by Mary Carter
Lacey pressed her hands against the glass and peered in to read the name on the book. Monica Bowman. The name meant nothing to her. Lacey tried to remember if she had ever cut her hair like that, owned glasses like that. No. Did someone (Robert?!) steal Lacey’s picture off her Web site, Photoshop her face? Or was Monica Bowman so ugly she couldn’t put her own mug on the cover of her book?
She was going to get to the bottom of it, that was for sure. And once she caught the little cranial thief, there might even be a modest amount of green in it for her. Not that she was greedy, but if this Monica Bowman wanted to flaunt her face, it was going to cost her. She wasn’t going to be a jerk about it, though, and who wouldn’t be slightly flattered?
Lacey was often told she was beautiful. She was as thin as she was in her teens, and in addition to her thick black hair, her mysterious gene pool had blessed her with blue eyes so pale she’d earned the nickname Ice. Deaf people used name signs to identify themselves, and Lacey’s name sign was the letter L making the motion of the wind. That name sign was given to her by Margaret Harris, her house mother at Hillcrest Children’s Center.
You’re like the wind, Margaret used to say. Your moods sweep in and blow everything around. As a child, Lacey wanted her name sign to be something cute, like the letter L on her dimples, but once Margaret introduced the wind sign, it stuck. It was the first thing Lacey did as an adult, change her name sign, but this time instead of the L on her dimples, it was the L and the sign for “paint.” Many Deaf friends still called her Ice. Deep down, it didn’t feel like her name, it felt stolen—like she now felt about her face.
She stared at the poster again, willing it to disappear. It did not. There had to be an explanation. Was this a local look-alike contest? Not that Lacey even came close to being a local celebrity, but her picture had been in the paper last week announcing her upcoming art show. Someone must have seen the article, Googled her, and cut and pasted her face from her Web site.
That was it. The author had seen Lacey’s picture in the paper, and then had the nerve to steal her face. Maybe Robert hadn’t orchestrated this prank, maybe he was just alerting her to the fraud.
Because there was no doubt about it, this was her face. There were probably plenty of women who looked a little bit like Lacey, resembled her in some ways, but not down to the exact icy irises, slope of her nose, height of her cheekbones, curve of her chin, depth of her dimples. Except for a tiny freckle to the left of her chin, which Lacey found herself touching; poster girl didn’t have the freckle.
It was almost laughable, that someone would try to get away with this. This wasn’t a doppelganger, someone who looked eerily like her; this was her face with different hair and glasses. She should text Alan.
She slipped her BlackBerry out of her purse and stared at the screen. What would she say?
Alan. Benjamin Books. My face in window.
Alan, I wrote a best seller!!
Alan, I’m famous.
Alan. I look good in glasses and feathered hair.
Alan, I have a twin—
The word slammed into her like a wall of jagged ice, and a shudder that started in her solar plexus spiked out like a starfish, electrifying her limbs. For the first time, it didn’t feel like a joke. A hand landed on her shoulder, and Lacey jumped as if she’d been attacked. People should never, ever, sneak up on a person like that. If they weren’t a mugger, they were going to get it. She whipped around to find herself only inches away from a mustached mouth moving a mile a minute.
The guessing game began. He either said:
“You have a small bass.”
Or:
“You have a nice ass.”
Or:
“You’ve stained the glass.”
She soon had her answer. He gestured with nicotine-stained fingers to the spot on the glass where Lacey had planted her hands. Lacey turned and saw the aftermath of her fingers splayed out on either side of the poster. Ghost hands framing her stolen face. That’s when the mustached-lips stopped moving. He leaned in and looked at the poster. He looked at Lacey. A smile spread across his face, and this time, when the lips started up again, they were moving slow enough for Lacey to catch “love your book” and “I’m so sorry.” Before she could say a word, he linked arms with her and marched her into the bookstore.
Once inside, he propelled her to a table in the center of the store, where copies of The Architect of Your Soul were propped up to form the frame of a house. Next to the table was another poster. Bottled water and three Sharpie markers were lined up on the table, and the man glanced from them to her as if to gauge whether or not she was pleased with his offerings. Then he started talking again, pointing to the sign announcing the book reading. He frowned and looked at his watch. She thought she caught the word “squirrelly,” but from the context she gathered he said “early.” Lacey smiled and shook her head while pointing at the author’s name.
