by Louise Krug
We go to the shoe department, and I pick out some flats with straps.
“He’s met my mom,” Mallory says.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
A day later the phone rings. It’s Nick. He wants to know if I’d like to go out. At night.
A real date.
When Nick pulls up, I find myself terrified that Mallory will be in the front seat.
After dinner we go to a bar, the kind with dartboards and scrawl on the walls. I almost get turned away because the bouncer thinks I’m drunk. A friend yells at the bouncer, “She had brain surgery, you idiot.” Inside, I sink into a conversation with some friends and watch Nick laugh with his brother. Later, we head to the back patio to smoke, and Nick takes my hand to guide me down the steps. Someone says, “Whoa there, had too much to drink?” Another guy asks why my glasses are taped. He’s drunk and loud. Nick squeezes my hand. “Want to go?” he asks. I say no. It’s the truth. I want to be here. With him.
Nick didn’t want to leave his camera in the car, so he’s wearing it around his neck. A group of people ask him to take a picture. They all have their arms around each other. I know a few of them. “Do you want to get in?” Nick whispers. “No,” I say. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll make this quick.”
•
Pretty soon, the laundry, the grocery store, and weeknights have all turned into opportunities for Nick and me. He empties his pockets on top of my dresser at the end of the day. Mallory calls and invites me out for a smoothie. I sit across from her and we each suck our drinks and she talks about the new cupcake café and where to get a cheap pedicure. Then she says, “I’m really happy for you and Nick, you know?” I never hear from her again.
•
I need another surgery. Nerves from the tip of my tongue will be spliced and fused with ones in my left cheek. That way, when I push my tongue against the roof of my mouth, the paralyzed side will smile. That’s the idea, anyway.
The surgery means two nights in a large hospital in Kansas City. I thought the surgery would be minor, so I told my father and Elizabeth not to come. The operation takes nine hours.
When I wake up in the hospital room my neck feels like a giant pillow. I look in a mirror and find a long gash of stitches that goes up one side of my neck and into my ear. It is crusted with blood and puffy like a snake is stuck inside. The left side of my face is yellow and beginning to bruise, and my bad eye is completely red.
I go to my mother’s house in Iola to recover. I listen to chick-lit books on CD. My stepfather puts on rubber gloves from his doctor’s bag and cleans the wound gently but firmly, wringing out the bloody sponge in the sink.
Nick wants to make a trip down, but I don’t want him to see me like this.
A few hours later he is here, hugging me, kissing my cheeks, smearing my antibiotic ointment on his shirt. We go out for slushies. I’m having trouble finding things to talk about. He keeps asking me questions, and I keep trying not to cry.
“How can you even look at me?” I say. “I’m disgusting.”
A bandage falls off my neck and lies face up on the console, looking like a piece of steak.
Nick says, “Hey hey, don’t cry! You’ll hurt your face.” I laugh at myself, gross, sniffing with a giant cup of red slushie in my hand.
“Things are going to get better for you,” Nick says. “Whether it happens the way you want it to, or another way, I just want to be with you.”
And the look on his face—I believe him.
•
The surgery doesn’t work.
My surgeon is out of ideas. He says he’s sorry. And honestly? I’m relieved.
•
Years later I go to an audiologist for a constant ringing in my ears. The results show moderate hearing loss in my left ear, which I already knew from teaching—when a student asks a question I must look at each face in the classroom until I can find whose mouth is moving.
The audiologist recommends a hearing aid, and as I hold the tiny machine in my palm, she points out its features. She says she doesn’t understand why I hadn’t come in until now. Didn’t I want my quality of life to be all it could be?
To me, it already was.
EPILOGUE
It has been six years since the Incident. There are many improvements. The left side of my face sags less. My walk has less of a limp. I can do squats in my weight-lifting class, and even attempt yoga on occasion, using the wall for support. I can fold laundry with both hands, and possibly enjoy it more than the average person for this reason. I believe Nick when he tells me I’m prettiest with my hair pulled back so that my whole face is visible.
