Your Face in Mine: A Novel

by Jess Row

  A year after the accident, I asked my therapist, Dr. Silverstein, if he thought it was odd that while Wendy was constantly on my mind—was speaking to me—I never, ever, thought about Meimei. I kept her pictures around, and her artwork, out of a desire for sheer order, but nothing I did, or saw, reminded me of her. I might see another father exactly my age crossing the street, another three-year-old clutching his hand, and look right through them, not registering a thing. No, he said, refusing, for once, to turn the question back on me. No, of course not. Don’t you know it’s natural? He seemed quite agitated, as if I’d mentioned, in passing, that I had a loaded pistol in my courier bag, and was thinking of using it. Don’t touch it, he said. Don’t touch her. Let the wound heal by itself. The worst thing you can do is blame yourself for what you’re not feeling.

  I do think of her now, in roundabout, philosophical ways. I do not remember, say, how it felt to give her a bath, the way she squealed as I scrubbed shampoo into her scalp, and gave her spiky rhinoceros horns; I choose not to remember sailing with her on the Charles, or the way she grabbed my back pockets and hoisted herself up against my legs from behind as I tried to leave for work. Those memories are there, perfectly visible, in their own vitrines, but what I choose to think about, instead, is how it felt to have a purpose in life. I say this entirely in the abstract. When I left Harvard and began working at WBUR it was because I was sick of trying to support a family on the penury of a graduate stipend, plus Wendy’s small salary; I wanted a job that turned in small, manageable cycles and paid in large fixed increments, not the echoing black hole of a dissertation and the endless anxious scrabbling of an assistant professorship in Bloomington or Columbus or Madison. My wants, my needs, and my obligations were perfectly in sync, in a righteous, time-honored order. Now, by contrast, I’m on a permanent vacation, thrust back into independence. Unneeded, unwanted. Worst of all: single.

  I’m beginning to sweat again. Even in the unpredictable persona of the grieving husband, the grieving father, I’m wearing out my welcome in this bathroom. And I see, now, in front of me, the opportunity, the necessity, of quitting this charade, this impossible, quote-unquote job. I could thank Robin for the lovely dinner, shake Sherry and Tamika’s hands gravely, drive away, and never take another of Martin’s calls; break my lease, fill my storage unit to the roof, and cash my severance checks nearly anywhere. I could go back into research. The thought has never occurred to me before. Somewhere, somehow, I might cadge a fellowship, a librarianship, an archivist’s position; with a Harvard Ph.D., I might even still be able to get a job in a low-level college somewhere, or maybe teaching Chinese at a prep school. There are options. Other patterns might be applied.

  I want to ask Wendy her opinion, but Wendy isn’t here. I’ve begun to sense it, more and more clearly, when I roll over in bed to turn the lights out and think of a question I wanted to ask, or in the car, our favorite sanctuary, where I’ve become accustomed to telling her what I ate for dinner the night before, just to hear her horrified laughter. She’s no longer hanging on my every word, you might say. And in unfamiliar environments—waiting in line for my morning coffee at Cross Keys Bagels, on a walk through Fell’s Point—she seems altogether gone. It’s ridiculous, a sentimental, Ghost-like canard, to be abandoned by your lover in the afterlife, and yet here I am. Your brain is wounded, my therapist kept saying, it’s traumatized, it has scar tissue, all those things really exist in there, not just metaphorically. It has to regrow itself. That’s the time heals all wounds part. Literally, you have to wait for it to heal, just like a broken wrist. Think about the neurotransmitters restoring themselves, if that makes you feel better. Every time you laugh at some stupid movie, every time you jerk off—in his Argentinean Spanish accent it sounded like cherk off—you are rebuilding your capacities somewhere in there. Maybe that will let you be a little more optimistic, okay?

  Is it sheer inertia, or some grim, pseudo-Wasp stick-to-itiveness, some shred of Protestant work ethic, or is it simply the desperate need to get out of my own head that sends me out of the bathroom and back into the vast, skylighted kitchen-dining-living room, where Martin now sits alone, draining the dregs of a balloon-sized glass of Cabernet Franc? Sit down, he says. Robin’s putting the girls to bed. You feel okay?