I’m not her, she’s not me. Did he understand? He swiped up a marker along with a book, and thrust them at her. He did not. Lacey didn’t move even though she was sorely tempted to sign the book. If Ms. Bowman was going to steal her face, she could steal her signature. She’d use grotesque penmanship, she’d massacre the name, she’d write MY BOOK SUCKS!!!! Love, Monica Bowman!!
Instead, Lacey shook her head one more time and pointed at her face on the book. Don’t you see I’m a victim of face theft? No, he didn’t. He parried the book again, and set his jaw in a hard line. Knowing she would have to pay for it, Lacey grabbed the marker and the book, and scribbled on the front of it. When she handed it back to the clerk, her smile beat his by a mile. Besides the feathered hair and trendy glasses, there were now other distinct differences between the real-life her and impostor-book-girl her. Whereas real-life her had a smooth upper lip and an invisible halo, impostor-book-girl her was the proud owner of a thick handlebar mustache and big, fat devil horns.
Chapter 2
After calling her:
a: a cyclone
b: a silo
or
c: a psycho
the manager fled, but Lacey didn’t budge. She couldn’t. Her legs were tree trunks, her roots burrowed into the floor. She wished her hands tentacles instead of ungainly branches; she wanted to lash out and strangle all of the impostor’s books, strangle and squeeze, squeeze and strangle. She wanted to watch every last one of them crash to the floor. Every nerve ending in her body was pulsing. She was electrified. It was Morton’s Horse Farm all over again.
Lacey was ten. The orphans were on an outing. They stood in an excited clump, surrounded by saddled horses. Both children and horses were swishing their tails, lifting their hooves, ready to ride. Every child’s eyes were glued to the beautiful beasts except Lacey’s. Hers were feasting on the tempting silver wire running the length of the fence surrounding them, strung taut and gleaming in the midafternoon sun.
One of the staff members must have followed her gaze, for he stepped in close to her, too close, always too close, so that all she saw was a giant pair of gyrating lips. His breath reeked of coffee and menthol cigarettes. He lifted his hands and moved them along with his mouth, pointing at the magic wire. He jabbed a thick, calloused finger too close to her collarbone.
Kids, touch, don’t. Touch, horse, ride won’t. Understand? Lacey, look at me. Eye contact, Lacey. Touch, don’t. Understand? Do you hear me?
But of course, she didn’t.
Lacey, look at me. Put your hands down. No. Not even with the tip of your pinky finger. No. Not even a tiny tap.
A tiny, tentative, exploratory tap ...
Because it will zap you, that’s why. It’s electric. Understand. Touch, zap. Ouch! Who said die? Nobody said die. Hurt. Ouch. Hurt. Forbidden. You know our toaster? Home. Toaster. Kitchen. Would you stick your hand in the toaster? Oh. Well, you shouldn’t do that. Don’t do that again. Lacey, focus. It was just an example. Lacey, finish. If the bread is stuck, you call one of the staff over to get it out, you don’t
stick your hand in it. No. No fork. Fork bad bad bad idea. No, I don’t need to see the scar. Yes, I see it. You want another one? Lacey, finish. Touch, horse, ride, won’t. Understand?
Three bales of hay were parked along the fence nearest to where Lacey stood, hands flexing, her entire world distilled into a magic, vibrating wire. If she climbed on the bales and got on her tippy-toes, she’d be able to reach it. They were lifting children onto the horses now; she was invisible. When you have only one shot, you’d better aim. So Lacey didn’t just place the tip of her pinky on the wire as she might have if they’d only let her indulge her curiosity; instead she grabbed it with both hands and squeezed.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz snap! Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Her brain screamed at her to let go, but her hands remained stubbornly clenched. Despite the shock, and yes, pain, she was exhilarated. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Who knew she could take such a shock, a jolt, a Zzzzzzzzzzz, and live?! She could still feel a stinging sensation spiking through her limbs and tummy long after a staff member pried her off. Needless to say, she didn’t get to ride a freakin’ horse that day. Even Kelly Thayler, who had only one leg, got to ride.
And here she was, eighteen years later, standing in Benjamin Books next to a book she didn’t write, feeling the Zzzzzzzzzzz back in her body. It took her an eternity to realize her BlackBerry was buzzing. She pulled it out and looked at the message.
