Faceless

by Alyssa Sheinmel

  I shouldn’t be surprised—not after all of this time, all of their fights—but I am. I actually gasp. They seemed so close when I was in the hospital, and then when I first got home. Maybe, after all this time, after all the years they’ve spent fighting, I never really believed they’d ever go through with breaking up.

  Dad continues, “We wanted to wait until you were well enough before we—”

  “Wait,” I interrupt. “How long have you been planning this?”

  Dad glances at Mom like he’s asking permission. I guess he won’t have to do that for very much longer. “A while,” he says finally.

  I look at my mother. “How long?”

  Softly, she says, “Since before your accident.”

  So they’ve been waiting, all this time, waiting for me to be—what? Better? Cured?

  Just like Chirag was waiting.

  “Are you telling me that if I had never gotten hurt, you would have broken up a year ago?”

  Almost in unison, my parents nod.

  “So in the hospital, all that comforting each other—that was all an act?” Was it for my benefit? It’s not like their united front made things easier for me.

  “Of course not,” my mother says quickly, and her voice sounds normal again. Strong. Loud. I’m surprised to discover that I prefer it that way.

  “So what was that?”

  “It was two parents, two people with a long history, taking care of each other in a desperate time.”

  “Oh,” I say dumbly. I wonder if, at any point during my recovery, they actually thought their marriage could be saved. That there could be a silver lining to all this. Looking at them now, on opposite ends of the couch, I doubt it.

  “Your father is moving out tonight,” Mom says softly.

  “Where are you going?” I look around for packed bags by the door, the way it is in the movies, in books. Some sign that he’s moving out.

  “To an apartment in the city,” he says. “I rented it a few months ago.”

  Wow. I guess they really have been planning this for a while.

  “I know it’s late, but I’d love it if you’d drive me if you’re not too tired.”

  “Why can’t you drive yourself?”

  “I’m leaving my car here for your mother. Since you use her car now.”

  I can’t believe we’re talking about cars. But then, I guess it’s the logistics that hit you after a breakup. Like how I had to find my way around once Chirag wasn’t there to chauffeur me. Or once I wouldn’t let him chauffeur me.

  “Maisie,” Dad prompts. “Will you drive me?”

  I glance at my mother. If I say yes, does that mean I’m taking his side?

  I can’t believe they kept this from me, this secret, for so many months—and then I remember that I have a secret, too.

  Instead of answering Dad’s question, I say: “I have something to tell you guys, too.”

  I tell them my secret: Barnard. I tell them that I’d wanted to live somewhere where no one knew my old face. I say that I’m not sure where I want to go anymore, that I need some time to think about it. I wait for my mother to insist that I’m not strong enough to move someplace so far away, that I need to be closer to my doctors, closer to home, closer to her. Instead she says, “I’m glad you told us. I had no idea you felt that way.”

  “Come on, Mom, can’t you imagine how difficult it is to go to school with kids who keep looking at you like they’re expecting to see your old face?” I find myself gazing at the wall of photos behind the couch. I wonder how long it will be before she takes down her wedding photo. Or the pictures of my dad’s parents and grandparents. Surely she won’t want those around once they’re divorced.

  Maybe those photographs will make her feel the way I feel when I see pictures of me from before. Maybe pictures of a face that doesn’t exist anymore aren’t all that different from pictures of a marriage, a family, that doesn’t exist anymore.

  Now Mom follows my gaze, looking at the wall behind her. When she turns back to face me, her eyes are very bright. “No,” she answers finally. “I can’t imagine what that’s like. But I hope that someday you’ll tell me.”

  She smiles, and I do, too.

  It’s dark when I drive my father across the bridge and into the city. The fog is so thick that I can’t see the tops of the orange arches of the Golden Gate.

  My father didn’t load any bags into the car; no clothes, no toiletries, no mementos. When I ask him about it, he answers that he’d already brought most of what he needed to the apartment over the past few weeks.

  We’re coming off the bridge, driving through the Presidio and into the city. My dad’s new apartment is in the Marina, my favorite neighborhood in San Francisco. I always hoped I’d move here after college, imagined Serena and me sharing a tiny apartment we could barely afford. I never thought my father would beat me here.

  Now he’s humming to fill the silence in the car. It takes me a second to recognize the song: It’s his old lullaby.

  “Stop,” I say finally. “I never want to hear that song again.”

  “What?” he asks absently. I’m not sure he realized what he was humming.

  “Maisie Rose Winters. Pretty name for a pretty girl. Maisie Rose Winters. Pretty name for a pretty girl,” I sing, practically spitting the lyrics. “You’re going to have to come up with something new, Dad. I’m not pretty anymore.”

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. I’m still wearing the makeup from this afternoon: blue eyes ringed with dark liner, cheeks pink with blush, scars heavy with cover-up that’s beginning to flake off.

  I pull up in front of his new building, but I leave the motor running. I want him to jump out and wave from the curb so that I can drive away before I start crying, before he can see my makeup drip and smear all over my face. I keep both hands firmly on the wheel and stare straight ahead.

  “Maisie,” Dad says. “Look at me.”

