The Face I Couldn't Read

I looked outside, waiting for today’s Amazon package to be delivered. It was a book Mom ordered for me and a new sleeping bag with three Disney Princesses painted across the front. The familiar gray truck with blue letters was stopped across the street, and I watched the delivery man as he sat; gathering his thoughts before delivering packages to every house on the block. I looked at him closer, trying to read his expression like I did with everyone.

“Scared.” I said out loud, to no one in particular.

“Sweetheart, what did you say?” I heard my mom question from the kitchen.

I didn’t respond, and she carried on with her work. This was, of course, nothing out of the ordinary. I often didn’t respond to questions directed at me, and at this point people stopped automatically saying “what?” at the end of my sentences, and just let me sit in silence.

“Anxious.” I said out loud, looking at my mom in the kitchen chewing on her nails, her back slumped over her work computer. She didn’t respond.

I pulled out my emotion cards to double check myself. For the past 3 months my parents have been working with me on identifying emotions. They said by the age of 6 I should be able to tell when my friend is happy and when my brother is sad. That a smile means something, as well as tears. And these things were then taught to me in the form of emotion cards. Flashcards that have children making faces on them, with the emotion written in words on the back. I have memorized these cards – happy, sad, confused, curious, scared, anxious – and now I don’t have to focus so hard on trying to figure out what someone else is feeling.

The kids at school call me weird. Mom says God made me, and that means I am perfect. Kids at school call me retarded. Mom says I am smart in ways they don’t understand, and that makes them uncomfortable. Other adults correct the kids at school behind my back and say I am developmentally challenged. Mom says I am on the autism spectrum, and that doesn’t make me any less wonderful than anyone else. And except for the part about God (I don’t know if I believe there is a man in the sky), I trust Mom.

“Scared,” I mummer under my breath as I continue to look at the delivery man.

I follow the gaze of the delivery man as he looks into the house he is parked in front of, and that is when I see something confusing. Another man, in the window, with his arms wrapped around a woman. For a moment, I thought they were hugging. But that didn’t line up with the scared look on the van drivers face, nor the look of anger on the man in the window. But the most confusing part of the scene was that I could not read the expression on the woman’s face. At this point, I could name every emotion on almost every face. As I should – I had spent months on months identifying emotions on cards, often mimicking them myself, after all.

Suddenly, the door to the house opened, and the driver jumped out of the van. Effortlessly, he opened the side door of the van, in what seemed like a very rehearsed manner. The man carried the woman out, placing her in the van, and I realized why I couldn’t read the expression on her face. There wasn’t one.

“Mom,” I called out.

“Yes, Sweetheart?” she cooed.

“That woman is dead.”

“What?” my mom called out, alarmed. There was no carrying on with her work, no ignoring that statement. No one can ignore the initial statement of death, no matter how much they don’t believe you later.

And just like that, the Amazon van drove away. With the woman inside. With no books or sleeping bag delivered to our door. I tried to explain to my mom what happened, but it didn’t make enough sense in my own head to express it to her. I didn’t know people killed other people, all I knew was that I could read scared, angry, and then nothing at all on the three faces in the windows across from me.

My mom listened to enough of my story to believe me, and told me she would go check on the neighbors across the street. I watched her knock on the door, and another man answer. I saw their mouths open and close as they conversed, and I noticed how much Mom talked with her hands. She does that when she’s embarrassed. They both laughed nervously, and my mom walked back across the street, checking the mail as she returned.

“Sweetheart, I wonder if maybe you were confused by something else. Mr. Russell said no woman has been in his house since his wife left three months ago.”

“Left?” I questioned.

Mom hesitated, and didn’t answer my question.

“The point is, Sweetheart, maybe you misunderstood something. Or got focused on a book that matched the outdoor environment and confused you.”

I didn’t say anything, but rather looked out the window again. Maybe she was right. But the fresh tire marks in the snow made me wonder. The wondering, however, was short lived because all a six-year-old wants to do is believe their parents. And so they do. Unless their parents tell them about a man in the sky.

Two hours later a new book and a sleeping bag with the faces of three Disney Princesses smiling at me arrived on our doorstep. I didn’t think of the faces again that day. But when the moon and stars peaked out for their night time adventure, and I crawled into my sleeping bag on my bed, so excited to use it that I couldn’t wait for our summer camping trips, I dreamed of a scared face, an anxious face, and a face I couldn’t read.