  Yeah. I just had to take a moment. I guess I’m out of practice being around kids. Kids and their directness.

  Practice has nothing to do with it. Two weeks ago I was teaching Tamika how to do a penalty kick and she accidentally did me one in the balls. Full-on. I practically passed out, right there on the field. They ambush you. That’s the nature of the thing. You’re never prepared.

  You take parenting really seriously.

  Why do you say that? I mean, is there another way to do it?

  No, I say. I mean, you’ve thought it through. Most fathers just cruise, don’t you think? They take it day to day.

  I’m surprised you want to talk about this. You looking to get back in the game? ’Cause single people can adopt, too, these days. Especially if you’re willing to do it cross-racially.

  He meets my eyes, and I think, the strangeness of my life knows no bounds.

  I’m a big fan of adoption, he says. A real advocate.

  No, I say, I couldn’t do that. I’m not thinking that far ahead.

  Of course. Enough said.

  Listen, I say, and I hate to bring this up—

  Then don’t. Not here.

  Okay.

  We stare at each other for a moment. The house uncannily silent: a whispery hiss from the dishwasher, a low murmur of voices from down the hall. I’ve forgotten this: the quiet of the aftermath, the depth of stillness children leave in their wake.

  Fine, he says. You might as well go ahead and say it. Just keep your voice down.

  It’s just a question. Have you thought about how you’re going to tell her? How, and when?

  Why? Do you have some advice on that subject?

  Of course not.

  Then why ask?

  I guess I’m wondering if you have a plan.

  A plan for what? If she divorces me?

  That’s not necessarily where I was going, I say, but yeah, okay. The possibilities. The possible consequences. I mean, she’s not going to take it lightly.

  She won’t divorce me.

  You’re sure of that?

  Look, he says, Robin’s an extremely subtle thinker. Number one. She’s been through all this identity stuff, critical race theory, race and the psyche, race as a social construction. That’s more or less all she did in college. And she’s accepted that the story of my background, biologically, is totally unknown. It’s not as if I’ve invented fake ancestors.

  But you have. Of course you have. I mean, you look, you’re designed to look, like a black man. No one would ask you to take a DNA test to figure that out.

  The way I’m going to present it to her, he says, is, look, it was so traumatic, it was such a psychic break, that I repressed it for a long time. That is, I repressed my former self. And in any case, I haven’t even gotten to number two. Number two is that Robin Wilkinson does not believe in divorce. She’s one of those Dan Quayle Was Right people. She’d go almost as far as to say that the only reason for divorce is physical danger from the spouse. She’s told me, outright, that she won’t divorce me if I’m unfaithful.

  Are you joking?

  You’d be shocked, he says. She plays a good white-liberal game, no doubt, but underneath that she’s basically Pat Robertson. At least when it comes to the black family.

  Okay. Okay. If that’s true. Even if that’s true. What’s the harm in telling her now? We could use her, among other things. She could help us prepare the ground.

  Prepare the ground for what? Do we have a plan, Kelly? You haven’t even told me yet what you thought of the RIDS paper. I’m assuming that’s just being polite.

  The paper’s a start. It gets you thinking along the right lines.

  But?

  Well, it wasn
’t written for me.

  That matters?

  I lean across the table, dropping my elbow into a pool of harissa without noticing. Martin, I say, speaking in a hoarse whisper, look, I was there. I need an honest accounting. I can’t tell this story otherwise. I can’t make sense of it myself. You have to understand that.

  He closes his eyes.

  I went through this already, he says, his lower jaw easing forward, the lips drawing back and showing me a perfect row of white teeth, piranhalike. I went through this shit with Dr. Silpa. He put me through my paces. I edited that part of my life. You understand what that means, don’t you? I was sure you’d understand.

  In that RIDS paper you’re asking people to look at you as a specimen.

  I think I’m cool with that. I’ve thought about it. I’d rather keep it superficial. Fuck it, like the pregnant man, right? Let them think of me as a freak. The real story doesn’t lend itself to sound bites, and anyway, it’s unnecessary. We need to come up with something that fits in tight little paragraphs, something anyone would buy. Not my story, per se. An ur-story.

