I let the information circle me like a drain, until I could take it all in. I knew that if I shared any of this information with my mother or father, Saul, or even my therapist, they’d tell me I was hallucinating again; it wasn’t real. If I showed them pictures, they’d just say the resemblance was a passing one; they’d point out that her name was completely different from the one I knew her by. It was a coincidence, her mother’s name, there had to be hundreds of Antons out there. Nothing else about her matched up. Part of me sensed the logic in those arguments and was terrified. After what I’ve been through, I can’t help but be suspicious of my own mind. But worse than that was the realization that even if this was the real Gemma, this Liz, she was nothing like the Gemma that had existed in my mind. All the time I’d spent following her, copying her, doing my best to be her pale reflection, it had never occurred to me that she had been doing the same.
I think of those young women who write to me, wearing my face on their chests, who don’t know anything about me really, but seem eager to take my place. I think about that vacant look in their eyes and I remember the young woman I used to be. We are all of us trapped inside a hall of mirrors, our shiny, hard exteriors reflecting both to each other and on each other, ad infinitum, forever and ever so we can’t escape.
I know that as long as I’m a marketable product, I’ll never be let out of that hall of mirrors. So long as there are people willing to shell out $5.99 for a keychain with my name on it, so long as the eyes never look away and there are people to Like me, there is too much money to be made, too much time invested, for me to move about unencumbered by that pressure. Plus, my father would never allow it.
But if I were to become unlikeable, if I were no longer viable as a brand, I might finally allow myself to be a person. This book is my final act of defiance, my last hope, and I’ve done the one thing that nobody, not my mother and not even me, expected: I’ve written the truth. Not anything so neat and tidy as anything you read in the news, or see on TV. But the truth, as I experienced it that summer.
I’ve no illusions about being liked after this. But at least I’ll be understood.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book began as my very first submission during my very first semester at NYU’s Paris MFA workshop. It would probably not have gone much farther than that, and certainly it wouldn’t be what it is today, if it weren’t for the support of the program, the careful early readings by my fantastic peers, and, most importantly, the infinite wisdom of my irreplaceable teachers. Under Helen Schulman’s patient tutelage and exacting (yet supportive) advice, I first found Mickey’s voice. Nathan Englander taught me the importance of “pressurization.” Katie Kitamura, who generously worked with me over not one but two semesters, deserves double the credit: Her enthusiastic support, and incredibly insightful edits and feedback proved indispensable. I could not have finished the project without her. My thesis advisor, Matthew Thomas, provided the final push to polish. Throughout the process, classmates supplied much-needed feedback, commiseration and laughs—there are too many to name here, though I’m thinking in particular of Andrew Porter, Stephen Fishbach, Jenni Zellner, Liz Riggs, An Yu and Avery Carpenter.
Endless gratitude to my agent, Ellen Levine, whose tireless support of this novel amid a very difficult year was nothing short of superhuman. Bhavna Chauhan, my fantastic editor at Doubleday Canada, and the entire Doubleday Canada team, have been an absolute dream to work with. I wish every novelist could be so lucky!
Finally, I have to thank the people who have been with me from day one, before I had any idea about this writing business (or anything else). Mom, Dad, thank you for encouraging me to do something as crazy as pursue a career I actually liked; Paul, Jamie and Jennen, you three have always made me feel incredibly supported. I’m so glad we were born into the same family. And to friends and early readers, family not by blood, I wouldn’t be here (or half as sane) without you: Thank you. You know who you are. Last but most certainly not least: Amit, my first and last reader, most honest critic, biggest supporter and deepest love, thank you for everything. I am so lucky to be sharing this life with you.
HAYLEY PHELAN is a writer and journalist whose work has appeared in Vanity Fair, Elle, Vogue and The Wall Street Journal. Her column in The New York Times, “Browsing,” ran for two years in the paper’s Style section, where she continues to contribute. She was born and raised in Toronto and currently resides in Los Angeles.
www.hayleyphelan.com
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