  I shake my head. I’m crying. “I know you can’t stand looking at me. You’ve worked late practically every night since I’ve been home from the hospital just to avoid me.”

  “It wasn’t you I was avoiding,” he explains softly. He reaches across the car and puts his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to turn.

  “You wanted me to have this surgery so that you could have your daughter back.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I heard you in the hospital, arguing with Mom.” More words I never thought I’d say out loud make their way out of my mouth. “The other parents”—I gulp—“the ones who had their kids back after a transplant surgery. But you didn’t get your daughter back. I’m still too different.”

  He shakes his head and presses his thumbs to my face, brushing away my tears. I can feel the ridges of his knuckles, the callus on his right fingertip, different textures, just like mine.

  “Did I ever tell you the story of how your mother and I picked out your name?”

  I shake my head. What does that have to do with anything?

  “We weren’t like the other parents at the hospital, the ones who knew their babies’ names months before they were born. We didn’t have a clue—sure, we’d spent the past nine months tossing names around, trying to see what would stick, but nothing sounded right. Finally, we decided that we’d wait until we met you. I still remember exactly what I said to your mom. I said, ‘It’s ridiculous to try and name someone we haven’t even met yet.’ I said, ‘She’ll tell us what her name is.’ ”

  He pauses, smiling. “I have never been more scared than I was the day that you were born. Not even the day of your accident,” he adds when he sees me opening my mouth to object. “What were we thinking, bringing someone into the world when we didn’t even have the wherewithal to name her? But then, there you were. My god—Maisie, you were the ugliest little thing I’d ever seen.”

  “What?” I ask, brushing away the last of my tears. I’ve only ever heard him say that I’d been a beautiful baby.
/>   “You were covered in goo and kind of purply. And your face was all smushed and flat and your head was pointy. And you were screaming—it was the most ghastly sound I’d ever heard. It was nothing like what everyone said it’d be, all magic and butterflies.” He’s laughing, and soon I am, too.

  “I thought What have I gotten myself into? Then they handed you to me, and you struggled and squirmed in my arms. You were so tiny but somehow you felt so heavy, so solid, so strong. I thought: This girl is stronger than anything. Stronger than me. Stronger than her mother. She’ll take on the world someday. And I thought, A girl this strong needs a pretty name.”

  “Why?”

  He smiles at the memory. “So that people wouldn’t see you coming.”

  “But what about that song?”

  He shrugs. “Do you know how many different things I used to sing to you to get you to fall asleep?” He holds his hands out like a conductor in front of a symphony. “Maisie Rose Winters, singsong name for a singsong girl. Maisie Rose Winters, dreamy name for a dreaming girl.” He shrugs. “Pretty is just the one you remember.”

  “But the way you look at me ever since I got home—like you’re disappointed that I don’t look the way I used to.”

  He shakes his head and leans forward, his face close to mine like he wants to make sure I hear every word he says. “I’ve never been disappointed in you a day in your life,” he says firmly. “I was just sad. Sad because you were sad, and there was nothing I could do to fix it.” I bite my lip, wondering if he’d have told me this if I’d just said what I was thinking sooner.

  Dad adds, “That’s why your mother and I didn’t want to tell you about us any sooner. We didn’t want to make you any unhappier than you already were.”

  They weren’t in denial, they were protecting me. Maybe that was Chirag’s plan all along, too: He knew it was over and said good-bye to us a long time ago. To him, better didn’t mean that I had to go back to being who I was before. Instead, he was waiting for me to be ready to say good-bye myself.

  I take a deep breath. “So why tell me now?”

  He loosens his grip on me so that we’re facing each other, our foreheads almost touching. “Well,” he says quietly, “you seemed like you weren’t so sad anymore.”

  Adam is the one person who knows my plan for prom, and I only told him so that he’d stop offering to go with me if I wanted him to. He’s become so much like a big brother that when I think about it, it’s actually pretty gross that I tried to kiss him.

  “I want a full report,” he insists. I promise to tell him everything.

  It takes me a long time to put on my makeup, and not just because I’m carefully following the instructions the makeup artist at the mall gave me. I stare at my face in the mirror, trying to decide whether to layer concealer over the scars on my cheeks the way that she did. No matter how much cover-up I use, the scars will still be visible. There’s no hiding the fact that my face has been through trauma.

  I pull my hair back, twisting it into a bun. Serena will be here any minute. I told her I wanted her to stop here on her way to the school so I could see her in her dress. The last thing she’ll expect is to see me all dressed up like this.

  I decide not to use any concealer.

  I pull the green dress from my closet. It arrived a few weeks ago, and I quickly stuck it in the back of my closet, where it’s been waiting ever since. I never even tried it on. Now the material is soft beneath my fingers, the softest thing I think I’ve ever touched. I shiver as it slides down my body, rippling like liquid over my scars.

  After Halloween, I said I’d never go to a Highlands High party again. But this Maisie knows better than to ever say never.

  I can’t reach the zipper that snakes up the side. I try as hard as I can, even twisting a hanger into a hook, but nothing works.