  If I believed that I’d have quit a long time ago.

  Look at you, he says, being all caped crusader. Woodward and Bernstein. Or, what is it, Orson Welles? You’re looking for my Rosebud?

  Martin, I say, seeing stars, or what I imagine to be stars, little pinpricks swimming like amoebas in my peripheral vision—how can you say that? How can you fucking say that?

  He holds up his hands, palms flat: a trainer ready to catch my punches.

  Jesus, you’re sensitive, he says. I thought the whole Alan thing would be water under the bridge by now. I thought you’d have resolved it, one way or another.

  I’m startled to find my eyes leaking tears.

  What’s to be resolved? I ask. What, was there a note I didn’t get to read? Something you want to tell me, Martin?

  Fine, he says. All right. You want the whole story? Forget that RIDS nonsense. That was just a feeler. I’ve got the whole thing for you in a box. On tape.

  What do you mean, tape?

  Tapes. DATs. Microcassettes. I wasn’t systematic about it. But it’s all there—nearly. Back when I thought I could write it up myself. I used to get up at five in the morning and go down to the rec room and just, I don’t know, narrate. For an hour or so at a time. Everything I told Silpa. And more.

  Well, shit, I say, with a little laugh, I’m glad you’re telling me this now. While I still have access to a studio.

  Why do you think I hired you in the first place? He slaps me on the shoulder. That’s a joke.

  And then what? I just transcribe, and that’s it?

  Of course not. You’re the journalist. You get to shadow me and interview me and all. For clarification. And for, you know, the personal stuff. There’s things I never recorded because they wouldn’t make sense to anyone but me.

  And me. And maybe Alan.

  Right. And so you’ll understand what I’m telling you: don’t take notes, all right? Just, you know, internalize it. If it doesn’t sound right I’ll tell you later, when I read the book. Just hang out.

  Okay, I say, with an inward sigh. What kind of relationship is this? I suppose I’d like to ask. But how can you ask that question without asking, what kind of person is this? There’s a principle at work here, but I can’t wait for it to reveal itself, can I?

  Okay, I say, okay, boss.

  Boss? I’m your boss? Then we should make it official, shouldn’t we? He gets up and disappears into another room for a moment, and jogs back, holding a leather portfolio. How is it that you’ve let this go on so long? he asks, scribbling a check. Without a deposit or anything? Remind me to give you a lesson in negotiating sometime. This is just a retainer, okay? Let’s call it the first month’s pay. Tell me if it sounds fair to you.

  I hold out my hand for the check as he passes it across the table, like a playing card, and read the number, $20,000, in one fluid motion, opening my wallet and slipping it in.

  My advice is to open a new bank account, he says. Online. Do it as a wire transfer. Use only your initials. HSBC is good, or Credit Suisse. There are tax reasons, but we can talk about that later. I’ll call you tomorrow. We have to set up a schedule. And I’ve got to dig out those tapes.

  My breathing feels unnaturally loud; or maybe the room has become quieter; or maybe we’ve been waiting all this time for a door to close down the hall, for Robin’s footsteps. What is this for, exactly? seems the obvious question. What am I worth to you? But the silence, an almost prayerful silence, closes in around us, and I say nothing.

  Don’t worry, he says. His face has spread out into a grin, nostrils flaring, eyes jumping: money has come into the room, with its rustle, its electric crackle, and it excites him, shamelessly. It’s almost infectious. My wallet, thrust into my front pocket, glows like an orb, a radioactive pellet. This is only a taste, all right? he says. Trust me. You’ll get used to it. It’s all a matter of seeing things on a different scale.

  11.

  The only reason to drive anywhere, Alan said, was because you’re in a hurry. Otherwise, why not walk? He hated the way I drove, not inordinately slow or careful, but sensible. Why be sensible? he wanted to know. If it’s two in the morning, and there’s no other cars in sight, why not cruise through the red light at North Charles and Northern Parkway, why not pretend, for a moment, that no red lights exist?