I can’t wait until tonight. I love you. XOXOXO. P.S. How’s the Sour Puss ?
Sour Puss. Alan’s nickname for Sheila Sherman. Oh God. How long had she been standing there? What time was it? She was supposed to be there in ten minutes. It was at least twenty minutes away, forty if she paid attention to things like traffic lights and speed limits. Last week she was five minutes late, five minutes, and Sheila lectured her for at least fifteen, picking up every clock in the house, of which there were bizarrely many, and pointing out the hands of the clock as if Lacey were a child. Lacey stared at the poster again.
The book reading was scheduled for six P.M. HER DINNER WITH ALAN WAS AT SEVEN. AT THIS RATE, SHE’D BE LUCKY TO FINISH THE PORTRAIT SITTING BY FIVE, WHICH MEANT SHE’D HAVE TO RUN HOME, SHOWER AND CHANGE, AND GET BACK TO BENJAMIN BOOKS IN TIME FOR THE READING. DINNER WAS JUST GOING TO HAVE TO BE A LITTLE LATE, JUST A LITTLE LATE. LACEY PICKED UP THE BOOK AGAIN AND TURNED TO THE BACK JACKET. THERE WAS HER FACE AGAIN. IT GAVE LITTLE ELSE TO GO ON EXCEPT THAT MONICA BOWMAN LIVED IN BOSTON WITH HER BOYFRIEND, JOE, AND HER PUGGLE, SNOOKIE.
Outrageous. Now Lacey knew she was being played. She was stealing her dog too, only slightly distorting his name. Did she mention Rookie on her Web site? Of course she did, when the interviewer asked her if she had any pets of her own. She lifted her head and scanned the bookstore, half convinced she would spot Alan or Robert hiding in the shelves, watching their prank unfold live.
There was another option altogether, that this wasn’t a prank at all. If that was the case, then the woman was a lunatic. And the lunatic was going to be in for a big surprise when Lacey showed up at the reading. Maybe she’d bring Rookie. She’d bring Rookie, sit in the front row, and—
She was going to need an interpreter. She couldn’t count on the bookstore accommodating her, not after she’d defaced one of the books. And even if they were willing to pay for an interpreter, it would be difficult at best at such late notice. She didn’t have time to figure it all out now; she had to get to Sheila’s.
There was a parking ticket on her Sportster. Very unsportsmanlike. The meter couldn’t have run out more than five minutes ago. Seventy-five bucks. Lacey crumpled it up and tossed it over her shoulder. She threw one leg over the bike. She looked at the ticket mangled on the ground. Alan would kill her. She stuck her leg out and tried to nudge the ticket toward her with her foot. An inch too short. What if she’d never received the ticket? What if someone else, jealous of her Harley detailed in Red Hot Sunglo and Smokey Gold, had taken the ticket, crumpled it up, and tossed it down the sewer before Lacey ever laid eyes on it?
Lacey started the bike and pulled into traffic. It was then that the word “twin” came back to taunt her. It faded in and out of her vision, torturing her along with an ancient Doublemint gum commercial. Identical, smiling blond girls, jaws gnashing up and down, as they chewed in unison.
Twin. The infuriating part was—it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. The idea was so jarring, Lacey had to force it out of her head so she could weave in and out of the cars at her usual speed. Hopefully, if she went fast enough, she would calm down. She headed out of the city, flying past Boathouse Row, feeling the wind in her face, the vibration of the engine in her thighs, the handles beneath her strong grip.
After a few minutes she forced herself to slow down. The last thing she needed today was a speeding ticket.
Twin, twinship, twins. No. It just wasn’t possible. Someone had Photoshopped her face and stolen her puggle’s identity. But the newspaper article on Lacey came out only last week, and her Web site didn’t have a close-up face picture like the one on the poster, so how could someone have stolen her face? Lacey reached the exit to Sheila’s before she could dive any further into her conspiracy theory.
As Lacey dismounted the motorcycle, she thought she caught Ms. Sour Puss peeking out the window. Were those binoculars? The conspiracy theory reared its ugly head again. Maybe Sheila was behind some strange plot to turn Lacey’s life upside down, maybe all of this was her punishment for being five minutes late. Suddenly, Sheila dropped out of sight, only to reappear a few seconds later, sans binoculars, at the front door. She was uncharacteristically smiling. Frank was tucked in the crook of her arm. Sheila raised her paw and waved at Lacey. Lacey didn’t wave back; it wasn’t a waving kind of day. Instead, Lacey studied Sheila and Frank up close.
