Page 43 of Echoes of Desire
“One of the most severe cases ever recorded,” I admit. “If you handed me three pictures, one being myself, I wouldn’t be able to tell which one was me.”
“Sounds difficult,” she says.
“It can be,” I admit. “But I’ve learned to read body language. It helps.”
“What about voices?” she asks. “If someone you know well says something, are you able to tell it’s them?”
“Sometimes, but it can take a while to connect the voice to the name,” I say, following her into the house. “If my mom stood before us right now and said something, I wouldn’t recognize her from her voice alone. It would take my brain several moments to gather the clues that I associate with her to make that connection. I know she has black hair and gray eyes like me, and I know she leans on her left leg when standing still. Her hair is almost always braded and she wiggles all of her fingers when she catches me looking so that I know it’s her. Once that connection is made, then her hair, eyes, build and voice all click into place. It’s weird, I know. But it is what it is.”
“Not weird at all,” she says, opening a door that leads into a bedroom. “I find it very interesting. Have a seat on the bed while I grab something.”
I sit down on the edge of the bed, the soft sheets beneath me a reminder of how out of place I feel in this house full of strangers, even if they’re all welcoming. The room is quiet except for the faint sounds of chatter coming from the kitchen and the sizzling of steak on the grill. Ma’s footsteps are light but purposeful as she moves around the room, pulling something from a drawer.
“So, what are you giving me?” I ask, trying to ease the tension in my chest. It’s hard to be vulnerable, but I want to make this connection with her, to share in this moment.
Ma doesn’t answer right away. She pulls out a small, worn leather journal and walks over to me. There’s something about it that instantly feels personal as if it carries more than just words.
“This,” she says softly, “is my brother’s journal. With some added notes in the back from myself.” She places it in my hands gently. “He was the one who helped me understand what I was dealing with. The one who didn’t judge me for not recognizing him. The one who always found a way to make me feel seen, even when I couldn’t see him.”
I run my fingers over the worn cover of the journal, the edges soft with age. The leather feels like it holds a thousand stories, stories that Ma is willing to share now.
“He would write in this all the time, telling me about his day, how he handled the world, how he navigated it,” Ma continues, her voice trembling slightly as if this is a memory she hasn’t allowed herself to visit in a long time. “I couldn’t see faces the same way others did, but he always knew it because he couldn’t either. He was the one who helped me understand that even when I couldn’t recognize people by their faces, I could still know them. The way they moved, the way they carried themselves. There was always a way for me to find them.”
I look up at her, my heart pounding. “You can’t recognize faces either?”
Ma nods, her lips pulling into a wistful smile. “Not for a long time. I remember when we were kids, I’d walk into the room and know something was wrong, but I couldn’t tell you who I was talking to. I had to remember the little things. How they stood, how they sounded, how they smiled. It wasn’t until later in life I learned to trust those little details more than the face. But it wasn’t easy. It’s still not easy.”
I feel a strange kind of comfort in her words. For the first time, someone understands not just the struggles, but the way I have to fight to find recognition in the small things.
“I know what you mean,” I whisper, my throat tight. I open the journal and run my fingers along the pages, half-expecting to see something that connects with me. Inside, the handwriting is small, and the ink is slightly faded. But even in its age, it’s clearly legible. I can almost hear her brother’s voice through the words.
Ma’s eyes soften as she watches me read. “I’m giving this to you because I want you to know you’re not alone in this. Your world doesn’t have to be the same as everyone else’s to be meaningful, to be full of love and connection.”
I look up at her, the words sinking deep into my chest. “Thank you.”
She smiles, the kind of smile that’s seen a lifetime of joy and pain but still carries warmth. “Take it. Keep it. And when you feel lost, when you feel like you’re missing something... look for the details. They’ll guide you when faces don’t. I don’t need it anymore. I’ve learned and have mastered it. But then again, mine isn’t nearly as severe as yours. I know my own face and the faces of my husband and children. However, it’s taking some time to remember all of the new faces.” She laughs, but it has a hint of sadness. “Keep this journal safe in case you need to one day pass it forward.”
I close the journal, my fingers lingering over its surface. “I will,” I promise. “I’ll hold onto it.”
Ma stands up, her hands resting on her hips. “Good. Now, let’s go get you some steak before Pops eats it all.” She winks at me, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Wait, do Jasper and Jaxon know about this?” I ask.
“No,” she smiles. “None of my kids do. Just you, me, and Pops. It’s our little secret, okay?”
I nod my promise. I’ll never tell.
As I follow her back toward the kitchen, the weight of the journal in my hands feels like a bridge. A bridge between me and someone who truly gets it. Someone who’s lived through the same kind of disconnection and learned how to find their way back.
By the time we get back outside, I’m lost. So many people.
“Who is that man standing by himself?” I ask. “He’s been hanging there since I got here.”
“That’s Mitchell,” she says. “He’s very quiet. He tries to stay out of the way most of the time. The others haven’t noticed, but I have.”
My heart aches. I don’t know his story, but I do know one thing. I’m going to be his friend.
“Knox says that Mitchell doesn’t like chocolate,” I say.