’t.

  “Just that it’s interesting,” Chirag explains. “You know, the science of it.”

  I sort of half nod, reminding myself that teenage boys think lots of gross things are fascinating. Every day at school, some guy is daring some other guy to touch something gross, smell something gross, eat something gross.

  Maybe the boys at school will start daring each other to touch me next.

  But Chirag’s never been like that. He’s going to be a doctor someday. Maybe that’s why he thinks this is cool, and why he can sit across from me now and eat without gagging. Maybe he thinks he has to get used to looking at things that would nauseate other people.

  Maybe I’m good practice.

  “Does everyone know about me?” I ask. “At school?”

  He nods.

  “Serena never could keep her mouth shut,” I say through gritted teeth, suddenly angry at her, though I’m not sure entirely why. It’s not as though my classmates wouldn’t have found out anyway. What did I think they’d do when I walked into the building looking like this?

  “It’s not her fault,” Chirag counters. “You were absent for so long that they held a special assembly on the last day of school. Telling everyone about your—” He pauses, not sure what to call it.

  “My accident,” I supply. “That’s what we’ve been calling it.” Before, when I said we, I usually meant me, Chirag, and Serena. Now I mean my parents, the doctors, the nurses, and me.

  “Your accident.” Chirag says the word slowly, like he’s never heard of it before. “They told everyone about your accident.”

  I nod. Special assemblies are for when a student or a teacher passes away. Sometimes they’re when the school has guest speakers come to tell us about the exciting possibilities that wait for us after we graduate. Or sometimes they’re just so that the college advisor can remind us how important our test scores are, while simultaneously recommending that we all keep our stress levels down.

  Chirag continues, “There were rumors all over the school about where you were—why you’d missed so much school. There was a story on the news about a girl who’d been burned, but no one knew for sure if it was you other than Serena and me. The administration just wanted to set the record straight.” He adds, “They asked your parents’ permission,” as though that makes it better.

  I shake my head. “But I hadn’t had my surgery by then,” I protest.

  “They sent letters home to the parents a couple weeks ago. Once it was definite that you’d be coming back to school this year.”

  Like I’m a problem that the administration thought they had to warn the parents about.

  “They would’ve found out eventually, May,” Chirag says gently. I haven’t heard him call me by that nickname in so long and it makes me feel warm. “Doesn’t it make it a little better knowing that you won’t have to be the one to explain it to them?”

  “I’m not sure,” I answer. I mean, I certainly don’t want to have to explain it. I don’t want to think about it at all, let alone talk about it. But I’m not sure what’s worse: strangers looking at me because they have no idea what happened to me, or the kids I’ve gone to school with for the past three years looking because they know exactly what happened to me.

  “Chi-Dog!” shouts a voice from behind us. Eric Anderson appears at our table, his tall body casting a shadow over our plates. He’s on the boys’ track team with Chirag. His girlfriend, Erica, stands beside him. It was always a joke around school: Eric and Erica. I doubt anyone will even mention their similar names this year. Not when there are more interesting things to laugh at. Things like me.

  “Eric.” Chirag stands up to do that handshake-slash-hug that boys do. Eric leans in close to Chirag and whispers loud enough for me to hear, “You’re such a good guy, dog.” He pats Chirag’s back like he’s trying to be reassuring.

  “Say hi to Maisie,” Chirag says, leaning away from Eric and gesturing to me.

  “Maisie, man. Look at you.” I want to point out that it looks like Eric can barely stomach looking at me, but I keep my mouth shut and slouch in my chair like a little kid whose feet don’t touch the floor.

  “How are you?” Erica says, her voice so saccharine sweet that I want to gag.

  With forced cheer, I answer, “Fine, thanks. How are you?”

  Erica cocks her head to the side and smiles; Eric does the exact same thing, though he’d never really struck me as a cock-your-head-to-the-side kind of guy.

  I excuse myself and get up to go to the bathroom.

  I don’t actually go inside the bathroom. Public restrooms are dangerous because you never know exactly where the reflective surfaces will be. A mirror could be waiting for you the instant you open the door, or it could be around the next corner.