  “Mom!” I shout, opening my door and hurrying downstairs.

  My mother is sitting on the couch, staring at the TV, which isn’t even on. The house feels empty since my father moved out, emptier than it should from just one person’s departure. It’s so quiet without my parents’ shouts echoing through the rooms. Now the click of my high heels coming down the stairs sounds like thunder. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my mother look more surprised.

  “What are you all dressed up for?” she asks, getting up from the couch and joining me at the foot of the stairs.

  “Prom is tonight.”

  “You’re going to the prom?”

  I nod. “But I can’t zip my dress,” I explain, turning around.

  “Is Chirag taking you?” she asks as she slowly, slowly zips me up. I walk to the mirror by the front door and stand on my tippy-toes to get a better look.

  Even zipped, the dress shows a lot of skin. The scars running down my neck and onto my left arm are completely visible. In the back, along the edge of the dress, the rough scars on my left side stick out when I move. The silk is so thin that even where my scars are covered, they show through, creating ripples and ridges beneath the material.

  And I’m not wearing a stitch of black. Not even black mascara.

  “No,” I answer. “Chirag is taking another girl.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mom’s standing behind me and I can see the reflection of her face in the mirror beside my own. I don’t have her nose anymore, but somehow, we still look related. There is something else, something about the way that I focus my gaze, something in the way that I square my shoulders and lift my chin that reminds me of her.

  I shake my head. “Don’t be. I broke up with him, remember?”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier,” she says, and I don’t argue. “Do you still love him?” she asks. It’s been so long since we had a real conversation, just the two of us, about anything other than my pills and my physical therapy, my grades and my teachers.

  I turn around to face her. “Not the way I used to.”

  She smiles, and for a second I think she’s going to cry. Instead she shakes her head and rolls her shoulders onto her back like I used to do before a race.

  Unlike with Dad or Serena or Chirag, it doesn’t feel like there are so many things that I haven’t said to my mom. Until Group, she was the only person I didn’t worry would hate me if I actually said what I was thinking.

  But maybe it wasn’t because I didn’t care what she thought of me.

  Maybe it was because I always knew, deep down, that she would love me no matter what I said or thought or did.

  And suddenly, I know that there is something that I haven’t said to her.

  “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For making me go to school, and take my medicine, and go to Group, and—” I pause. “For letting me get the transplant. I know it wasn’t your first choice.”

  Mom shakes her head. Finally, I understand why she wished they had more time to make the decision, instead of pushing things forward the way she always has with absolutely everything else. She was frightened.

  “It wasn’t my choice to make,” she says. Now tears do spring up in her eyes. “The other night, when you drove your father into the city, I wasn’t sure if you’d come back home. I thought you might decide to stay with him.”

  “I thought about it,” I admit. “Sometimes—for a long time, before my accident even—I wished you two would split up just so that I could live with him. With him, it’s just … easier, I guess.”

  She nods, looking pained. “I know.”

  “But the night he moved out, it didn’t even occur to me to stay with him,” I say honestly. “And if you’d asked me, I would have chosen you,” I finish finally, a lump rising in my throat.

  Mom’s tears spill over, and I put my arms around her. It’s the first time since all of this happened that she’s actually cried in front of me. With my heels on, I’m about five inches taller than she is and it feels, just for a second, with my arms wrapped around her and her head no higher than my neck, like I’m the one taking care of her.
/>   “Don’t make me cry,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I don’t want to have to do my makeup all over again.”

  Mom pulls away, wiping her tears. “I wouldn’t want to ruin it. You did a beautiful job. I’m so proud of you.”

  “For finally learning how to use makeup?” Mom laughs, and I shake my head. “I know you’re disappointed with the way I’ve handled all this.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “You wanted a daughter who could get up in front of the school and speak about her experience. Someone who’d never even consider going a day off her meds. Someone who’d come out of this stronger than she was before.”

  “Maisie,” Mom says solemnly, “I am so proud of you. And you are strong. Stronger than I could have imagined. Stronger than I would have been, had this happened to me.”

  I feel myself blushing. “Maybe I should get dressed up more often,” I say.

  “Maybe you should,” Mom agrees.

  Serena cheers when she sees me, a high-pitched screech that makes me grin.

  “Ohmygodohmygod. May-Day, you’re coming tonight?” The nickname sounds like spring and sunshine for the first time in months.

  I nod, spinning around so Serena can see everything.

  “Chirag is going to pass out when he sees you looking like that,” she says, and I don’t argue. Instead, I ask her to clip the matching headpiece into my hair. Last year, I thought I might not wear it because people would stare. Tonight, they’re going to stare no matter what. So I may as well be the best-dressed girl there.

  Serena and I are walking out the door when my mother stops us.

  “Just let me take a picture,” she pleads, and Serena and I turn and face her obediently, putting our arms around each other, grinning broadly.

  Click. The first picture anyone besides the doctors, tracking my progress, has taken of me since my surgery.

  “Perfect,” Mom says. “This one’s going up on the wall,” she adds, turning to face the collage of photographs on the wall behind her, all those framed pictures of our family. Her old marriage. My old face.