Chapter one
Have you ever been to a masquerade ball? I went to one last year. My uncle Gene Andre owned half of the Opera Populare and requested I go with him. He did this at my mother's request. She wanted me to be exposed to proper society. I am twenty years old. Almost a spinster in my mother's book. I got all dressed up, a beautiful white gown with gold trim and butterfly wings attached to the back. The mask was gold and fit my face like a glove. I couldn't even recognize myself. But then again, I couldn't recognize myself on any other given day either. For me, life is one big masquerade. I can't recognize anyone. Not even my own face.
No one knows about by affliction. Only my mother, and I don't even think she understands it. I am almost positive my mother thinks I forget faces intentionally; that I do it to be rude. I have learned how to recognize people without their faces. I use hands, hair, clothes, anything that might help me remember someone. But every day is a struggle. The easiest way to remember someone is if they have significant features: a large nose or a scar.
A scar. Like one that I have. It's exactly four inches long and goes diagonally from my left ear to my throat. I have had it since I was eight. The same year my father died.
My father had a big nose AND a scar. I was alway able to recognize him. He would give me little ways to remember my face every day: How my eyelashes were nearly translucent, how I had one simple on my right cheek, how I had one missing front tooth or even that I had a bee sting in the middle of my forehead.
When he died, I not only forgot his face... I forgot mine. From that day forward, I wasn't able to remember anyone by the way they looked. That is, until I saw the opening of Don Juan Triumphant.
When perfect faceless Christine ripped off the mask of her Don Juan, the audience and I gasped in tandem. The audience, in horror and I, in awe. I would not forget that face in a million years. And for me, it was a precious gift.