  Dr. Boden once told me that face transplant patients tend to recover more quickly than hand or leg recipients. There’s a theory that it’s because we don’t have to see our faces as often as we see our limbs. So my avoiding mirrors is practically doctor’s orders.

  Before, I would have held Eric and Erica’s gaze. Maybe I would have said something, made Eric and Erica ashamed of staring. Now I hover by the bathroom door and wait a few minutes, hoping that Eric and Erica will be gone by the time I get back to our table, pretending that my heart isn’t beating so fast.

  I don’t bother sitting down. I tell Chirag that I’d like to go home, and I don’t wait for him before I head for the door. We didn’t finish our food, I know, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not hungry anymore. From now on, the taste and smell of Indian food will remind me of this night. I’ll need a new favorite restaurant.

  Chirag doesn’t try to convince me to stay. He doesn’t offer hollow comfort like my mother would, doesn’t insist that our celebration isn’t over yet.

  I don’t remember what it feels like to want to celebrate anything at all.

  As we drive up the hills that will take me home, I stare at my lap. It’s not safe to look anywhere else. The streets in my neighborhood are so densely tree-lined that if I turn to look out the window, chances are I’ll catch my reflection thanks to the shadows the trees cast on the glass. Years ago, they literally carved our street out of a forest. The houses on our block barely have backyards since they’re built into the hill. We’d have a view of the Golden Gate Bridge from our front porch if not for the redwoods across the street. My parents used to hate the idea of me running here; there aren’t any sidewalks and the streets wind and curve their way around the neighborhood, in between the trees. They were scared I’d get hit by a passing car. Before, I probably would have found that ironic.

  I know this route so well that I don’t have to look out the windows to know when we’re passing the winding streets that lead the way to my house, when we’re climbing the steep hills where Chirag and I raced each other after school. Carefully, I shoot a glance in Chirag’s direction: Did he think that, once I got home, we’d go back to running together like we used to?

  I did. All that physical therapy with Marnie, strengthening the muscles that slept while I was in the coma, stretching that skin that shrank when it burned—all that time, even on the days when I couldn’t walk without holding Marnie’s hands, I believed that running was the endgame. But yesterday during PT, Marnie told me that I’d have to avoid rigorous exercise.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  “For how long?” I asked, but she wouldn’t give me a solid answer. The words she didn’t say floated in the room between us: Maybe forever.

  When I was in tenth grade, I
sprained my ankle and I couldn’t run for four weeks. I thought I would go crazy. I took a yoga class with Serena and literally stomped out—hurting my ankle all over again—halfway through. How could anyone get any satisfaction from moving so slowly?

  “I can’t run with you,” I tell Chirag now. “I’m going to have to quit the team.”

  “I know,” he answers. He doesn’t even sound sad about it, about this huge part of our relationship that’s over.

  “You do? Who told you?”

  “I mean, I guessed as much a while back.”

  “Oh. Of course.” With your rational scientific brain, it was probably obvious. The most logical conclusion. You wouldn’t have asked Marnie for how long; you would have known all along that you had to give it up. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t sound sad. Unlike me, he’s had some time to get used to the idea.

  “At least you got that over with,” Chirag says suddenly.

  “Got what over with?” I ask.

  “Seeing someone from school. It wasn’t that bad, right?”

  “Wasn’t that bad? They stared at me like I was an animal in a cage.”

  “I know,” Chirag agrees. “But you can’t blame them for staring.”

  “I can’t?”

  “I mean, it was rude, but they couldn’t help it. It’s human nature. We’re interested in things we don’t understand. It’s why we rubberneck at car accidents, why carnivals had literal freak shows a hundred years ago.”

  Is that supposed to make me feel better, I think but do not say, the idea that people are rubbernecking at me? It’s the kind of reasonable explanation that made me fall for Chirag in the first place—no screaming, no shouting, just perfect, indisputable logic. I loved when he’d end an argument in the lunchroom by using history and science to explain why Serena had gray eyes or why I had freckles. Why his parents were overbearing, or why teenagers are more likely to be impulsive than adults. Maybe, if I were a few years older, I’d never have made the impulsive decision to go running that morning.