Face Recognition

     I recently saw a former colleague at a memorial service. “You may not remember me,” she said and told me her name.
    “I often forget names,” I admitted. This was true enough, but only half the story.
    My sister and I have both begun to suspect we have trouble with face recognition. Not the extreme case, but I imagine—like so much else—face recognition lies on a spectrum.
    My husband and I started watching a comedy series starring an actor who played Penny on another series we watched. He recognized her right off.
    “Are you sure?” I said. “It sounds like her, but I see no resemblance.”
    He said nothing.
    “I suppose you saw her name in the credits?”
    Again, he said nothing. He’s gotten used to this struggle of mine. Over the years I’ve come to realize I identify people by specific clues, like hair color or style or body structure. I’ve often complained about casting decisions for TV shows and movies.
    “It’s like they have a specific type they are looking for, and use all the actors they don’t cast in the lead in other roles,” I’ll say. “Every woman in this show has a dark brown bob, and they are all tall and thin. How can I tell them apart?” I’m in trouble if they change clothes or, heaven forbid, dye and cut their hair.
    Eventually I get to recognizing most people and actors I’ve seen a lot. Most of us have a defining characteristic or two—mole on the left cheek, a scar above the eyebrow, etc.—something that isn’t as easily altered as hair color and style or wardrobe. Occasionally there’s someone who proves particularly difficult.
    “Who is this actress?” I’ll say.
    “Emily Blunt.”
    “What’s she been in? Oh, don’t tell me. Young Victoria. Right?”
  I remember this, not because I recognize her but because we’ve had this conversation so many times before.
    An early clue presented itself when my husband and I were first married. I showed him a photograph of my beloved grandmother taken in her twenties. “Guess who that is?” I said.
    “It’s your grandmother. It looks just like her.”
   He’d only known my grandmother in her seventies and eighties, when she was riddled by disease and humped over from osteoporosis and too many steroids. I saw no resemblance between her crippled body and the lovely young woman in the photo.
    I’ve learned to trust his judgment, most of the time. He’ll see an actor appearing in an old film as a child or teenager, someone we’ve only seen before as a middle-aged man.
    “Do you recognize him?” he’ll ask me.
    Of course, I do not. Even after he tells me, I can scarcely believe it. But I’ve learned to expect the name in the end credits. He’s almost always right. He must be near the other end of the spectrum.
    In The Ticket, I modelled Tray’s grandmother, at least in part, after mine. Many readers tell me she’s their favorite character.