As a pet-and-owner portrait artist, Lacey knew it was common for owners and their pets to start to look alike. Sheila Sherman, however, was definitely cultivating the look, if not out-and-out manipulating it. With the exception of Frank’s unfortunate weight gain, both dog and owner were sporting feathered brown hair, hot pink fingernails, and matching rhinestone collars. Lacey had been using Desert Tan for both Sheila’s skin and Frank’s fur, and Neon Pink for their necklace and collar. The colors would stay wedged underneath Lacey’s fingernails all day no matter how much she scrubbed.
Sheila, who didn’t know a lick of sign language, kept up the business of raising Frank’s paw and shaking it at her, as if she were an interpreter. Lacey was secretly hoping the dog would have enough of it and give her a good bite, but so far the little Chihuahua was completely docile, and appeared to almost enjoy the humiliation. Lacey tried to push negative thoughts out of her mind as she painted; she found when she didn’t like her subjects, it showed in her work. Luckily, Sheila Sherman didn’t seem to notice. In fact, she was talking up a storm, and Lacey felt sorry for the dog for having to listen to it.
Lacey tried several times to indicate she wanted her to stop talking, but it was useless. As a result, she painted her openmouthed, having already decided she would eat the cost if the woman threw a fit. Four hours didn’t exactly fly by, but eventually Lacey got into the zone and found herself disappointed when the sitting was over. This round of paint would have to dry, and with a little luck the portrait would be completed in the next round.
Lacey put down her brush and gave Sheila the signal that she was done. Sheila looked at her watch and tapped it, trying to signal something about next week. Lacey held up her hand and shook her head. The art show was in two weeks, which meant Lacey would be busy all next week preparing for it. She’d told Sheila this a million times. Lacey sliced her hand across her throat—“Cut!” She didn’t have the energy to write out a full explanation, so instead she reached in her bag and handed Sheila the flyer for the art show once again.
Sheila glanced at the flyer, then tucked her head to the side and mimicked rubbing her eyes with both fists balled up. Then she threw her head back and laughed. Frank, seemingly startled by the noise,
hurled herself at Lacey and sniffed her heels. For the first time ever, Lacey picked up the dog and gave it a kiss on the nose. That’s when she noticed the name on the collar: Fran.
Whoops. Well, that made a lot more sense than Frank. It happened with lipreading, little misunderstandings. In fact, only eighty percent of the English language was usually lip-read correctly, and that was one-on-one in perfect lighting conditions. Fran. Lacey gave the dog a pat before putting her down. Fran looked up at her with pleading eyes. Take me home.
“Sorry,” Lacey signed to the dog. “You’re stuck with her.” Sheila smiled, revealing blotches of red lipstick on her teeth. Lacey pointed at Sheila’s mouth and then mimicked wiping the lipstick off. Sheila’s smile faded. The sour look was back. Lacey picked up her bag and her motorcycle helmet. She reached for her keys on the small table next to the easel. They were gone. She looked under the table, and not finding them, scanned the rest of the pristine wood floors. She looked up at Sheila, who, mouth still open, lipstick still on teeth, was dangling Lacey’s keys. In her other hand she held some kind of brochure. Lacey reached for her keys, but instead of handing them to her, Sheila thrust the brochure at her.
It was a bus schedule. “I ydie kdhwe youe drive, dkehd. Ije sidn safe.” Lacey caught the word “drive” and “safe.” Normally she could lip-read better than that, but Sheila’s tiny mouth always moved in weird ways, so she normally tuned her out. Sheila was shaking her head no at the same time.
Lacey took a deep breath and held it in until the urge to hurl the table lamp at her subsided. Then she flipped open her wallet and showed Sheila her driver’s license. It never ceased to amaze Lacey how ignorant people were about deafness. Forget understanding Deaf Culture. Forget hearing people respecting them as a linguistic community with a shared history, language, and pride. That was way beyond most hearing people’s understanding. Their perspective was that of pity, impairment, and fixing. Lacey was proud to be a Deaf woman, wouldn’t want to become hearing for anything in the world.
