The Stand-In Game

I have been married to Andrew Connolly for four years, but whenever his gaze meets mine, there is no recognition at all. Even my voice doesn't register.

He remembers everyone around him, yet the one person he never remembers is that I am his wife. If I put on a hat, he asks who I am. When I tie my hair up, he assumes I am a new hire at his company.

To help him remember, I repeat the same outfit, the same makeup, the same hairstyle. Still, despite my daily presence, he treats me like a stranger.

I tell myself Andrew is simply buried in work, that the neglect is accidental, right up until a concert night. I watch him cut through the crowd and embrace his first love, whom he has not seen in years.

When the stage suddenly collapses, I seize his arm and beg, "Honey, please save me."

Andrew shoves me away, his voice flat and cold. "You're not my wife. My wife is at home."

I am crushed beneath the falling debris. Choking on blood, I can only watch as Andrew rescues his first love and walks away. That is when I realize it's not that he can't remember me, he just doesn't love me.

The bodyguards drag me out of the wreckage. Later, I spend a month confined to bed with serious injuries.

While I am in the hospital, I get a photo of Andrew kissing his first love. The blows land one after another and mercilessly jerk me awake.

I am done with love, and I am done with him!

Even after four years of marriage, my husband, Andrew Connolly, who lived with prosopagnosia, still couldn't recognize me. Yet he was able to pick his first love, Ivy Miller, out of a crowd at a single glance.

As I stepped into Connolly Group, two bodyguards moved in and barred my path. Thinking I was some deranged troublemaker, they started hurling insults.

I told them again and again that I was Andrew's wife, but they refused to believe me. Even the crowd on the sidelines jeered at me.

I saw my reflection in the mirror. I stood in a hospital gown with tangled hair, a bluish pallor, bloodshot eyes, and lips cracked from dehydration. I looked haggard and bedraggled.

When I received the photo of Andrew and Ivy kissing, my composure gave way. Hungry for answers, I rang him repeatedly and fired off messages, but he stayed silent.

With no better choice left, I had come to Connolly Group to look for him.

Noting my silence and my refusal to leave, the bodyguards clamped my shoulders and forced me toward the doors.

Just then, I spotted Andrew by the elevator and yelled, "Andrew! I need to talk to you."

He turned at my voice, eyes remote, and looked past me as if I weren't there.

I even heard him snap at the people beside him. "Retrain the bodyguards. Why are they letting any riffraff in?"

Those were the harshest words I had heard from him in four years. My heart iced over, and whatever hope I still carried for him vanished.

The bodyguards hauled me away and dumped me on the floor. As I laughed in anger, my laugh gave way to tears.

Brenda Fields, Andrew's assistant, hurried over and helped me up.

"What brings you here, Ms. Whalen? If it's not urgent, please don't come to the office. No one here knows you, and your sudden visits put us in a bind," she said, reproach creeping into her voice.

Andrew was usually unkind to me, and Brenda, naturally, followed suit. She led me to the car while I was hollow and unmoored.

I hadn't managed a word before Andrew laid into me. "What stunt are you pulling? Did you come to my office in a hospital gown just to embarrass me? Reporters snapped photos and ran it as an entertainment piece!"

He swept me from head to toe with a look of disgust and snapped, "You know I can't recognize you because of my prosopagnosia, and you still turned up looking like this?"

I could only stare at him. The things I meant to say caught in my throat.

Andrew rubbed his brow, impatience undisguised, and continued, "Everyone's wondering who you are. To keep it from reflecting on Connolly Group, you'll put out a statement explaining who you are, but don't say you're my wife."

The implication was clear. I was to pacify the public with an excuse while denying our marriage. I scoffed to myself at being treated like a walking blight.

I took a deep breath, pulled up the kissing photo on my phone, and held it toward Andrew. "Who is she?"

He glanced at it. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes before he said, coolly, "A friend."

I kept my voice from shaking. "Do friends need to kiss?"

"She's a Fremorian. That's how they greet," he said, deadpan.

I laughed bitterly and pressed the point. "You have prosopagnosia. Tens of thousands filled that concert, and she was in plain black. So how could you spot her right away?"

There was a beat of silence before Andrew said, "We grew up together."

I frowned and kept at it. "Why did you push me away that day, Andrew? You could've gotten me out of there."