Table of Contents
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Copyright 2010 by Heather Sellers
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The author gratefully acknowledges permission to quote from W. S. Merwin, The Nomad Flute, from The Shadow of Sirius. Copyright 2008 by W. S. Merwin. Reprinted with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyonpress.org.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Sellers, Heather, date. You dont look like anyone I know : a true story of family, face blindness, and forgiveness / Heather Sellers.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-44448-1
1. Sellers, Heather, date. 2. Women authors, AmericanBiography.
3. Face perception. 4. Prosopagnosia. I. Title.
PS3569.E5749Z46 2010
2010010228
818.609dc22
[B]
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Out of respect for their privacy, names and identifying details of some of the people who appear in these pages have been changed.
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For my mother, and for David, who gave her to me.
She is going, and she is gone, and I am thinking of her the whole time.
I am always thinking of her.
I have with me
all that I do not know
I have lost none of it
W. S. MERWIN
One
We left for the airport before dawn. Dave was driving. His sons, David Junior and Jacob, were in the backseat. I was thirty-eight years old. The landscape we were leaving was like the landscape in a childrens book. Shiny new cars beetled to office buildings. Below, the Grand River curved like cursive drawn with a thick silver pen across our part of Michigan. We zipped past bare sun-warm fields on the outskirts of Grand Rapids, down the new highway to the airport, and I snuggled into Dave. I had a strong family feeling. I was eager for him to meet my wild daddy, my dear peculiar mom. Dave was willing, the boys were excited. None of us were awake yet.
Earlier that week, Id come back to Michigan from upstate New York, where I was working as a visiting writer during my sabbatical year, so we could all go to Florida together. Dave had picked me up at the airport. I saw him before he saw me, walking down the corridor, past the narrow sports bar. Dave always wore running shoes and his walk was a distinctive leaning-forward walk, springy and gentle. Id noticed this was how fine runners walked: head level, leaning forward. Youre going forward, not up and down, Daves coach had told him, driving the bounce out of his step and converting it to speed. In college, Dave had been All-Conference. Hed run with Brian Diemer, the Olympic medalist, and Greg Meyer, the last American to win the Boston Marathon. Daves event was the 10K. Over and above being fastfive-minute-mile fastthe 10K required terrific strength and focus. That pace had to be maintained for a long time, for half an hour. The biggest problem wasnt getting tired, it was drifting, getting lost in the monotony. Dave had a secret trick. He knew how to make himself see the beautiful cornfields near Caledonia, where he liked to run, instead of what was right in front of him. He could teleport, or bilocate. Dave was confident and sure of himself and calm and humble, all at once. His walk: fast-slow, leaning forward like he wanted to get where he was going while a large part of him was just along for the ride. The entire effect of Dave was hopefulness in running shoes.
I ran up to him and threw my arms around him and stretched up to kiss him; he drew back, pressing me away.
It wasnt Dave. I had the wrong guy.
Davemy real Davecame up a moment later; we laughed about my mistake. I was embarrassed he had seen me hugging another man. So many people here look like you! I said. We need to move. To a place with fewer Dutch people. This had happened numerous times before, my mistaking someone else for Dave.
He told me I was funny, and he steered me toward baggage claim.
It had been a decade since I had taken anyone home to Orlando. I rarely visited. The last time Id seen my parents was three years earlier; the visit had not been a success. My dad could be difficult. My mother could turn on a dime. Id cut the trip short.
Id told Dave everythingmy dads drinking, my moms fragilityand Dave was sensitive, nonjudgmental, insightful. His first wife was a severely disabled schizophrenic: the bar for normal behavior was set reassuringly low. Whenever I called home to check on my parents, Dave held my hand while I shouted into the phone. He even talked to my father a few times. Wed been dating only a few months, and I was temporarily living in another state, but Dave and his sons felt like my family.
Everything was all planned out. My father lived by the airport: wed drive by his house and the boys could go for a swim in his pool; wed have a quick lunch. Fred would want to toast to something, so wed have drinks, play cards, then go up to my moms for dinner. She was making a roast, shrimp, four vegetablescorn, green beans, beets, carrotsand pies. I know midwestern men, shed said. And I know you dont make pies yourself, Heather. Men like pie. I know you dont like for me to tell you helpful little things, but it wouldnt hurt for you to learn a pie or two.