I suppose it would make me a better person if I said I no longer sat for pedicures, or favored hair salons that offer green tea and aromatherapy head massages. Why on earth do I still read gossip magazines? Why do I use whitening toothpaste, or ask Nick to pluck my eyebrows? Here’s what it is: My face may no longer be classically symmetrical, but I still have the feeling of beauty. The feeling of beauty has nothing to do with perfection. It is about self-respect. It is about caring for oneself. I try to be a little less careless now. Being careless never felt right.
Nick and I are married now. We have a baby girl, Olive. Throughout my pregnancy I felt very self-conscious, unsure if people were staring because of my belly or my face, or both. Did people wonder if I should even be having kids? It hurts to think it, but I know that it will be a sad but inevitable day when our little girl asks about my face, my eye, the rest of it. She will realize that I look different from other mothers, that I cannot run after her in crowds, or find her easily on a playground, and I have to wonder if on some level she will resent me for it.
The other day Nick, Olive, and I were on a downtown sidewalk, squinting in the bright sun, thinking of getting coffees or maybe having tacos; it was that kind of day. I was pushing the stroller because it’s nice to have the subtle extra balance. Nick said hello to a man and a woman walking toward us. “Nice to meet you,” I said, and stuck out my hand. The strangers looked at me with puzzled expressions. “We’ve met many times,” the man said. “We saw you just last month, at that party—”
“But we really didn’t get a chance to talk,” the woman said, shooting her husband a look.
Nick stayed quiet. He understood how stupid I felt, but also that there was nothing he could do. Before Olive, I would have pretended I was a ditz and bounced my palm against my forehead, not wanting to tell the couple that I’m not good at remembering faces because I have vision problems. Faces bob up and down, and I see double, so I rarely recognize a face until I have met the same person several times. But maybe that urge to denigrate myself is gone, or at least going away, because now, this time, I managed to raise my chin, smile my lopsided smile, and show these people my daughter, who was looking up at these strangers so seriously before breaking into a gummy smile.
Now I tend to let myself be looked at, despite the voice in my head that tells me to turn away. Maybe it is because I’ve realized that perfection is not what pleases the eye. What pleases the eye is what pleases the heart. My daughter looks to me for cues on how to act in this world, and I want to show her that you look people in the eye, you speak up, you stand as tall as your body will allow, and you say your name.
THANK YOU to my editor, Elizabeth Koch, for believing in this book, and for your vision that brought it to its best; I consider myself the luckiest girl in the world. To Lori Shine, Janna Rademacher, and everyone at Black Balloon Publishing for making this book what it is. To Devereaux Milburn and Nadxieli Nieto Hall, and the team at February Partners. To Deb Olin Unferth, an amazing role model who taught me how to be a writer and believed in this book from the start. To Mary Karr, for her generous reading and support. To Tom Lorenz, an incredible teacher, mentor, listener, and friend. Your constant encouragement means the world to me. To my supportive and inspiring teachers Joseph Harrington and Michael L. Johnson. To Jameelah Lang and Andy Anderegg, the best writers, readers, cheerleaders and fr
iends all in one. To Kelly Schetzsle, Kelly Lemuir, Dana Bremner, Lindsay Metcalf, Corie Dugas, Cate Bachelder, Martina Bucci, and so many other friends: before, during, and after the craniotomies your friendship made it possible to keep on being myself, I am so lucky. To Uncle Charlie and Aunt Cheryl Stauffer, for helping me through those first scary days, to the rest of the Stauffer and Lynn families for their overwhelming support. To the Krug, Henry and Byrne families for their warmth and welcome. To all of my doctors, nurses, physical and occupational therapists, thanks for amazing care and such kindness. To my father, my mother, my stepmother, stepfather, and brothers, thanks for endless, endless patience and love. Lastly, to Nick and Olive, my husband and daughter, my life.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR At age twenty-two, Louise Krug suffered a ruptured cavernous angioma and underwent an emergency craniotomy that paralyzed half her body and left her with double vision. Now, six years later, Louise has astounded doctors and loved ones by recovering not only much of her vision and mobility, but a ferocious spirit and enviable grace. She currently lives with her husband Nick and daughter Olive in Lawrence, Kansas, where she’s a PhD candidate and teacher.