  He had his own license for less than a month; he totaled the family Volvo in a way the mechanics said couldn’t be done, a Volvo with 270,000 miles they’d owned since 1979. Thus for more than a year—the entire touring life of L’Arc-en-Ciel—I drove him everywhere, even to school. It was that or take the bus, Cheryl said. She slipped me a twenty every week for gas money, and when I protested that I had a Texaco card, paid by my parents, she said, consider it hazard pay. Alan and I spent it on coffee, powdered donuts, and leathery slices of pizza from 7-Eleven; pizza jerky, Alan called it, and said it was his favorite food.

  We argued about veganism—I was all for it, but he said it was a fool’s errand, making a fetish out of purity, as if it was possible to live like the Jains, ahimsically, in the twentieth century—and about whether one should start slow on the stereo, first thing in the morning, a little Nick Drake, maybe, or folky Neil Young, or wake up with a thunderous blast of Antischism or Bolt Thrower or Cannibal Corpse. We argued about the causes of the Civil War. We argued about whether Ian MacKaye was a better singer in Minor Threat or in Fugazi. We argued about the latest articles in The New York Times I swiped off my neighbor’s doorstep, and whether it was ethical for me to steal a newspaper, even if Mr. Macalester read only one out of three, and let them pile up in a scummy heap on the pavement. But we never argued about—never discussed—the terms, the content, the causes of our friendship. Adolescent boys hardly ever do. They pretend as if the people around them simply sprang out of the ground at random. We never said I love you, of course, though we surely did, and when we left town—for the weekend, for the summer, for rehab, for college—we never said goodbye. Not so much as a see you or talk to you then.

  Why does he hang up in the middle of a sentence? people would ask me. Why does he pretend not to notice I was gone? Because he’s opposed to time, I answered, in my snarky, sixteen-year-old way. And grammar. He thinks all periods should be replaced by semicolons.

  And in the end, of course, there was no period, or semicolon; there was just silence. There was just:

  —

  I started to worry about him only when he stopped complaining. This was the fall of our senior year, after he and Ayala broke up, after L’Arc-en-Ciel dissolved in a ranting three-day argument, in person, over the phone, via answering machine messages and scrawled notes stuffed in each other’s lockers at school. He’d been away all summer at an arts institute at Cornell—the Telluride Institute—and had returned with a dog-eared copy of John Cage’s Silence, wanting to turn L’AEC into a conceptual rock band, in which one song consisted of nothi
ng but snare-drum beats, and another involved playing only whole-note intervals on a retuned guitar. Martin had gotten heavy into primitive rock—The Stooges, The Fugs, all the Amphetamine Reptile bands, Neanderthal, Man Is the Bastard—and had put a poster up in our practice space saying Think Smart, Play Stupid. I was where I always was: I liked chords. I liked melodies. I liked choruses. It was a nonstarter, and it was all over by the end of September, when I watched Alan eat a plateful of cafeteria chow mein without saying a word.

  Cat meat got your tongue?

  What? he asked. Oh, sorry. I was thinking about something else.

  He had lost weight, and he couldn’t afford to; we were used to reminding him to eat, on the road and after hours of practicing, and used to making sure he’d taken his insulin and done his blood test. It was a prerequisite for being Alan’s friend; his mother, Cheryl, made sure of that. Being diabetic for so long had made him hate food, he said. It was like a malevolent force in the universe, life-giving, life-taking, capricious as the Hebrew God. I looked at him carefully, again, head to toe, and saw something on the papery underside of his right forearm that looked like a dot of blue ink.

  What the fuck is that?

  That? I stabbed myself with a pen by accident.

  I should say, by way of explanation, that though we’d sampled our share of drugs in high school—bong hits, shrooms, black-market ephedrine, and one collective acid trip the summer we all turned sixteen—Martin and Alan and I were mostly bystanders, and in those days heroin and cocaine were all but unheard of, a relic of the Eighties, of Less Than Zero and Sid and Nancy. The theater arts building at Willow was named for Samantha Dinerstein, class of ’88, who overdosed on speedballs her freshman year at Sarah Lawrence. What instinct for self-preservation we had drew the line at snorting, shooting, and sex without a condom, or, in some cases, sex at all.