Jennifer Egan - Look at Me
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- Book:Look at Me
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- Publisher:Nan A. Talese
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- Year:2001
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LOOK AT ME Jennifer Egan is the author of The Invisible Circus and the story collection Emerald City. Her stories have been published in such magazines as The New Yorker, Harpers, GQ, Zoetrope , and Ploughshares , and her nonfiction appears frequently in The New York Times Magazine. Egan lives with her husband and son in Brooklyn. For further information about Jennifer Egan, visit her Web site at www.jenniferegan.com.
In Memory
D.E.E.
W.D.K.
Double Life
Chapter One
After the accident , I became less visible. I dont mean in the obvious sense that I went to fewer parties and retreated from general view. Or not just that. I mean that after the accident, I became more difficult to see.
In my memory, the accident has acquired a harsh, dazzling beauty: white sunlight, a slow loop through space like being on the Tilt-A-Whirl (always a favorite of mine), feeling my body move faster than, and counter to, the vehicle containing it. Then a bright, splintering crack as I burst through the windshield into the open air, bloody and frightened and uncomprehending.
The truth is that I dont remember anything. The accident happened at night during an August downpour on a deserted stretch of highway through corn and soybean fields, a few miles outside Rockford, Illinois, my hometown. I hit the brakes and my face collided with the windshield, knocking me out instantly. Thus I was spared the adventure of my car veering off the tollway into a cornfield, rolling several times, bursting into flame and ultimately exploding. The air bags didnt inflate; I could sue, of course, but since I wasnt wearing my seatbelt, its probably a good thing they didnt inflate, or I might have been decapitated, adding injury to insult, you might say. The shatterproof windshield did indeed hold fast upon its impact with my head, so although I broke virtually every bone in my face, I have almost no visible scars.
I owe my life to what is known as a Good Samaritan, someone who pulled me out of the flaming wreck so promptly that only my hair was burned, someone who laid me gently on the perimeter of the cornfield, called an ambulance, described my location with some precision and then, with a self-effacement that strikes me as perverse, not to mention un-American, chose to slink away anonymously rather than take credit for these sterling deeds. A passing motorist in a hurry, that sort of thing.
The ambulance took me to Rockford Memorial Hospital, where I fell into the hands of one Dr. Hans Fabermann, reconstructive surgeon extraordinaire. When I emerged from unconsciousness fourteen hours later, it was Dr. Fabermann who sat beside me, an elderly man with a broad, muscular jaw and tufts of white hair in both ears, though most of this I didnt see that nightI could hardly see at all. Calmly Dr. Fabermann explained that I was lucky; Id broken ribs, arm and leg, but had no internal injuries to speak of. My face was in the midst of what he called a golden time, before the grotesque swelling would set in. If he operated immediately, he could get a jump on my gross asymmetrynamely, the disconnection of my cheekbones from my upper skull and of my lower jaw from my midface. I had no idea where I was, or what had happened to me. My face was numb, I saw with slurry double vision and had an odd sensation around my mouth as if my upper and lower teeth were out of whack. I felt a hand on mine, and realized then that my sister, Grace, was at my bedside. I sensed the vibration of her terror, and it induced in me a familiar desire to calm her, Grace curled against me in bed during a thunderstorm, the smell of cedar, wet leaves. Its fine, I wanted to say. Its a golden time.
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